The Lost Recipe for Happiness Part 14

"Here's the deal," she said to Ivan. "We have work to do this afternoon, but at seven-thirty p.m., I'll meet you back here for a game of poker. If you win, you can have your music. If I win, I pick."

Juan raised a dark brow, shaking his head slightly. Elena met his gaze without fear. She had an ace in the hole. So to speak.

"What game?" Ivan asked.

Elena shrugged. "I don't care. You choose."

Ivan stroked his chin. "Not poker," he said at last. "I challenge you to a cook-off."

"Like what?"

"Whatever," he rumbled.

"You could do, like, Iron Chef," Iron Chef," said one of the ski boys. "We could come up with a secret ingredient and we'll be the judges." said one of the ski boys. "We could come up with a secret ingredient and we'll be the judges."

"Hmm." Elena lifted one brow. "I'd go for that. But get some more judges. Not just you guys, but people from outside."

"Cooks and servers from other restaurants," Ivan said, arms crossed over his chest. His ap.r.o.n was slung low over his hips, and showed splatters of blood, a spray of something yellow, a mark where he'd scorched the cotton. "A lot of them will close by ten or so. We could serve at eleven."

Elena considered. He would likely know many of them, if not most. No way around that, really. "Okay," Elena said, and pursed her lips. "Each of you guys go out and bring back one item, enough for each of us to use in a dish. We'll cook, what?-three courses?"

"I'm game."

"What if we all bring back the same thing?"

Elena thought about it. "Bring back something that starts with the same letter as your name."

"En espanol?" Nando asked. Nando asked.

"Whatever works," Elena said, laughing. "Whoever wants to can come back by eight-thirty. We'll start cooking at nine." She looked at Ivan. "Good with you?"

"Fine."

"All right then." She pointed at the CD player and looked at Peter. "Turn that s.h.i.+t off." He brought her the CD and she gave it to Ivan. "Aren't you a little old for hip hop?"

"You're only as old as you feel," he said, and sauntered away.

"Back to work, everybody." As they shuffled to their stations and a CD of sixties rock came on, Juan approached her.

"Be careful," he said in Spanish. "You don't want him too drunk."

"Oh, I'm counting on it," she said.

"He gets mean. And if he goes on a bender, he won't be back to work for a few days."

Elena thought of the poker games in her New Mexico garage. "I'll be all right, Juan." She touched his arm. "Thanks for worrying, but I'm a lot tougher than I look."

His dark eyes were sober. "I'll be here, if you need me."

"Thank you." She grinned. "I couldn't run this kitchen without you, Juan, you know that."

"No, it's Ivan you need."

Elena shook her head. "Ivan is the spice. You're the meat."

He gave her a sideways grin. "Thanks, Jefa." Jefa."

She headed to the back and found Ivan at his locker, putting the CD away. "If you don't show up for work tomorrow, Rasputin," she said, "I'll fire you."

He looked over his shoulder. "Nice move, Jefa. Jefa. Better win, though." Better win, though."

"I'm not kidding," she said.

"I get that." For one hot second, she saw the resentment, the fury, in his eyes, and then it was gone. "I'll be here." He slammed the locker closed with a bang. "I'm going to kick your pretty a.s.s all the way to China."

"We'll see."

From her office, with the door closed, she called Julian. "Hey," she said when he answered. "I wonder if I could impose on you for the evening."

"Sure. What do you need?"

"I'd like your daughter to babysit my dog for the night."

"I'm betting that will not be a problem, but let me ask her." He covered the phone and murmured something. "She says that would be so great." so great." He spoke the words in a falsetto, and laughed, "Ow! Ow. Quit it. She wants to know when you'll bring him." He spoke the words in a falsetto, and laughed, "Ow! Ow. Quit it. She wants to know when you'll bring him."

Elena looked at the clock, calculated what she would have to do to prepare for the evening. "Say, five? I'll bring supper if you like."

"Hey, now that's a great idea. What's up?"

"Power play," she said. "I'll tell you about it later."

Portia flung open the door when Elena rang. "Hi!" she said. She wore a long-sleeved pink T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans, her hair swept into a ponytail. "I'm so happy you called me to babysit! Come in!"

"I'm glad you were available."

Portia only had eyes for Alvin. "Hi, Alvin! Oh, look, how cute-do you have a toy, baby?" She laughed and reached for the grimy, once-yellow crocodile Alvin carried in his mouth. Alvin happily tugged back, his feathery tail swis.h.i.+ng.

"He really doesn't like to go anywhere without it."

Portia tugged high, lifting Alvin to his back feet, and she laughed in delight.

"He loves to play chase," Elena said. "If he lets you have it, he wants you to toss it." She eyed the parquet floor. "Maybe not right here, though. Drop it, baby."

Alvin, looking deflated, sat down. Portia squatted in front of him. "It's okay, baby, we'll play in a minute." The dog sat down and let himself be adored, blinking happily, licking his chops every so often. "Can I take him down to my room until we eat?"

"Of course."

"My dad has been making a CD for the restaurant. He's in his office. I'll take you there."

Elena held up the bag of supplies. "I need to drop this off in the kitchen."

"It's on the way." She rubbed Alvin's head. "You're such a good boy, aren't you? I have a special bag of toys for you, and you can even get on my bed if you wipe your feet first."

Elena grinned. "Alvin, don't you start thinking you're the king or anything."

Portia's eyes flew to Elena's face. "Oh, am I spoiling him too much?"

Instinctively, Elena reached for the girl, touched her shoulder. "No, no. I'm terrible, Portia, seriously. He sleeps with me."

"Oh, good."

On the way through the kitchen, Elena dropped the bags of food, then followed Portia through the vast great room and up a set of stairs and over a walkway suspended over the hallway and great room. "Dad?" she called. "Elena's here."

At the end of the walkway was an open door where Julian appeared. His thick black curls were in disarray, as if he'd been pulling his fingers through them, and he wore a pair of wire-frame gla.s.ses that made her think of John Lennon. At the sudden, weirdly endearing sight of him, her heart gave a little jump. That nose-her weakness. Those curls.

He smiled, gestured her into his office. "Hi, Elena."

She found herself smiling. "Hi, Julian. What have you been up to?"

"I'll be in my room," Portia said, and trotted back the way they came. Alvin pranced happily along beside her, his red and gold tail high and swis.h.i.+ng.

Elena grinned. "She really really loves dogs!" loves dogs!"

"Yeah." He seemed distracted, checking a piece of paper against another. "Have a seat. I'll be done in two seconds."

Elena looked around instead. The room was large, with cedar paneling on two sides, to give it that mountain feeling. A bank of dormers looked toward low black forest and mountains rising up blue behind on one side. French doors opened onto a balcony that presumably looked down on the courtyard. His desk was simple, heavy wood, his computer a sleek little laptop.

He typed some instructions into the computer and straightened. "You ready? I've been working on this all afternoon."

"Absolutely. Go." She sat in a chair by the desk and folded her hands.

"Oh, no," he said, holding out a hand as the music started. "Don't just sit there."

"Do what, then?" The music poured into the room, Spanish guitar with a lilting and cheerful sound. She swayed happily. "This is great."

"We can go downstairs. It'll play through the house." He came from behind the desk. "How are you feeling after the ma.s.sage?"

"Much better."

He took off his gla.s.ses as if to see her more clearly, and touched her shoulder. Elena noticed that he had not shaved today. p.r.i.c.kles of beard covered his chin, black and silver. Why was that endearing? She looked away.

"And you didn't have any trouble over the tabloid c.r.a.p?"

"Um, well, actually, yes." She took a breath, letting him direct her toward the door. "Ivan saw it and he whipped up the kitchen pretty good."

"Ah." He paused on the walkway. "I'm sorry."

"I've got it covered." She moved suddenly and the height made her feel a little vertigo. "Wow," she said, grabbing the railing. "This is cool, but it's also pretty high, isn't it?"

"You okay?" He took her arm.

He was so close and she felt the dizziness of being so high, and for one hot long second, what she really wanted was to press her hand to his chest. Touch his tumbling black curls, the fan of lines at the corners of his eyes. The sultry tone of the music didn't help. He bent close, his hand on her shoulder.

"I'm fine," she said, breathlessly.

He kept looking at her face, and lightly pushed a lock of her hair over her shoulder. Elena clung to the railing, feeling a sense of being suspended in the air, as Julian's eyes touched her mouth, her throat. She greedily devoured details of his face, the way hair sprang away from his temple, the skin so delicate that she could see veins carrying blood to his brain and imagination. She admired the arch of his dark brow, and the moment was so strange and high and out of time and s.p.a.ce that she didn't even think to move away when he took a step closer, and then bent down, and- Kissed her.

Her first awareness was a burst of scent, something spicy and dark, and she swayed under the force of it. His mouth was wide, his lips deliciously lush and slow as he angled his head to fit their noses. She clung to the railings on either side, letting him put his hands on her face. He lifted his head for a blue second, their eyes meeting in confusion and permission, before he bent again, those heavy lashes falling, his hands on her jaw making her feel tiny and beloved.

It was too much, the flavor of him. He tasted of blue water, a lazy lap of lips and tongue that made her breath catch and her back arch. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s touched his chest.

It was such a vivid connection that the part of her brain that would have been screaming warnings was just awash in the green narcotic flood of him. And he, too, made a soft noise of surprise, taking a step closer to slide one arm around her waist. He supped of her lower lip, touched it with his thumb.

Suddenly she gathered herself and pulled back. He didn't move away, but lifted his head. "Wow," he said hoa.r.s.ely.

"Yeah, but no." She swallowed, forcing herself to take a step backward, an action that made her dizzy. He saw that and stepped toward her, but she held up a hand. "This would be just a terrible, terrible idea," she said.

He frowned, quizzically. "It is." He stepped backward. "I don't know why I did that. I'm sorry."

She couldn't help looking again at his mouth, a sweetness like hay and morning moving through her blood. "I'm not mad. Let's just not, okay?"

"Okay. You're right. Let's-uh-" He closed his mouth. "Let's go downstairs."

SEVENTEEN

ISOBEL'S R RULES FOR D DRINKING 1. Eat a lot. lot. Then eat some more. Then eat some more.2. Pick one kind of alcohol and stick with it the whole night. No exceptions.3. Every hour on the hour, drink a big gla.s.s of water.4. Eat some more.5. If you're gonna do shots, never do more than one per hour.6. When you get home, drink a big gla.s.s of water and take an aspirin.

EIGHTEEN

In his kitchen, Elena seemed smaller than she did at the restaurant. As he sat there, sipping a rubied merlot, watching her roll blue corn tortillas around a chicken-and-chile blend for tiny enchiladas, he could see she was no beauty. Her eyes showed signs of age, a little puffy with too much work, and she had little or no makeup on.

Around them swirled the moody music he'd chosen for the restaurant, a soundtrack as layered and rich and subtle as one of Elena's stews or the little taquitos she made that seemed so ordinary until you bit into one and it exploded in your mouth with a dancing parade of surprises-nutmeg or saffron, or some exotic layer that one did not expect.

Into the music mix, he'd salted some Norah Jones because Elena liked her, and a little Ella Fitzgerald, that "Summertime" he loved so much, and some Alicia Keyes. The girls, a nod to the female artists in evidence at the restaurant, not only the chef, but the head bartender, and even the Frieda Kahlo thread to the decorating-Patrick's doing, not his. Julian had also added some of the Lhasa de Sela the vegetarian restaurant had been playing the other night, with some horns and a Caribbean beat and songs in Spanish and French. There was more, some old Santana and things no one but Julian would have thought to include-a moody old cut from the Rolling Stones, and one from an old bluegra.s.s gospel song, and a CCR song he loved. Like Elena's spices, it seemed odd until you experienced it.

Elena worked without speaking, listening to the music, her head swinging, nodding. Sliding a tray of the tiny enchiladas into the oven, she wiped her counter. "This is very moody," she said, finally. "The songs all have a feeling of yearning to them. Hunger."

A splash of embarra.s.sment filled his throat for a minute, and he could only stare at her, running back through the cuts in his mind. "I guess they do."