The Lost Recipe for Happiness Part 24

She put the photo back and picked up the next one. "This was my boyfriend, Edwin. We met when I was twelve years old, and stayed together all that time. I was thinking last night, in your kitchen, that if he had lived, my life would be very different."

"Jesus!" Julian exclaimed, taking the photo. "Juan looks like him quite a bit, doesn't he?"

She nodded but didn't say that Julian had his eyes.

"Does it bother you?" he asked.

"No." She looked back at the picture. "Edwin was more like Ivan in nature, tortured, not very well treated when he was a boy. Juan is as cheerful as the day is long. A good man."

"How did you meet him?" He still held the photo of Edwin. "What did you love about him?"

"He was smart." A sense of tension eased out of her neck. "He had hair like licorice, very straight and s.h.i.+ny. He was part Indian and very proud of it, and it showed in his cheekbones and his eyes. His eyes were black as coal." She paused. Like yours. Like yours.

"Go on."

"We grew up discovering things about each other. He was going to go into an apprentices.h.i.+p with an electrician out of Santa Fe, building all these fancy houses. He was supposed to start the week after the accident." Her chest ached faintly. "He and my sister Isobel were on the left side of the car. They were both decapitated." She thought of the ditch, of Isobel's hand in hers. Of Edwin cracking jokes in the dark. "They say it takes twelve seconds for your brain to die when your head is cut off. That's what I can't think about very much. I hate to think of them having any consciousness of that."

He blanched, handing back the photo. "Is that Isobel?" he asked, pointing to the picture of Isobel wearing the tiara.

She nodded. "Yep. When I came to live with the family, she was the one who made room for me. She shared her bed. She shared her mother. She was just happy to have a sister so close in age to her. It was like finding my twin. Like we should have known each other from birth."

"Mischievous," he said.

"Very." Elena took the photo. "I laid in the ditch for almost two hours. I thought Isobel was with me. I thought she was holding my hand. So, when I woke up in the hospital, weeks and weeks later, I didn't believe them that she was dead."

"Elena, I'm so sorry that happened to you."

She nodded. "Me too. But I'm alive. I have to believe there's a reason."

"Do you know what it is?"

"No," she said simply, and put the picture back on the altar. A ghostly hand nipped a piece of cake. She wondered if Julian noticed.

But he was stricken and airless, and Elena thought of his mother. "Now you, Julian." She sat down on the couch and patted the spot beside her. "Tell me about your mother."

He stood in the middle of the room, looking at her. "What should I say?"

"How old were you when she was murdered?"

He looked as if the light bled from his body, leaving him gray. "Twelve."

Elena said, "Come sit down, Julian, and tell me about your mother. Then we'll make something for her and put it on the altar."

He seemed suddenly to lose all supports in his body, and slumped to sit on the couch, his limbs falling forward, his head with the thickness of black glossy hair tumbling forward around his brow. "I was twelve," he said again. "She went to the grocery store and never came back. Two men saw her in a parking lot and grabbed her as she headed for her car. She had groceries in the cart, you know. Eggs, milk, flour, apples. Just stuff. Capt'n Crunch."

Elena folded her hands in her lap. Waited.

"They raped her and killed her, and then dumped her body in a field." He raised a face wiped clean of expression. "Some boys on bikes found her naked and dead. They were close to my age." His voice was hushed as he added, "I hated that, so much, that those boys saw her naked. It bothered me for months."

She thought of his movies, the slasher images. Knives. Broken gla.s.s. "How terrible, Julian. I'm so sorry."

He took her hand and clasped it between both of his, pulled her arm across his lap. "My dad never got over it."

"Well, how could you, really?"

"I guess. But how does it help to stop living?" He spread her palm open, touched the heart of it with his fingers, brus.h.i.+ng and brus.h.i.+ng, touching the pads beneath each finger, the little marks and scars and dried-open wounds at the tips of nearly every finger. "Don't these hurt?" he asked.

"Sometimes."

He lightly stroked the open spot on her index finger then raised her hand without looking at her, and pressed his mouth to her palm. For a moment, Elena hardly knew how to respond. The wet clasp of his tongue, his lips, jolted right up her arm, blistered through her body.

This.

Now.

She let him kiss her fingers, one at a time. Let him press his mouth to her palm, to each small pad beneath each digit, and sweep his tongue over the wounds. It tickled and sizzled and she let him just do what he would, pressing his mouth to her wrist. She spread her fingers on his cheek, feeling the pockmarks from long ago, the little p.r.i.c.kles of a missed patch of beard. Beneath the pad of her thumb was the bottom of his goatee, silky soft.

He still didn't look at her as she took off his gla.s.ses, his hat, letting his hair fall free in that erotically glossy tangle. She put her hands on his face and leaned in to kiss each eyelid. Lightly. His cheekbones. Finally his mouth, as succulent as cherries, and she sucked on his lower lip until he moved and they tumbled backward on her couch, with the flickers of the candles keeping watch.

"G.o.d," he breathed, and they kissed as if that was the only way to stay alive, as if tongues brus.h.i.+ng, lips burning like this, could sustain them. Elena buried her hands in his hair and cried out when he pushed up her blouse and struggled with her bra and ended up breaking the clasp in his urgency to put his face to the abundance there, cool and white. Her breath rose high in her throat as she clasped him to her, crying out as he took her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in his hands and brushed his face over her, buried his nose, lapped the valley between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then rose and feasted on nipple and breast and throat. He worked her legs open, pulled their bodies, still clad in jeans, together.

It felt to her that her skin leaked honey from every pore, and Julian, so hungry, starving, so needful, lapped it all away, drinking from the crook of her elbow and the hollow of her throat. He dipped his tongue into her mouth and suckled her tongue until she was whimpering and he was drenched and sticky and they melted out of their clothes. And for a long moment, she wanted only to admire the white column of his chest, and the tensile cords of his thighs, and his organ, ruddy and proud, leaking and leaping, before their limbs and bodies twined and she felt him slide between her legs, into her center, nudging her womb.

And there, he paused and raised his head. "Look at me, Elena," he said raggedly. She opened her eyes, the thudding red pulse of him rising and rising in her, and she made a soft noise as something brushed her face, her hair. He kissed her, slowly, slowly, eyes boring into her, and he began to move again. There was in the room a rustling that scared her, and a pulse of light, and then there was only Julian, and she bit his neck in her hunger, breathing in the wild apple scent of him, the taste of his skin, like golden morning, like wine, like lifeblood. She whimpered and bit him and he hauled her up into him and they s.h.i.+mmered and broke and blazed and Elena had enough sense to think Oh, s.h.i.+t Oh, s.h.i.+t before she tumbled over the edge of everything. before she tumbled over the edge of everything.

Elena hated the part when she had to move. The front of her was in pretty good shape. There was a dent or two on her torso, but they were not terribly evident unless you were looking for them. Her legs were somewhat crooked, she'd been told, but it was her back that was horrific, and as Julian s.h.i.+fted, emerging from the haze, she wondered what next. What next?

He s.h.i.+fted his weight to his elbows. "Am I squis.h.i.+ng you?"

"No."

"Don't regret this, Elena," he whispered.

"Don't talk." She put her hands on his mouth. He opened his lips and sucked her fingers in. With her other hand, she shoved at his shoulder. "I need to get up."

He moved awkwardly. Red crept up his cheeks.

Elena said only, "I just want to get this over with," and stood up, putting her back to him. "It isn't beautiful."

He said nothing. She didn't move. Her shoulders got cold and she turned around.

He was smiling. "Is that a shock technique? I'm supposed to be horrified or something?"

"No. Usually it has quite the opposite effect."

A dark brow rose. "Really. Hmm." He reached out a hand and brushed her pubic hair. "I like this better." When she didn't move away, he slid his fingers lower, between the damp lips.

She found she liked it, standing over him. His body was white and long, with a scattering of dark hair over his chest, and thinly down his belly to the nest of p.e.n.i.s, hair, and skin. She'd bitten him and the mark showed on his shoulder. His hair fell around that odd, beautiful face and he looked at her as he stroked her c.l.i.toris. Waiting.

Elena smiled and s.h.i.+fted to let him in.

TWENTY-SEVEN

TANSY'S C CHURROS 1 cup flour3 eggs1 cup water1/2 cup b.u.t.ter cup b.u.t.ter1/4 tsp salt tsp saltLard or shortening for frying1/4 cup sugar cup sugar1/2 tsp ground cinnamon tsp ground cinnamon

It all happens fast, so get it all ready ahead of time-measure out the flour, break the eggs and beat them lightly. In a saucepan, heat water, b.u.t.ter, and salt to boil, then stir in flour. Stir vigorously over low heat until the mix forms a ball, about a minute, then remove from heat and beat the eggs into the dough until everything is smooth.

Heat lard or shortening (about 2 inches) in a heavy frying pan until a bit of dough sizzles.

Spoon the dough into a cake-decorating tube with a fat star tip and squeeze out strips of dough about 45 inches long, and fry about three or four at a time, 2 minutes or so on each side. Drain on paper towels and sprinkle generously with sugar and cinnamon while still hot, or try powdered sugar. Makes men and boys your slaves for life.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Elena finally dragged herself to the Orange Bear around three. She'd originally intended to arrive just past noon, but-well. Julian. As she walked through the gilded late-fall day, with wind clattering through the last cottonwood leaves and purple clouds piling up over the mountains, her limbs were liquid, her mind soft. She'd let Julian take Alvin to Portia while she worked, and would send him there again tomorrow for the opening. She was paying Portia for babysitting. Julian promised, bending in to kiss her neck, that he would bring the dog home after her s.h.i.+ft.

Elena didn't know if she would survive that long. Flashes of his mouth, his hands, all the things they'd been doing all afternoon, kept slamming into her, as if her memories were gusts of perfumed l.u.s.t.

Wow. She clutched it all close to herself, smiling. Maybe she could could fall in love again. Maybe there was one more in her, one more chance- fall in love again. Maybe there was one more in her, one more chance- Stop. She shook her hair out of her face and squared her shoulders as she came up the walk to the restaurant. Deliberately, she pushed herself into business-mind. This was important stuff-in a little more than twenty-four hours, her first solo menu would debut to the public.

The restaurant looked welcoming and warm in the late day. The outside had been sanded and painted a pale golden orange with white trim, which sounded terrible but looked wonderful against the reddish-brown earth and deep blue and green of the mountains. As winter came, the vivid blue skies and white slopes would provide a spectacular backdrop. She picked up a plastic straw, blown onto the steps from somewhere, and admired the sign, carved by a local artisan. An orange bear with a broad dark nose and the letters in relief. Around the edges of the sign were carved pink and orange stylized flowers, and the lettering-The Orange Bear-was a friendly, soft-edged font.

A flutter of mixed emotions moved in her. Excitement. Joy. Antic.i.p.ation. Terror. Tomorrow night, she'd be a wreck. For tonight, thanks to Julian, she was feeling pretty loose.

The kitchen was in full uproar. The music played and the dishwashers swished and orders rang out in Spanish and English. A prep cook chopped scallions and Ivan was ma.s.saging something on a cutting board, his hands and arms covered with meat and spices up to his elbows. He was whistling and lifted his chin in greeting as she came in. Juan stood at the stove, stirring something in a big iron pot. "Hey, Jefa," Jefa," he said, calling her over. "Taste this soup, eh? I'm thinking I found us a new daily special." he said, calling her over. "Taste this soup, eh? I'm thinking I found us a new daily special."

She took out a spoon and ladled out a taste. It was a deep, velvety chicken broth with tomatoes and garlic and spices, and floating bits of chicken and tortillas. She closed her eyes, put her hand over her lips to press in the flavor. It seemed she had never tasted chicken broth before, that this was the pinnacle of all. "Good G.o.d," she said in English. "That is spectacular."

He smiled, the big gentle eyes lighting up in pleasure. "Gracias, Jefa." "Gracias, Jefa."

"Definitely put it in the rotation." She took out a fresh spoon, ladled out a second taste. "Who taught you to cook?" she asked in Spanish.

"Mi padre. He had a restaurant in Juarez. Good cook," he said. "Not always a wise man, but-" He shrugged. "He meant well. I lit a candle for him today." He had a restaurant in Juarez. Good cook," he said. "Not always a wise man, but-" He shrugged. "He meant well. I lit a candle for him today."

"I made a table at home," she said. "My sister would have been thirty-seven years old today."

He looked at her. Nodded in his quiet way.

"Jefa!" Ivan called. "Come taste this." Ivan called. "Come taste this."

Elena grinned at Juan. He said, "The boy needs attention."

"Coming!" She headed over to the corner where Ivan was working at a stainless steel table. "Hey, Ivan. What are you up to?"

He grinned at her, lifted a handful of pale meat. "A ground chicken mixture for the beef-adverse. A sausage like chorizo, without all the stuff that makes people squirm."

Elena leaned over the bowl and inhaled the sharpness of c.u.min, the faint greenness of sage, and the smoky hint of chipotles. "Nice." She narrowed her eyes. "The onions are an odd addition. Wouldn't they come later?"

He shrugged, slapping meat back and forth between his hands. He inhaled the scent, too, pursed his lips as if to seal it in his nostrils. "I'm experimenting. Maybe a little more garlic, too. And I was thinking about some cilantro."

His eyes were glossy, an almost unreal shade of blue, and a smile played over that sensual mouth.

"Are you high or something?" she asked.

He wiggled his eyebrows. "High on love, sistah, high on love."

"Hoo-kay! Not to offend you, Maestro, but you might want to finish that up. We have a lot of other stuff to do."

"I hear you," he said easily. "This has just been mobbing me for a few days and I suddenly figured out what might be missing."

Elena nodded. "Let me try it when you cook it." She patted him on the back and moved toward the stairs to the second kitchen.

"Hold on there, sis." He grabbed the back of her whites. "You just patted patted me on the back. Let me have a look at you." me on the back. Let me have a look at you."

Elena composed her face carefully, wiping it clean of any emotion. "What?"

He peered at her through hooded eyes, intently sweeping over details-chin, eyes, neck, mouth. Raising his chin, he smiled with half his mouth. "Aha!"

She tugged away, pretending she had no idea what he saw. "I've got work to do, Rasputin."

He laughed as she ducked into the stairwell and dashed upstairs to the pastry and tamale prep kitchen. The music and mood here were entirely different. North light slanted in through a bank of windows at the top of the wall, giving the room a blue and shadowy cast. Tansy liked the natural light and worked beneath the windows rolling pastry. The music was something Latin and quiet, and the air smelled of cinnamon and frying dough. Elena's stomach growled. "Wow, that smells fantastic."

The scene was as quiet and peaceful as a Vermeer, the woman cooking in denim and a plain white b.u.t.ton-up s.h.i.+rt covered by an ap.r.o.n, her wrinkled face softened by the cool light, her arms dusted with flour.

She raised her head. "h.e.l.lo, sweetie," she said in her smoker's rasp. Then with a grin that showed one missing tooth, "I mean Chef."

"It's all right, Tansy. You alone can call me 'sweetie.'" She ambled over, drawn by the frying dough. "What do we have here?"

"Just churros."

"Which is like Michelangelo saying 'just statues.'" The twists of dough cooled on the butcher-block table in little rows, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Elena grabbed one, still hot, and ate it in a suspended moment of bliss. "This makes me think of feast days when I was a kid."

"Food takes you back, that's for sure."

"Mmm." The churros were crisp outside, hot and airy inside, and the sugar and cinnamon bit into her memories and called forth some unnamed year when she, along with her other siblings, sat in a church hall, dressed in their Sunday clothes, devouring churros from grease-stained paper napkins-explosions of pleasure in every bite.

"Wow," she said, "I think I'm starving. I need a meal."