The Lost Recipe for Happiness Part 25

"Juan said he was going to serve the family meal at four." Tansy glanced at the clock on the wall. "Not long now."

"Good. You have everything-all set for tomorrow?"

"Ready as I can be, I reckon. I think it'll be a fine blowout, Chef. The crew works well together and the menu is terrific."

"Thanks." Elena opened the reach-in and saw satisfying rows of tamales, mini and regular sized, lined up by color on trays.

"Where is your mama?" Tansy asked.

"Espanola. That's where I grew up."

"Not so far away."

Elena smiled faintly. "Farther than you can even imagine."

A cry rang out downstairs and Elena bolted. She was halfway down the stairs before someone called out in Spanish, "Jefa! "Jefa! We need you down here, p.r.o.nto!" We need you down here, p.r.o.nto!"

She scrambled into the kitchen, where the lively chaos had screeched to a halt and centered around Hector, who held his hand wrapped in a b.l.o.o.d.y towel. It dripped blood to the white floor.

"He cut himself," said Ivan, coming over with ice and a wet towel. "Tell him to bind it, for G.o.d's sake! f.u.c.k, this is why I hate bilingual kitchens."

Like there was any other kind. One of the others said something profane in Spanish, and Elena glared at him, too. She bent to examine Hector's hand. She said in Spanish, "Put pressure on it, but first let me see."

She shook her head as she saw the gash, deep and long across the flesh pad beneath his thumb. "You have to go to the ER. Juan, you take him."

The kitchen stilled. Juan just looked at her, then to Ivan. Hector stared balefully at his hand.

"What is it?" Elena asked.

"It's cool, Jefa," Jefa," Ivan said. "I'll take him. We'll be back in time for dinner." He winked and herded Hector toward the door. "C'mon, man." Ivan said. "I'll take him. We'll be back in time for dinner." He winked and herded Hector toward the door. "C'mon, man."

Elena narrowed her eyes at Juan. "What gives?"

Juan gave a Latin shrug. "n.o.body likes American medicine."

But something was awry. She narrowed her eyes. "C'mon, Juan, what's going on?"

"De nada," he said, and put his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward the dining room. "Let's go put the meal out." he said, and put his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward the dining room. "Let's go put the meal out."

For a moment, she stood, testing her intuition. There was something wrong, but she couldn't quite discern what it was. "Go," she said to Ivan.

She caught a wordless exchange of glances between the two men, but for now, she left it alone. "I'm going to check the storerooms. Double-check everything before you go tonight." Then she scowled. "d.a.m.n. If Hector's out, who will we get to replace him?"

"I'll ask around." Juan stirred his stockpots. "Hector won't miss, though." He rubbed his thumb and fingers together. "Dinero." "Dinero."

Julian paced around the house, up to his office, down to the kitchen for coffee, for a slice of cheese, for-whatever. Nothing sounded good, no matter how many cupboards he opened. It wasn't food he wanted just now.

Portia, looking weary, brought two water gla.s.ses upstairs and put them in the sink. Alvin followed behind her and flopped down on the kitchen floor with a big sigh.

"What's with you?" Portia asked her father.

He shook his head. "Restless."

"Is it the movie?"

A sharp p.r.i.c.k of guilt stabbed him. The lie of omission. "Kind of."

She slid onto a stool, crossing her arms on the counter. "Do you have to wait on approval or something? I thought you were past all that with those producers."

He inclined his head. "Well, they want more of the slasher series, but I convinced them to let me do the ghost story. There are some...issues with it that I'm trying to work out."

"They should let you do what you want," she said with the innocence of fourteen. "You started with ghost stories."

He gave her a sideways grin. "That's true." The first film had been a remake of The Importance of Being Earnest, The Importance of Being Earnest, with a twist: one of the "Ernests" gets killed in a mix-up, and his ghost gives the other one a lot of trouble. He'd been twenty-five years old when he made it, and although it was raw in ways, he sometimes thought it was one of his best efforts. But embarra.s.sment or pride, that was how a life in movies went-you threw yourself into whatever you were doing at the time. with a twist: one of the "Ernests" gets killed in a mix-up, and his ghost gives the other one a lot of trouble. He'd been twenty-five years old when he made it, and although it was raw in ways, he sometimes thought it was one of his best efforts. But embarra.s.sment or pride, that was how a life in movies went-you threw yourself into whatever you were doing at the time.

"I like ghost stories," she said.

"So do I, as it happens." He put the kettle on. "Have some hot chocolate with me?"

She nodded. "Is my mom gonna be in the movie?"

Ricki and her newly appointed husband had flown out this afternoon, after a long chat. "I hope so. I wrote the part with her in mind."

Her delft-blue eyes fell on his face, showing nothing. "That's nice. It's been harder for her to get parts lately."

"That's Hollywood," he said with regret. "No matter how beautiful, it's harder for a woman to land a good role after forty."

"Do you think my mom is beautiful?"

Julian chuckled. "Anyone with eyes thinks your mother is beautiful, Portia. She's like a painting."

She nodded, gnawing her bottom lip.

"What's on your mind, kiddo?"

"I don't know," she said. "I guess it hasn't helped her a lot, has it? Being beautiful? She's not all that happy. Five husbands and all those boyfriends and n.o.body seems to stick. Not that I think you you ran out on her or anything." She waved a hand. "You know what I mean." ran out on her or anything." She waved a hand. "You know what I mean."

"I do." The kettle began to rumble, and Julian took two mugs from the shelf and opened the cupboard to look for hot chocolate. There, left over from the tasting party, was a stock of Ibarra chocolate in a round yellow package. "Shall we try this kind?"

"Sure. You need the spinner thing, though."

He raised his eyebrows in question. Portia pulled open a drawer and pulled out a whip. "This. And it takes milk, not water."

"Ah." He clicked the kettle off and opened the fridge and took out the milk. "The happiness thing, with your mother?" He found a heavy saucepan and put it on the burner, measured milk into it. "That's why I keep nagging you to find other things to think about than how you look. If you use your body for skiing, and it makes you feel good to be in in your body, then you're not so miserable when you think somebody else is prettier than you or thinner or whatever." your body, then you're not so miserable when you think somebody else is prettier than you or thinner or whatever."

She swung a foot, her head braced on her hand, a spill of glittery hair falling on the counter. "That's easy for a man to say. No offense or anything."

"You won't offend me, Portia. Speak your mind."

"Well, men can be ordinary looking and it doesn't hurt them. They can be really smart or talented and they don't have to also be skinny and really handsome and all that stuff. I mean, look at you."

He grinned.

She rolled her eyes. "I mean, you're handsome enough, but you're kind of a geek. You always have been. You're skinny. You have a big nose."

He chuckled. "Don't mince words, kid."

Portia grinned back. "Don't be vain, Dad. You are not Brad Pitt, exactly, and yet you've had really beautiful wives and you have women throwing themselves at you all the time, and your career is going fine."

"I'm not an actor, though. I'm behind the camera."

She made a face. "You know it's different for men."

"It is," he agreed, stirring the milk. "But that seems like all the more reason for you to concentrate on things that are not about how you look."

"That's just the point, though. A woman can be smart and talented and all that stuff, but she also also has to be good-looking and thin." has to be good-looking and thin."

"Not always."

She inclined her head. "Name a successful woman who is really fat."

He seriously tried and couldn't come up with a name off the top of his head. Oprah had been pretty round at one time, but she wasn't these days. "But not that many fat men are successful either."

"What about James Gandolfini? Gerard Depardieu?"

"You're right." He could think of a bunch of rap stars, too. Including a few women, but that wasn't the point. He didn't want to convince her to be heavy, but to be healthy and in her body. And ski, for G.o.d's sake. "What about women who are not fat but are not thin. What about Elena? She's curvy."

"She's also beautiful and she's a cook, so there's room to negotiate."

"You think she's beautiful?"

"Don't you?" She narrowed her eyes. "Please don't play me, Dad. I notice things, okay? I can see that you have a thing for her."

He pursed his lips, didn't look at her. The milk started to steam. "I just want you to be in your body, kiddo, and love it. Stop worrying so much about what everybody else thinks."

She unwrapped the chocolate and broke it by slamming it on the side of the counter. "Says my dad the director who casts beautiful women in his movies."

Julian glanced at her. "Sometimes you're a little too grown up for your own good."

"I know," she said.

And he realized that he didn't really want to leave her alone, looking so shadowy and wan. He'd been thinking of Elena's lusciousness all afternoon, watching the clock until he could take off and see her after her shift. But he didn't want to leave his daughter tonight. "I'm going to have to take Alvin down to Elena when she gets off work, but in the meantime, you want to watch a movie?"

"What's on?"

"I don't know. We have 147 channels, so there must be something."

"Sure," she said. "You know what else I would like, Dad? Can we get a smaller table so we could eat dinner together? Maybe, like, a pretty tablecloth and stuff like that?"

A memory rose of his family dinner table, a square melamine with vinyl-covered chairs. His mother's pasta in a big bowl, gla.s.ses of red Kool-Aid all around. In comparison, the table in the great room looked like something from a medieval banquet hall. "Yeah," he said. "That's a really good idea. We can go shopping this week." He raised his eyebrows. "We do have one problem. Who is going to cook?"

Portia frowned. "Oh, yeah. I forgot." She rubbed a thumbnail over the surface of the counter. "I just liked it when we all ate breakfast together, like a TV family."

"I liked it, too. I grew up like that." He thought for a minute. "Leave it to me, kiddo. I'll figure out a way to get the food in here. You're in charge of figuring out what you want for the table and all that stuff. Deal?"

Her smile was as young and pleased as anything he'd ever seen. "Really?"

"Really." Picking up his cup, he said, "Let's go see what we can find to watch together."

After work, Elena showered the grease and grit of the day from her skin and then padded downstairs for a gla.s.s of wine. The candles burned on her altar, and she smiled at the offerings, then spied a sock in front of the couch and bent to scoop it up.

A flash of Julian-over her, touching her, kissing her, driving into her-gave her a sultry shiver, and she straightened, letting the full memory wash back into her mind. His seasoned tongue and thick member and skilled fingers, his surprising earthiness and unselfconsciousness- Across the room, in soft outline, stood Isobel. She simply gazed at Elena, face impa.s.sive. "What?" Elena asked.

"Tell him that his mother is here, too," she said.

"It's a little weird, you know." She tossed the sock on top of the washer as she pa.s.sed the closet where it was stored, and went to the kitchen for that wine. "And it's weird that you're showing up when he's in the room. What's that about?"

But Isobel never answered questions like that, and she didn't now. She fell on her elbows on the counter, watching as Elena poured white wine into a goblet. "Something's going on," Isobel said. "There's some kind of trouble, but I'm not sure what it is."

"I talked to Hector's sister." The wine was cool and sharp and refreshing. "She said there is an accident coming."

Isobel nodded, peering into the distance. Around her wrists were seven thin bracelets and a big chunk of turquoise. Her eyes, that almost golden brown, shimmered. "Juan. It's about Juan."

Narrowing her eyes, Elena remembered the strangeness about Hector going to the emergency room. Which made her think of Juan and Ivan standing in the kitchen, exchanging that look, and then everything had been all right when Hector returned, st.i.tched but off dish duty. She put him to work in the front of the house for the time being.

She'd forgotten to ask Ivan what was going on because she'd been awash in postcoital blurriness, flashing back to hands and mouth and eyes and- s.h.i.t.

What had she done done?

The same thing she always did. Let the wrong man get close, let the wrong guy under her skin. And this man was not just one who had power in her life, he was famous and charming, and s.e.xy and- She realized that Isobel had gone. The kitchen seemed painfully empty, and she sank down on a stool, shaking her head. She wanted to call Mia, talk it out, but even if it wasn't the middle of the night in England, Elena wasn't talking to her friend yet. Maybe Patrick?

No. Patrick had his own relationship stuff going on. He wasn't likely to be particularly reasonable. Or available, honestly.

Her grandmother? No. Maria Elena always just wanted Elena to settle down, get married, stop this foolish chasing-around-the-world stuff. Her relationships with her remaining sisters were too tenuous. There was no one else in her world, no confidante. No best friend to whisper with, or a.n.a.lyze things or solicit advice from. Even her dog wasn't home yet.

Pathetic. How did that happen?

Across the room, the candles on the El Dia de Los Muertos altar flickered. "Yeah, I get it," she said to the invisible ghosts. "I have you. Not the same."

In the end, she carried her wine upstairs and flipped on her laptop. If she were were speaking to Mia, she would write her an email. So she would just do that without actually sending it. speaking to Mia, she would write her an email. So she would just do that without actually sending it.

Dear Mia,I'm in a mess again. I had s.e.x with my boss this afternoon, and it was not as light as I expected it would be. It feels like there's weight and substance to it, which makes it even more dangerous. I like him. That's the real trouble. He's the kind of guy you know is going to be too much trouble in real life-too rich, too accomplished, with access to too many really gorgeous women-but I like him more than I want to. He's got issues and he has too much power in my life, but I still like him a lot and I want to see where it goes.What do I like about him? No, I'm not dazzled by his position. You'd have to meet him to understand that it's just a nonissue.I like his dark brown eyes, which are kind and intelligent. I like the faint air of the geeky about him, in his wrists and big hands and the cute way he looks in gla.s.ses. I like his aura of power. I do like that. I like men who like themselves, who know where they are going and what they're all about.I like his daughter, and she's part of the problem. I don't want her feelings to be hurt. I don't want her to feel like I've been nice to her just to get to her dad, because it isn't true.I like