The Lost Recipe for Happiness Part 32

But not this minute.

Then, as she climbed into the car, her back screamed and she remembered she didn't have a home to go to, and she put her head down on the steering wheel in despair. What was this about? Why had the heavens bothered to spare her if she was just going to fail, over and over? If, just as she started to make her dream come true, her broken body betrayed her?

A knock on the window startled her, and she looked up to see Hector's sister shivering beside the car. In Spanish she said, "I am supposed to tell you to call your mother."

Alarmed, Elena started to open the door. "What? Did my family call? Is she sick?"

Alma shrugged. "n.o.body called," she said, and patted the hood of Elena's car, then drifted away, putting her arms into the sleeves of a dark blue sweater. For a long moment, Elena watched her, wearing those odd clothes and the too-tall shoes and swinging her skinny arms, and wondered if she was a ghost, another vision of something Elena had conjured up.

But apparently, everyone else could see her, too. A man slid sideways as she pa.s.sed, and turned to admire the swish of her tiny bottom beneath the skirts. A girl shook her head at the strange clothes. No, Hector's sister wasn't a ghost. She was just an eccentric.

Elena started the car. She would call her mother later. First, she had to get somewhere warm, call the ma.s.sage person, get some sleep. She thought she would keel over from exhaustion if she didn't sleep.

She had no choice but to return to Julian's, but there was no one there when she rang the bell, so she punched in the security code he'd given her and went in through a side door. Alvin found his crocodile and carried it downstairs, looking for Portia, and he didn't come back up. Elena climbed the stairs, one excruciating stair at a time, focusing not on the pain but on the sound of the water falling from the upper level, on the silver-ribbon beauty of it, and the tremendous effort it took to raise one foot, then the other.

In one part of her brain or heart or soul, she recognized that these issues were getting worse. She'd always had days when cold or overwork or a bout of the flu made everything hurt. Or rather, hurt more, since she pretty much had some pain nearly every day. The walking helped keep her in motion, and she'd had plenty of that here. Aspen proper was not a large place, and both her condo and the restaurant were centrally located, so she walked several miles every day. In the past, that would have been enough.

It wasn't now.

One step. One more. One more. She leaned on the railing and focused, just as she had long ago when she'd first tried to move around again, nearly eight months after the accident. They had not been entirely sure she would would walk. Then they hadn't thought she would walk without limping. She'd proved them wrong. walk. Then they hadn't thought she would walk without limping. She'd proved them wrong.

At the top of the stairs, she had to make a decision-her tower room with the loft, where she would be alone? Or Julian's bed, which was closer, bigger, and didn't require climbing any more? It was an easy choice.

There was also a television in there. Elena clicked it on, stripped off her clothes, and staggered into the shower, where she let the heat and steam ease away some of the trouble. Afterward, she realized it was impossible for her to bend far enough to pick up her bag, stuffed with clean underwear and other things, and simply found a pair of Julian's running pants and a T-shirt to put on.

Then she climbed into his big, comfortable bed, pulled the quilt around her neck, and collapsed.

Julian and Portia went to Elena's house to gather her clothes, but the police wouldn't let them in, citing the instability of the structure. "Do you think you could figure out her sizes?" Julian asked his daughter.

She shrugged. "Pretty close."

"Let's go shopping, then."

Portia brightened. "How fun! I love to shop for people! Don't you think she would look good in pink?"

Julian inclined his head. "I haven't seen her in many clothes except the chef's whites. Pink might be nice. Do you think she'd like it, though?"

"Yeah," Portia said. "Trust me, Dad. If there's one thing I get, it's women's clothes."

So, as much to give his daughter the obvious pleasure of shopping as to bring Elena something to give her comfort, they headed to the main drag to buy overpriced silk T-shirts from the boutiques. In one such shop, Portia rummaged through the shirts on hangers, fast, and said, "You like her, don't you?"

"Of course."

"I mean, like like her like her, as in kissy kissy." her like her, as in kissy kissy."

He chuckled. "Kissy kissy?"

"You know what I mean!" She pulled out a diaphanous pink and green paisley print with long sleeves. "Ooh, this is good." She put it in his hands.

For a moment, Julian didn't know how to answer her.

And then he fell back on his vow to be real and honest with her as much as he could. "I do like her. She's real."

Portia nodded. "Yeah, that's why I like her, too."

She tugged him over to a new area, and flipped through blouses and shirts and skirts. Pulled out a blue T-shirt, silky and simple, and Julian imagined how gorgeous Elena's b.r.e.a.s.t.s would look beneath it. He took it from her. "I choose this one."

She laughed. "You do like her!"

The airlessness in his chest, his sadness, swirled up. "Yeah."

"Do you think you'll ever get married again?"

He quirked his lips mockingly. "Five times the charm?"

"Why doesn't anyone stay married? I'm scarred for life, being a Hollywood child, you know." Her voice was unconcerned and she held a shimmery gold top against her chest. "I think you should buy me this to make up for it."

Julian snorted. "I'll buy you something, cupcake, but not that. It's way too old for you."

She grinned, looking suddenly like her eight-year-old self. "I'd really like some new jeans. And maybe you could buy me sushi?"

"Will you see the ski instructor on Tuesday?"

Portia smiled faintly, and pulled out a red shirt with a square neckline and floaty sleeves. "I already called him," she said, and put the blouse in his hands. "That one for Elena. She'll look hot, trust me."

"You called the ski instructor?"

"Yep."

Standing there in the boutique with the smell of expensive fabrics and signature perfumes in the air, with natural light pouring over his daughter's faintly freckled nose, Julian was overcome with love. On some level, he knew this was a minute he would remember, this very one, standing with her, and took the time to press all the golden pleasure of it into his pores, his heart, the gray folds of his memory.

"I'm glad" was all he said.

After dinner, they returned to the house. On the stoop was a big bag with a big plastic container inside. A note in a mannered hand said, Chicken Soup, for Elena. From Ivan. Chicken Soup, for Elena. From Ivan. Julian carried it inside. It was still warm. Julian carried it inside. It was still warm.

Alvin greeted them cheerfully, but without the crocodile. "Hey, honey," Portia said, bending down to kiss him, her packages forgotten in her rush to hug the dog, "whatcha doing? Where's your toy?"

Alvin backed up, still smiling, his tail still wagging, and wuffed softly.

"Go get it," Portia said.

Alvin didn't move, just inclined his head, turned away, turned back.

"What's wrong, honey? Where's Elena? Where's your mom?"

The first soft ripple of worry moved through Julian's throat. "What's up, Alvin? What do you need? Show me."

The dog turned around and trotted down the hall, looking over his shoulder to make sure they were following. Not to the kitchen, but up the stairs. "I'll go, Portia. You can take your stuff to your room."

"Can I get on the Internet?"

"In the great room, yeah."

Julian followed Alvin upstairs and into his bedroom, where Elena was buried beneath the covers in his bed. She looked about six, with her mussed hair and the covers up to her chin. The television was on, the sound muted, and the blue light touched her cheekbone.

She was very much asleep, her mouth open, a faint snore coming from between her lips. Alvin went to the edge of the bed and nudged her back, and when she didn't open her eyes, he jumped up on the edge of the bed and put his paws on her shoulder. "Alvin, no," she said in a pitiful voice.

He patted her shoulder, tugging with his claws at the duvet, pulling it off her shoulder. She made a soft noise, but it took a lot of effort to turn over. "Alvin-" She saw Julian. "Hi, sorry to be in here. The loft was just-" She sighed.

"You look terrible. What can I get you?"

"I just need to rest. I'll be all right in the morning."

"Did you need to get into the hot tub?"

She shook her head.

"Let's get you down there. That will help."

"I just don't think-is Portia here? I don't want to freak her out."

Julian sat down next to her. "What can I do, Elena? Let me help you."

"It's just stress. It will be better in a day or two."

"Will a ma.s.sage help?"

"Maybe." She tangled her hand in his. "Will you be giving it?"

He bent to kiss her. "I can. Purely nons.e.xual, of course."

She hesitated, then reached for his hand. "Help me sit up."

He did and she reached for the hem of her shirt, and pulled it off over her head, and with great effort turned over. "I actually do know a little about this," he said, pushing the quilt away. "My fourth wife was a ma.s.sage therapist."

"I thought she was a yoga teacher."

"Both." He went to the bathroom and came back with some unscented oil. "Lucky for you, I have some oil left over from those days."

It drew a small chuckle. "Really. You've been moving it from house to house all this time."

Alvin seemed satisfied and slumped nearby the bed on the floor. Julian said, "Brace yourself," and turned on a lamp on the nightstand. Elena didn't move. The light put the scar over her shoulder into relief, a thick cord of dark pink. He started there, at her shoulder blades, moving his hands lightly at first, from shoulder to shoulder, up into her neck, down the channel of her spine. The main scar submerged about halfway down, turning into a very thin white line. There were faint dots on either side of the spinal column, as if there were st.i.tches or pins there once. Below her ribs on the left side, the scar reemerged in two rivers-one neat and clean, a surgical incision that healed well, the other a ragged gash where something must have pierced her.

He thought of the boy yesterday, flung onto the bed, and it made him think of a seventeen-year-old Elena lying in a ditch in the dark, thinking that her sister was there, holding her hand. "I hate it that this happened to you," he said, and his voice was thick. "That you're still in so much pain."

"Better this than dead."

"Absolutely." He kneaded the lower back with the heels of his hands, moved into the b.u.t.tock. "Jesus, Elena, these muscles are like rocks."

She groaned, half in pain, half in pleasure. "Oh, that hurts so good."

For a while, he worked in silence. "What were your injuries, exactly, Elena? That you had to spend so much time in the hospital?"

"Broke my back in four places," she said, eyes closed. "Shattered left hip-that's what that scar is. Broken clavicle and right shoulder blade and many ribs. Lost my left kidney. The back is the big problem."

He dug into her left b.u.t.tock, feeling the glutes like iron cords. "Not your hip?"

"Maybe." She shifted a little to look at him. "It's not like this all the time. I just got stressed out, and I didn't want to take any muscle relaxants and-"

"How long has it been since anyone looked at all of this? A medical professional?"

"A while, probably five years. There's not much they can do. This is the legacy of catastrophic car accidents. That's what one guy told me-that if you survived a big wreck, this was what you had to look forward to."

His hands stilled. "How do you know they haven't come up with a thousand ways to make you feel better? It's been twenty years."

"Julian, can we not have this conversation right this minute?"

"Sorry."

"Talk to me about you, instead. How's the screenplay going?"

A frisson of worry lit up the nerves in his body, all at once, then subsided. "Very well, honestly. I'd like to start filming this summer, while Portia is out of school."

"Ah, very good. I wondered how you'd manage that."

"It won't be easy, but she's my priority for the next four years. I should have done it sooner. But...well, that's water under the bridge. I can do it now." He worked deeper, feeling some looseness starting to emerge. Good. "I think I'm going to have to get her a dog."

"Yes!" In her enthusiasm, Elena turned over. "She is such a dog person! And I think there might be any number of possibilities."

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, white and plump, drew his eye, and without heat, he touched them. "Okay. We can talk about it. I'd love your thoughts."

She covered his hands. "Thank you, Julian. I think I might be able to make it to the hot tub now without freaking out your daughter."

He smiled down at her, aware of a vast tenderness. She was pale and there were shadows below her eyes and in this light he could see the fine lines. Her hair was a tangled mess on the pillows. And he felt more at home, sitting in this quiet pool of light, than he had in his entire life.

She pulled his hands up and kissed the palms. "What put that pensive look on your face?"

"It's so easy to be around you," he said. Touched her hair. Thought the words but didn't say them, I love you. I love you.

She kissed his thumb. "I know," she said. "Me too." Struggling to a sitting position, she said, "Can you get in the hot tub with me? We'll wear bathing suits."

"Sure. Sounds good. Ivan brought you some soup. And Portia and I brought you some things, too."

"What things?"