The Lost Recipe for Happiness Part 35

Before she could add anything snarky, she hit the Send b.u.t.ton.

His reply was instant:

To: [email protected]: [email protected]: re:ouch!Very good. We will be arriving 28 January and will stay through 1 February. Will call before then to arrange details.ciao,dmitri

Ivan felt as if an anvil were hanging over his head. Dag was a constant, needling presence, continuously flirting with Patrick, who ignored him for the most part, but every so often, Dag got through, like when the skier made a plate of blintzes for somebody's birthday on Sunday afternoon, always a more relaxed day, the end of the workweek, since the restaurant was closed on Mondays. He served them with cherries, red and plump and sinful, and ricotta cheese whipped with lemon curd.

Patrick's eyes widened at the first taste and he blinked at Dag. "Marvelous!" he said. "Yes, please. I'd like some more."

Chuckling in his loose way, Dag served the blintzes. He winked at Ivan. "Would you like some, Rasputin?" The nickname had stuck, and Ivan rather liked it, but he didn't want to touch anything Dag made. Burning inside, he nearly flipped the entire pan of cherries on the floor. Instead, he rolled his eyes in disdain and stalked outside to smoke.

He simmered through the shift, steam coming from his pores like a volcano about to blow. He felt the unrest and turbulence in him and tried to calm it down, going out to smoke regularly, staying away from Dag as much as he could. He drank some herbal tea Elena kept around, and forced himself to pay attention to his own work.

A therapist he'd been sent to after one or another of his drinking violations-driving and fighting, mostly-told him to notice how a thought wasn't always a directive, it wasn't even real sometimes. The woman showed him how to break it down-event, reaction, thought. He tried to practice it this afternoon. The event was Dag's f.u.c.king annoying behavior. He needled Ivan deliberately, trying to find his weaknesses and make him crazy.

No, that wasn't the way this worked. Ivan spun in his station, broiling lamb chops, acknowledging orders with a volley of commands, giving orders, spraying vinegar water over a flame leaping too high, and reviewed.

The event had no emotion. Dag made blintzes. Offered them to Patrick, who ate them and liked them.

Marvelous.

After that, Ivan's reaction was to feel annoyed. Jealous. His thought was that Patrick didn't love him and would leave him for Dag. Or someone else more beautiful or more polished or more whatever.

The dark knots of fury eased away from the back of his neck. Patrick did love him. Ivan honestly didn't know why-Ivan was difficult and high-strung and given to wild mood swings-but it seemed to be true. Dag was trying to get to him, trying to get Ivan to react and do something stupid to mess up either his job or his relationship-while Patrick was faithful, it was impossible to miss that Dag wanted him. If Ivan allowed himself to fall for Dag's game, Dag would win.

More tension faded. Whew. Maybe he was getting the hang of this sanity thing. d.a.m.n. He grinned to himself.

And it all would have worked out just fine, Ivan thought later, if they hadn't stopped to have a drink at their favorite nightclub after work. The crowd was thin on a Sunday night. Patrick and Ivan found a booth in the agreeable dark and ordered an ale for Ivan, a pinot grigio for Patrick, who never, ever had more than one. "I'm hungry," Patrick said, and glanced over the very small menu. "Maybe some mushroom caps?"

"And some wings." Ivan wiggled an eyebrow across the table. "I'm in the mood for something sloppy."

"It was busy tonight," Patrick commented, leaning back with a sigh. "Good to see it."

Ivan nodded. Music from a very good jukebox played quietly. Weariness pooled in his elbows and lower back, tingled through his knees, calves, feet. Sometimes lately, he could really feel his age. Not like Elena, though. "What's with Chef, anyway?"

The quick shuttering fell over Patrick's face, making it a blank mask. It irritated Ivan a little, that Chef was more important, or higher in Patrick's loyalties, but he remembered his mantra: event, reaction, thought. Patrick had known Elena a long time, and in fact, wasn't loyalty one of the things Ivan found so appealing about him?

"What do you mean?" Patrick asked.

"Here lately there've been times she can't even stand up straight. She's in serious pain a serious amount of the time."

Patrick lowered his eyes. Nodded. "I've noticed, too."

"What's the deal? How does she get better?"

"I don't know. She hasn't ever been this bad. I mean, sometimes at the end of a long week or a long trip, she might limp around a little, but..." He took a breath. "Not like this."

Something in Ivan broke a little, thinking of the way her mouth pinched by the end of a shift. He thought of her scar, that thick cord of violence that ripped her back apart. "Sucks. That she should get the kitchen and then-"

"Do not say a word, Ivan, not to her and not to anyone else, do you hear me?"

"Jesus, man." He scowled. "I like her. I feel bad for her. Why do you always think the worst of me?"

"I don't," Patrick said, and straightened. "But you're compet.i.tive and she took the kitchen that used to be yours. You called the INS. I'm over it, but you wanted revenge, right?"

Ivan found this didn't set off his temper. Huh. "I hate that I did that," he said. "I did want revenge, before I met her. Before I knew her. I don't anymore." With an ironic little twist of his lips, he lifted his bottle of beer. "If not for her, you wouldn't be here, now would you?"

Patrick's mouth pursed into that pleased little smile Ivan liked so much. "That's true."

"Why don't you get a backgammon board and I'll go play some music?"

"Back in a flash."

Ivan ambled over to the jukebox and leaned over it, his long arms folded on the top so that the light flashed over his face and chest, purple neon, his favorite color. He fed a few bills into the slot and started punching in his favorites-some Springsteen and Prince and Mellencamp for himself, some Melissa Etheridge and Toni Braxton for Patrick.

"How sweet," said a voice nearby. Dag, as clean and tucked as a new shirt, leaned on the jukebox. "Choosing songs for your sweetheart?"

A ripple of irritation crawled up the back of Ivan's neck, but he twitched his nose, blew it off. He was here with Patrick to relax and have a good time after a long night at work. He didn't look up again. "Get lost, Dag. I have to put up with your s.h.i.t at work, but not on my own time." He pressed a set of numbers gently with great control, and flipped the cards inside the jukebox, looking for something lively. Cheerful, like Cyndi Lauper. Hard to get too p.i.s.sed off when she was singing. He spied the Bangles and put in "Walks Like an Egyptian," too, for good measure.

Dag leaned in close. "He's too young for you."

A sizzle, like too much electricity, buzzed over his ear, but Ivan ignored him. There was the Lauper. He punched it in.

"Look at that a.s.s," Dag said. "I keep thinking of those sweet cheeks, that pretty mouth. It's ti-"

Before he knew he was swinging, Ivan had connected with that foul mouth. He saw it almost in slow motion, the arc of his fist, large and knotty and strong, fueled by the anger of nearly forty years of a.s.sholes like this, starting with his mother's boyfriends, hurting him and teasing him, then kids at school because he was too thin, later because he was gay, always taunting him, for one thing and another and another, always putting him down, making him feel like he didn't measure up; he saw it flying and Dag noting too slowly that it was coming, and then the flesh of his left knuckle and Dag's mouth collided. Ivan felt something give, in his hand and in Dag's mouth, a tooth, and then there was blood, and he had time enough to think, f.u.c.k, I never even had a chance to get drunk, f.u.c.k, I never even had a chance to get drunk, before Dag roared and tackled him, a bull. He slammed his fist into Ivan's face, and he felt the crunch against his cheekbone-Jesus, it was like getting hit by an anvil. Then Ivan's street sense kicked in and he managed to get a few punches in, and then people were hauling them apart, and the bouncer was dragging Ivan outside, while the patrons-all f.u.c.king punka.s.s skiers-were crowding around Dag, who spit on the floor. before Dag roared and tackled him, a bull. He slammed his fist into Ivan's face, and he felt the crunch against his cheekbone-Jesus, it was like getting hit by an anvil. Then Ivan's street sense kicked in and he managed to get a few punches in, and then people were hauling them apart, and the bouncer was dragging Ivan outside, while the patrons-all f.u.c.king punka.s.s skiers-were crowding around Dag, who spit on the floor.

"Stay the f.u.c.k out of my bar, Santino!" said the bouncer, and Ivan was flung to the sidewalk outside, stumbling in this sudden rejection, shivering in the cold. He sat there for one long minute, humiliated and stinging as tourists in expensive boots and thick coats steered around him, looking down in disdain at his sweat-stained shirt and his b.l.o.o.d.y mouth.

He was expecting Patrick to come out, waiting for him to step outside and help him to his feet and gingerly tend his wounds. But he didn't come. Ivan stood up, feeling the punch to his eye more than he wanted to. Through the window, he saw the commotion had already died down, and the music Ivan had chosen was already starting to play. "When Doves Cry" came through the windows faintly.

He didn't have his coat. His lip was bleeding pretty f.u.c.king bad. Patrick was sitting in the booth, drinking his wine. Didn't he know what happened? Dag sauntered over to the booth and Ivan saw him pointing toward the door. Patrick nodded.

And didn't move.

Ivan stood there, blinking. How was that fa- Fair.

Pierced to the bone, he headed back to the Orange Bear, where his car was parked. What the f.u.c.k. He'd get drunk somewhere else.

Because what had toeing the line got him? Same f.u.c.king life he had all along. What was the point?

What was even the f.u.c.king point?

Julian watched Elena moving around the bedroom and took her arm. "I'm worried about you."

As she always did, she made a conscious effort to straighten her spine. "I'm just tired." She sank to the ottoman and took off her shoes. Her skin was pale.

"You're not fine, Elena. You need to see a doctor."

"So they can tell me how bad it is, Julian? So they can show me the intolerable choices left to me?"

Alvin jumped up and came over, his tail swinging nervously.

"You're worrying him," Julian said.

She bowed her head. "I'm sorry. I did see a doctor. Last week." She swallowed. "They want to do more surgery."

He sank down beside her, took her hands, even though she was trying to pull them away. "Elena. Stop resisting me."

She smiled a little, let her hands still. Took in a breath. "So much for your chef, huh?" she said, and couldn't quite cover the despair she felt. The blue of her irises seemed to bleed right down her face.

He cupped her face, touched her hair. "What kind of surgery?"

"A lot. Pins and cages and braces and things."

"And what's the prognosis?"

"I didn't get that far. It would mean being in a brace for maybe six months. I can't run the kitchen that way."

"Do you think we-"

Her cell phone rang. In the quiet, the late hour, the sound seemed ominous. She shot him a glance and grabbed it from the table. "h.e.l.lo?" Through the line, she heard a voice, rushing and urgent. "Slow down, Patrick. I can't understand you." She put a finger against her opposing ear. "What happened? Who is-"

The color bled from her face. "When? How did that happen? I thought he'd been on the wagon." She listened a little longer, made soothing noises. "I'll be there soon. Don't freak out. It's not your fault."

She clapped the phone closed. "Ivan got into a fight with Dag at the bar, then got in his car and drove it into a tree." She stood up. A white line edged her mouth, and she swung her hair over her shoulder. "I've gotta go to the hospital. Patrick's losing it."

"How's Ivan?"

Her shoulders twitched. "He's in surgery. They don't know."

"I'll drive."

She shook her head. "That's not necessary. Why should both of us be sleep deprived?" As she spoke, she moved stiffly around the room, picking up bits and pieces, a blouse, her socks, a bracelet she wore on her left wrist where most people wore a watch. Her defenses were so thin and tattered they were like an ancient negligee. He could see right through them.

He went to her, pulled her into his arms, and held her against his chest. "Elena, let go for once in your life, let go before you shatter."

She only allowed his comfort for the blink of an eye before she pushed him away. "I can't."

"Be hugged or let go?"

"One leads to the other, and I can't afford them. Not right now, Julian, okay?"

And suddenly he realized that she might never never let him in, that this might be an entirely one-sided relationship, with Elena offering tidbits here and there, while Julian poured himself, all of his heart and soul and longings and dreams, into it. He thought of her friend Mia, whom she'd cut out of her life so coldly, after how many years of friendship? let him in, that this might be an entirely one-sided relationship, with Elena offering tidbits here and there, while Julian poured himself, all of his heart and soul and longings and dreams, into it. He thought of her friend Mia, whom she'd cut out of her life so coldly, after how many years of friendship?

As he stood there, he felt the distance between them widen, or perhaps it was that he was only now seeing the truth of it, the truth of the dynamic, that Elena stood aloofly at the top of an icy mountain, and he-her swain, her supplicant-tried to scale the slippery summit to no avail. He saw that the events of her life had stranded her there, alone, that she had not gone willingly. And yet...

"I'll drive you to the hospital and drop you off. If you need to get back, Patrick can bring you."

She looked at him, and he could tell she sensed the distance, too. "Thank you. Don't wait up. I'll probably stay with Patrick. He's a mess."

Julian nodded.

Alvin whined softly.

Ivan awakened slowly to a sensation of gagging and a headache that was like bombs going off. In his body were aches and pains and one dead zone around his ankle, which felt m.u.f.fled or smothered.

A voice said, "He's coming around," and Ivan coughed as something slid out of his throat. There was rawness in his throat, a blast of pain in his face, his mouth. He opened his eyes a crack, gathering details, trying to piece together what he remembered, but there was a buzz in his brain and he couldn't really think, and this room was lit with a cold bluish fluorescent light. He could hear the buzz of it. Someone took his hand.

Patrick said, "Ivan?"

He opened his eyes. There was Patrick, peering at him, his face ravaged with tears. "What happened?" Ivan rasped, and the words barely came out around the rawness.

"You wrecked your car. Ran into a tree three blocks from the Orange Bear." Patrick glared at him. "You must have been going sixty to wreck the car that badly, they think."

Ivan slowly shook his head. "I can't remember anything." There was a wisp of something, some faint unpleasant memory, and his bruised head skittered away.

"It's all right, don't worry. It will come back." Patrick took a breath. "I thought you died, Ivan." Tears spilled down his face. "I thought you died." He kissed him, and Ivan tasted the salt and tears and there was something wrong, but he couldn't remember what it was. As Patrick kissed him, he just let the light of that fill him up, and he fell asleep.

Around 3 a.m., Elena sent Patrick home for a nap and a change of clothes. He was upset in ways she'd never seen, pacing and weeping. "I should have gone outside, made sure he was all right. It was humiliating for me, but how much more for Ivan? That wasn't fair. I'm not usually so mean. But I was tired of him fighting and being jealous and I wanted to teach him a lesson."

Elena nodded, rubbed his back, listened and listened and listened as he covered the same ground, over and over. "I'll sit with him," she said. "Then I'll go home when you get back."

Alone in the room with Ivan sound asleep, Elena dozed. When she awakened, Isobel was there, sitting on the end of the bed, her legs teenager skinny, her neck looped with a dozen cheap necklaces. Her trademark. "He almost killed himself," she said, putting her hand on Ivan's knee. He didn't stir. "He's got so much love in him, poor guy."

Elena nodded, feeling hollow as she listened to the blips and bleeps and gurgles, the faraway sound of pages-why did hospitals still use such noisy technology anyway, when every nurse and doctor could wear a cell and be paged via text? Then patients could sleep.

"Is there anything more depressing in the world than a hospital room in the middle of the night?" Elena said.

"You were there a long time," Isobel said. She was still looking at Ivan with a slight frown.

Elena nodded. It made her feel hollow to sit there, looking at Ivan's ravaged face. His lower lip, always so sensual anyway, was swollen twice the normal size and had a split through the middle of it, angry and moist. One eye was swollen shut, and there was an odd mark on his cheek, a fabric imprint. He'd broken a few ribs, and his left ankle, but it was cleanly broken and after a week he'd be able to stand on the cast. They thought he had a concussion, and he was covered with a.s.sorted cuts and bruises and st.i.tches, but considering the impact, he'd been very lucky.

The chef computer in her was running scenarios of how to make the kitchen work without him for a few days. At least he hadn't broken anything critical, like a wrist or a shoulder or- Isobel touched his brow, his hair. "He doesn't say how bad it was," she whispered. "When he was a child."

"How bad?"

"Bad," Isobel said. She kissed his forehead. "Now he has you. You have him."