The Lost Recipe for Happiness Part 37

In the middle distance, where the acequia bent toward the fields to the south, there were four other figures. Waiting, Elena knew. There was Edwin with his fall of shoe-black hair, and Albert and Penny, as chubby as always. A little girl, watery, holding Edwin's hand. Elena found herself sinking to her knees, in the cool mud that saved her life.

There in the dark, she'd held on to her sister's hand with all her might. "Don't leave me alone, Isobel!" she had cried.

"I won't leave you," Isobel had promised.

And she had not.

"Why did all of you die and I didn't?" Elena asked now.

"It wasn't your day," Isobel said simply.

"It shouldn't have been yours."

Isobel smiled softly. She bent and kissed Elena's head, right at the part, and tears like a volcano gushed up through Elena's esophagus. "I have to go now, Elena."

"Please," she said, and held out a hand. "I don't want to be alone!"

"You aren't alone anymore." She moved away on strong st.u.r.dy legs, wearing the striped shirt she'd borrowed from Elena's closet that night. Elena watched them through a wavery glaze of tears, the family that had stayed with her until she found her own-brothers in Patrick and in Ivan, a sister in Mia, a daughter in Portia. And her mother, waiting there in the car.

And Julian.

Julian.

Elena bent her head to the earth and let her grief pour out, her sacred tears watering the ground. She wept and wept and wept, all the tears she'd been holding for a lifetime. Then, when she was finished, she lay on the ground and released it all to the earth. To the heavens.

When she could breathe again, she stood and brushed herself off. At the line of crosses, she paused and tidied it up, plucked away a stray weed, and straightened the flowers, then went back to the car.

Maria Elena had fallen asleep with her head against the gla.s.s, her dog curled in her lap. With a vast tenderness, Elena bent and kissed her cheek. "I love you, Mama," she said. "I'm sorry I have stayed away so long."

Maria Elena opened her eyes, and for a long moment, she blinked in confusion. "Elena? I wasn't dreaming?"

"No, Mama," she said. "You weren't dreaming."

Mama kissed her hand. "Good. I been saying a lot a prayers for you, you know."

"Thank you."

On the way home, she read the script. It didn't take long. It was a tale of a woman tortured by the loss of her family, long ago, and how she made her way to a whole life again. When Elena finished, she closed the folder and lightly pressed her fingers against it, and looked out the window, letting it fill her up.

It was a mature ghost story, scary, but also tender and wise. And it wasn't really about Elena and her losses at all, but like everything else he wrote, it was Julian's attempt to make sense or make peace with his mother's murder.

So much love, she thought, gazing down at the craggy tops of mountains. So much love he had in him.

FORTY-FOUR

Julian was writing in his office when he heard Elena come in. He put his pencil down and walked to the mezzanine, where he could see the entryway. She hobbled into the hallway and bent to give hugs to Alvin and the pup, who came racing out to see her. Portia, too, came leaping down the hallway, an elfin creature who said something chirpy to Elena and took her coat. Elena said, quite clearly, "Please don't mind when I do this, okay?" And hugged the girl.

Portia hugged her back, fiercely. "I don't mind at all. Not at all."

He took a breath against the arrow of emotion that went through him. Elena said, "Where's your dad?"

"In his office, I think. Are you ready to eat? I made macaroni and cheese. From scratch."

"You did?" Elena squeezed her arm. "You are becoming quite a cook, aren't you? Let me talk to your dad for a minute, then I'll be right back down."

"I'll set the table," Portia said, and this, too, pierced her father, standing overhead. He'd never known till now that such a little thing like that could make such a difference. A simple meal, eaten together. She loved to set the table. "And should I maybe make that spinach salad? Would that be good?"

"Perfect. You have good instincts."

"Thanks!" Portia bounced off to the kitchen, followed by hopeful dogs.

Though he was tempted to spare Elena the climb, Julian stayed where he was. Behind him, in the study, played the soundtrack he'd created for the restaurant, which had somehow become the soundtrack in his head for the script. Below him was the great room, and beyond that, the brightly lit kitchen where his daughter sang along to her iPod and made supper for them all. He was standing almost exactly where he'd kissed Elena the first time, and now he waited as broken Elena made her way up the stairs in her determined and laborious way.

A softness of air moved over his face. Julian thought he smelled Tabu, the strong and exotic perfume his mother had loved. For years after she died, things she'd owned still smelled of it. He wished that he really did believe in ghosts, that he might one day really see his mother again.

Elena came down the mezzanine, one hand on the banister, and she stopped a few feet away from him. She looked absolutely exhausted, her face bare of makeup, her eyes swollen. She held up the script. "I read it," she said.

He nodded.

"I went to Espanola today," she said, and he could see she was struggling with great emotion. "To...um...see the place where we wrecked. I haven't been able to stand it before this."

He waited.

"That night," she said, her voice breaking slightly, "we went to see a movie. It was a ghost story. I thought it was the saddest movie I ever saw in my life, and not a single person in that theater seemed to understand that it was a movie about losing somebody you love and not ever wanting to say goodbye." Tears were pouring down her face now, a remarkable thing all in itself, but Julian felt so poised for her next words that he couldn't take that in yet.

She took a breath and steadied herself. "The movie was The Importance of Being Earnest, The Importance of Being Earnest, by this hotshot young director, who didn't know he was writing my life, because he was writing his own." by this hotshot young director, who didn't know he was writing my life, because he was writing his own."

He moved as she did, and he gathered her into his arms and she fell hard against him, and both of them were crying, and it was so strange and so weirdly beautiful. "Maybe there are soul mates, huh?" he managed to say.

And his broken love, his sad and lonely lost soul mate, nodded against his chest and clung to him. He pressed his mouth to her hair, and touched the scars on her back, and said, "Please let me take care of you."

"Yes, please." She raised her head and breathed in. "What is that perfume? Something you wear, sort of dusky. It feels like I should recognize it."

A sweet waft of air brushed his face, smelling of Tabu, and Julian was too overcome to speak. He let his own tears fall into her hair and they stood like that, rocking back and forth.

The doorbell rang.

Julian raised his head, smiling. Perfect timing. "Remember that I ordered a Christmas present for you that didn't quite get here?"

"It's here?" Elena asked. "Cool."

"I've got it!" Portia cried.

The sound of voices reached them, and Elena's face went absolutely still. She looked up at Julian, eyes filling with tears. "Is it Juan?"

"Merry Christmas," he said. "It took a little bit of doing, but he's here to stay."

"Oh, Julian," she whispered. "You are the real thing, aren't you?"

"I guess you'll just have to stick around and find out."

From downstairs, Portia called, "Come and get it, everybody!"

Elena took Julian's hand.

"Let's eat," she said.

EPILOGUE

MEXICAN W WEDDING C COOKIES

1 cup b.u.t.ter1/2 cup white sugar cup white sugar2 tsp vanilla2 tsp milk2 cups all-purpose flour1 cup chopped almonds1/2 cup confectioner's sugar cup confectioner's sugar

In a medium bowl, cream the b.u.t.ter and sugar. Stir in vanilla and milk. Add the flour and almonds and mix until well blended. Cover and chill for at least 2 hours.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Shape dough into small b.a.l.l.s and bake for 1520 minutes. Let cool slightly, and roll in confectioner's sugar while still warm. Cool completely, and roll one more time through the sugar.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Barbara O'Neal fell in love with restaurants and the secret language of spoons when she was sixteen. She spent more than a decade in various restaurants, dives to cafes to high cuisine, before selling her first novel. O'Neal teaches workshops nationally and internationally, and lives with her partner, a British endurance athlete, in Colorado Springs.