The Lost Recipe for Happiness Part 5

Julian mentally wiped sweat from his parental brow. Whew. Right answer. For once.

Flinging herself forward to perch elbows on her knees, she said, "I have an interview with somebody for community service tomorrow. What do you think it will be? My friend Aida is working at a museum. That would be so boring I'd want to kill myself."

Aida was one of the friends Portia had gotten in trouble with, the anorexic daughter of a pop star. "It's hard to imagine her in a museum. What is she doing?"

"She says she's giving tours, but I think she's cleaning bathrooms." Portia made a face. "Gross. Will I have to do something like that?"

He knew a lot of people who'd had to spend time in community service, mostly for drinking-and-driving offenses. Portia had a lot of hours to work off. "It seems like there are a lot of jobs out there, kiddo. My suggestion is to think of something you wouldn't mind doing as a volunteer, then see if they have anything like that."

"Like what? They probably don't have anything to do with fashion."

"Probably not." He thought a minute. "Something with animals? Maybe skiing? G.o.d knows there's plenty of skiing here."

"Get off the skiing, Dad. I'm not going to ski. It makes your thighs fat."

"Muscular," he corrected, but raised a hand to stop the argument before it continued. He'd chosen Aspen in particular because he believed she could not live here when the slopes were open and continue to resist the lure. "Okay. Animals, then."

"I'll think about it. Can I get on the Internet?"

He grinned and pa.s.sed the laptop over to her. She was only allowed access to the Internet through this laptop, and only in his company. She probably did go to Internet cafes, but that was limited access, too, so he looked the other way. "All you had to do was ask."

"This is stupid, too, you know," she said, flipping open the laptop.

"Probably." He doodled circles on his page. In one, he wrote, sorrow. sorrow.

"You don't have time for this, to monitor my every move. You have movies to make. People to see."

He grinned without looking up from the page, and drew a line between two circles. Descent, Descent, he wrote into the second circle. he wrote into the second circle.

"Are you working on a new movie now?"

"Sort of. It's not going that well."

She tapped something into the keyboard and waited, her poreless skin bathed with blue-white light. "You want my opinion, slasher pics are overdone."

"That would be my opinion, too, kid, but that's what they want."

"Life is short, Dad. Maybe you should make the movie you want to make."

He grunted, thinking of the mountains of responsibilities that surrounded him, not the least of which was this child. Slasher flicks seemed to satisfy something in the public right now. Maybe a reaction to the war, and he couldn't completely ignore that.

As he gazed at his daughter, however, he realized where his resistance lay. He didn't want to make a movie about fresh young women being preyed upon by twisted bad guys.

Huh.

"What?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "Maybe you're right. I'll think about it."

"Werewolves," she said without looking away from the screen. "I like werewolves."

He chuckled. "Of course you do."

On Thursday, Elena set out her mise en place mise en place for the meal she would prepare for her new boss. She had to move a stack of cookbooks off the counter to the floor-big, heavy books she'd checked out of the library for brainstorming purposes-and set out the pork and onions, the cutting board and her exquisitely sharp and expensive knives, carrots and celery and herbs for a vegetable stock. for the meal she would prepare for her new boss. She had to move a stack of cookbooks off the counter to the floor-big, heavy books she'd checked out of the library for brainstorming purposes-and set out the pork and onions, the cutting board and her exquisitely sharp and expensive knives, carrots and celery and herbs for a vegetable stock.

Light fell through the window, a round pale spill like a moon on the counter. Elena tied back her hair. Into the CD player went Norah Jones, soft and smoky and easy to sing along with, and she rolled up her sleeves to start cooking. There was something about this kitchen that made her think of home ec cla.s.ses in junior high.

Chopping carrots into perfect rounds, she let her mind drift there. Back to school, which had bored her to death for the most part. The chalky sameness, the too-easy sums and the dense questions asked by students over and over again. Whenever the priests spoke of original sin and all the evil that had come into the world because of Eve, Elena thought of school.

But junior high threw a beautiful curve-she walked into home economics the first day and swooned swooned over the tiny kitchens with their individual stoves and fridges and sinks. Isobel took shop, metals and wood, scorning the traditional female pastime of cooking, but Elena was in heaven. She loved the cabinets stocked with cookie sheets and ca.s.serole dishes, the drawers full of matching flatware, the cupboards with matched sets of Corning Ware that didn't break. Every tool imaginable was there, too-whisks and wooden spoons; spatulas and graters; measuring cups in metal over the tiny kitchens with their individual stoves and fridges and sinks. Isobel took shop, metals and wood, scorning the traditional female pastime of cooking, but Elena was in heaven. She loved the cabinets stocked with cookie sheets and ca.s.serole dishes, the drawers full of matching flatware, the cupboards with matched sets of Corning Ware that didn't break. Every tool imaginable was there, too-whisks and wooden spoons; spatulas and graters; measuring cups in metal and and gla.s.s. The knives and thermometers were checked out of a big locked cabinet, and more than once they had to wait while the knives were counted at the end of a period. gla.s.s. The knives and thermometers were checked out of a big locked cabinet, and more than once they had to wait while the knives were counted at the end of a period.

In that tidy world, she learned the alchemy of a white sauce, browning the flour just so in clear b.u.t.ter-"Very slowly, girls!" shouted Mrs. Mascarenas. "You don't want it to burn!"-to make a roux. Then adding milk for a sauce, more milk for a gravy. Elena played with it, delighted by the way it could hold so many different flavors so easily, an envelope filled with cheese or onions or beef stock. Magic! She discovered that changing the b.u.t.ter to lard or bacon fat could make it heartier, that too much flour defeated the flavors and made anything taste dusty, that she could use the same ideas and make a satiny broth.

Twenty years later, her kitchen in the condo reminded her of that long-ago home ec room, the well-stocked smallness, the clean and orderly elegance of it. No poverty had ever wafted through these rooms, that was for sure.

Alvin strolled out to the backyard and lay down in the sun, his red-gold coat glittering, his big black nose lifting to the sky, perhaps scenting the change that blew in from the north, the possibility of autumn lurking up the pa.s.s.

Humming along with Norah, Elena poured olive oil into a heavy pot, and when it warmed, she dropped in three cloves of garlic sliced lengthwise into three or four pieces each. When the garlic was slightly tender, the flavor steeped into the oil, she dropped a thick chunk of pork shoulder into the pot and seared the meat on both sides, then scattered the chopped vegetables over it, covered it with water, and left it to stew.

The familiar, homey smell filled the air, coaxed knots of tension from her shoulders, lending enough comfort that she could carry her cell phone outside to the patio that looked south. The potted marigolds she'd picked up at the grocery store, and the geranium she had carried all over the world, were perking up in the warm sunshine. She poked a finger into the soil, taking cheer from the yellow and orange and magenta faces.

Hmm. Maybe marigolds would be a pretty garnish for the plates at the restaurant. The idea carried enough frisson that she found her notebook and wrote it down.

Marigolds. Mary's gold. The flowers of the dead.

Holding her phone in her hand, she looked south, toward the hard, high blue ridges of mountains. Over those peaks, a few hundred miles as the crow flew, was Espanola, a sullen and sun-bled town just north of Santa Fe where what remained of her family still lived.

Settling at the picnic table, Elena looked at the lush green slopes around her, slopes that would be covered in snow and humans this winter, and dialed the number for her adopted mother's house. Maria Elena lived alone these days, sometimes caring for one grandchild or another, wearing her stretch pants and the crisp striped shirts that hid her round little bowling ball of a tummy. She answered on the fourth ring, sounding rushed. "Hola!" "Hola!"

"Hey, Mama. Are you busy?"

"Elena!" she said. The surprised joy made Elena run a thumbnail down her thigh. "Never too busy for you, m'ija. m'ija. What are you up to?" What are you up to?"

"I don't have long to talk, Ma, but I just wanted you to know that I moved and I'm in Colorado." She said the last with a happy rise at the end of her words.

"You moved. What about your man there in Canada?"

"We broke up. I told you that already."

"You give up too easy, Elena." She tsked. "That's why you're not married still."

"He gave up on me, and I don't want to talk about it." She peered at the split ends on a lock of hair. "How're my sisters?"

"Margaret keeps on getting fatter and fatter, you know. Julia's got her grandkids with her this week, and Rose is just working away. She's started teaching. We're so proud of her!"

Rose, three years younger than Elena, had gone to college to study nursing, and married another nurse. They lived outside Santa Fe in a nice house with three nice kids. "Tell her I said hi."

"You could call her yourself."

"I will," Elena said, though she wouldn't. There were always such vast silences in their conversations, the vast quiet of two dead siblings between them.

"Where in Colorado are you?"

"Aspen."

"Ooooh." The word was layered with meaning. "You working there?"

"Yeah." Mama never seemed to grasp the layers of kitchens, the line cooks and prep cooks and sous chefs. They were all just cooks to her, but Elena said it anyway, "I'm the executive chef of a new restaurant. The boss of everybody." She plucked some lint from the knee of her jeans. "And you know, it takes a lot to get a restaurant going, of course, so it might be a while before I could come see you."

"Sure, sure."

The familiar silence fell between them. Elena hadn't been home in three years, and that visit had been for one day at Thanksgiving. Like conversations with her sisters, visits home were laden with unspoken losses. But she loved Maria Elena and didn't want to neglect her. This was the way they'd worked it out, over time. "I'll call you, Mama."

"Okay. Be good, m'ija." m'ija."

After she hung up, Elena sat on the table, feet on the bench seat like a teenager, the phone in her left hand. Restlessness crawled down her crooked spine, burned in her shattered hip.

Isobel settled next to her on the bench, her long hair shiny in the sunlight. Tipping her face up to the sun, she closed her eyes. "She doesn't mean anything with the man stuff. It's just what she knows."

"I know." Elena wiggled her shoulders to loosen the tension there, thinking of the town, surly and squinting on the edge of the desert. "I should visit her, I know I should. I just can't breathe when I think of it."

"She's seventy-six."

"I know."

On the lawn, Alvin growled softly, hair on the back of his neck lifting a little. "Shh," Elena said, and rubbed her foot over his back to soothe him.

"Careful of Ivan," Isobel said.

"Duh." In her imagination, his face rose, the thin back with its vining tattoo. Defensively dangerous, like a dog who had been starved and beaten in a backyard.

Rubbing the sole of her foot over the fur of her own beautiful dog, she resolutely did not acknowledge the burn in her hip, and thought instead that she needed to get some walking routes mapped out, or the broken places in her body were going to freeze solid. Stiffness and dull pain radiated from the hip joint, upward and through her belly. The drive had been too long.

Just a little longer, she said, to the fates who had overlooked her that long-ago night. she said, to the fates who had overlooked her that long-ago night. Just let me make my mark and then the body can fall apart. Just let me make my mark and then the body can fall apart.

EIGHT

MAYAN H HOT C CHOCOLATE 6 cups milk1 mild green chile, roasted, skinned, and chopped1/2 vanilla bean, cut in half lengthwise vanilla bean, cut in half lengthwise1/2 cup granulated raw sugar cup granulated raw sugar3 oz. Mexican-style chocolate, coa.r.s.ely chopped1 tsp cinnamonpinch salt2 eggsStick cinnamon

Measure fresh cold milk into a heavy saucepan, and stir in the chile. Sc.r.a.pe the vanilla bean into the milk and break up the pod. Add sugar, chocolate, cinnamon, and salt. Heat over medium heat until the chocolate melts and the milk is steaming hot, but not boiling. Remove from the heat and strain, then pour it back into the saucepan.

Beat the eggs in a mixing bowl. Stir one cup of the hot milk mixture into the eggs and stir vigorously, then pour the milk-egg mixture back into the saucepan and beat with a whip or molinillo molinillo until it's as foamy as a bubble bath. Pour into hefty mugs and garnish with cinnamon sticks. An excellent seduction drink. until it's as foamy as a bubble bath. Pour into hefty mugs and garnish with cinnamon sticks. An excellent seduction drink.

NINE

Julian arrived at five minutes after seven. Although they had spoken several times via email and by phone, Elena hadn't seen him since the morning in Vancouver when he'd offered her the job.

Before he showed up, Alvin paced the apartment with his mistress, psychic as always as she changed clothes three times, trying to decide whether she should be crisply businesslike, or friendly and female, or relaxed and earthy. She wished the apartment were more settled, that she had a sense of who Julian Liswood was, apart from being a really rich guy who was also her boss. That would make anyone nervous.

First she tried a white blouse and black slacks, and her favorite cheery chile pepper ap.r.o.n, her hair drawn out of sight into a braid. It looked so...severe.

She traded the girl-cook look for a yellow sundress with a thin white scarf, thinking to be a little arty, but that just looked like she was trying too hard to be French and cosmopolitan. And flirty. Finally, she ditched the dress and donned a turquoise T-shirt with a thin white sweater over it, and jeans. Earrings of silver, hair loose on her shoulders.

Voila! Elena. Elena.

She and Alvin paced some more. She was too early. Picking up the phone, she punched in Mia's number and got her voice mail-but of course it was quite late in London. "I'm totally nervous," she said. "Julian is coming for dinner and I want to be brilliant." She paused, imagining what Mia would say. "You're right, I should just be myself, be friendly, use good manners. I can do that. Thanks." Grinning, she hung up the phone, then impulsively dialed it again. "I really can't wait for you to get here."

Alvin suddenly jumped up and barked an alert. Elena took a breath, brushed a hand over her shirt. Alvin rushed to the door with her, one floppy black ear c.o.c.ked, his eyes on her face, then the door: Is this what we've been waiting for? Is this what we've been waiting for?

She opened the door. There stood Julian, so elegantly hip in black jeans and a very thin linen shirt woven in tiny turquoise and lavender and green stripes that hung with casual artistry from his shoulders. They were wearing the same colors.

For a single frozen moment, she felt so nervous she couldn't think of what to do next. He was so much more beautiful than she had allowed herself to remember, with a big armful of flowers in pink and orange, his eyes black and bottomless as he stood there against a peach sky-the prince arriving at the peasant daughter's house.

And in that moment, as his eyes burned into her, touching her mouth as he bowed only slightly ironically, she saw that he'd thought about her, had spun visions of her in idle moments. "h.e.l.lo, Elena. You look well."

"Um. So do you. Come in." She kept her eye on Alvin to see how he would react, and at first, it wasn't very clear. Putting a hand on Julian's arm, she said, "Alvin, this is my friend."

Julian, obviously a dog person, held his hand out, palm down. "Hey, Alvin," he said in a low, easy voice. Alvin snuffled his hand, his wrist, the outside seam of his pants, then gave a whuffling sniff and slowly wagged his tail. Julian raised his hand to brush it over Alvin's silky, fluffy head. "Yeah, there you go," he murmured. "You're a good dog, aren't you?"

"Okay, Alvin, that's enough. Thank you. Go lie down."

With a final snort, her dog pranced over to the kitchen and waited for them. Elena let go of a breath. "I never know who he'll love and who he'll hate. Looks like you're on the approved list."

Julian laughed. "He's gorgeous. I can see why you're so fond of him."

"Thanks."

"He looks like an orange bear."

"Yes. The vet told me that he'd seen a lot of dogs named Bear, but Alvin was the first one he thought should really be called that."

"Ah, these are for you," he said, offering the flowers-tiger lilies and cannas and roses, all shades of peach and pink and orange.

"The colors of El Dia de los Muertos."

"Are they?"