The Lost Recipe for Happiness Part 16

She wiped the counter. "I'm sure."

When he brought the bottle into the room, there was a murmur from the guys. One tucked his hands under his armpits. "Go, Chef!"

Ivan sauntered over, drying his clean hands on a fresh white towel from the stack on the counter. His eyes glowed turquoise beneath the hooded lids, and he c.o.c.ked a brow as he lifted the shot gla.s.s. "May the best man win."

"Most huevos," huevos," she said, and Ivan chuckled. she said, and Ivan chuckled.

They knocked back a shot, then one more, and went back to cooking. Ivan had a beer at his elbow the whole evening, but even when goaded, he didn't drink as many shots as Elena would have liked. And it took a while for her to realize why-he eyed the door every now and then. Hoping for Patrick.

As she cooked, she tried to keep her mind on her task, but the busy hands left a wandering mind. Over and over again, she saw a flash of Julian, leaning in to kiss her. His hands on her face, his black lashes floating down to the high angle of his cheekbone, the feel of his tongue against her, sliding in and out of her mouth, dragging across her lip- Over and over, desire blistered through her, carrying with it a powerful and peculiar heat she kept nudging like a secret. Lips, tongue-tingling in the small of her back, the nape of her neck. His hand on her jaw-her throat flushed red and she could feel her nipples standing at attention beneath her baggy s.h.i.+rt.

Oh, I get it, Dmitri had written, Dmitri had written, he just wants to f.u.c.k you. he just wants to f.u.c.k you.

She breathed in. No, she definitely wanted to f.u.c.k him. him. Julian. Her desire had teeth, violence in it. As he'd sat there in front of her in the kitchen, wearing a neat, discreetly striped s.h.i.+rt in white and palest purple and palest blue, she thought of his chest, and wanted to tear at the fabric. She wanted to bite his neck like a cat, mount him, ride him, scream a lot. Julian. Her desire had teeth, violence in it. As he'd sat there in front of her in the kitchen, wearing a neat, discreetly striped s.h.i.+rt in white and palest purple and palest blue, she thought of his chest, and wanted to tear at the fabric. She wanted to bite his neck like a cat, mount him, ride him, scream a lot.

Stop.

Focus.

Obviously, she needed to find a friendly buddy for s.e.x. The stress of working so much was making her h.o.r.n.y, and s.e.x would ease some of the aches and pains, too. n.o.body in the kitchen, of course, but maybe once Mia arrived, they could go out sometimes, meet some new people.

Ivan stepped out to have a smoke, and Elena ducked into the break room. Her eyes were red and she squeezed some drops into them, blinking the sting away. Settling on the bench, she pulled out her cell phone and punched in Patrick's code. It rang, a lilting piano piece, but went to voice mail. He was still driving, then. Maybe on his way.

She stood up straight. Inhaled long and clear. Gave herself the eye in the mirror. She wished for company, for the comfort of her ghosts, but n.o.body came. They never did when she wanted them. Only when they felt like it.

"f.u.c.k you then," she said aloud. Easy for them, on the other side. She unbound her hair, combed it, put it back in a ponytail. A depth of regret and resistance pushed through her-weariness. She didn't want to have to keep fighting for her position forever. She was sick of coming out of her lonely corner, fighting, going ten rounds, coming back to the lonely corner again.

And yet, what choice was there? You could sit down on the side of the road and cry, or you could keep fighting.

In the vastness of the great room, Julian balanced his laptop on his legs and tapped quickly, a rush of inspiration moving through him at last. Outside, the night swirled with fat, cottony snow against a soft pink sky. Pines arrowed into the pastel softness like sentinels protecting the property. It was vastly, unbelievably quiet-the thing people either loved or despised about the town. He drank it in like a drug. All of his life, he'd lived in noisy cities. This silence felt like a benediction, a blessing.

A fire flickered in the fireplace, logs burning with yellow and blue, the crackle of exploding sap sending a spray of sparks out every so often.

He wrote of a man isolated and lonely, a writer perhaps. No, that was too cliched. A-what? What kind of a person lived the life of a recluse? He wrote fast: writer, scientist, researcher, naturalist, forest ranger. writer, scientist, researcher, naturalist, forest ranger. Hmm. Naturalist. Botanist. Forest ranger. Yeah, one of those. A guy who lived in the mountains, alone. His company was the landscape, the animals. His name was...Julian narrowed his eyes, reached for the first thing that came to mind. Hmm. Naturalist. Botanist. Forest ranger. Yeah, one of those. A guy who lived in the mountains, alone. His company was the landscape, the animals. His name was...Julian narrowed his eyes, reached for the first thing that came to mind. Paul, Peter, Matthew, Jake. Paul, Peter, Matthew, Jake. Huh. Jake, yeah. Manly name for a guy with a broken heart. Matthew McConaugheystyle, that Texas jaw and strong blue eyes. Huh. Jake, yeah. Manly name for a guy with a broken heart. Matthew McConaugheystyle, that Texas jaw and strong blue eyes.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Good.

He sipped a cup of hot, strong spice tea, his only beverage when he worked. The wine with supper had lubricated his thinking a little, but he didn't really like drinking much anymore. It slowed his brain down, which was probably why some people liked it.

And if he were honest with himself, he was thinking of checking on Elena and crew later.

Jake in the mountains. Maybe Jake was too cliched, too. Think about that. Jack, Mack. Jack, Mack. No, Jake for now. Fix it later. No, Jake for now. Fix it later.

Putting his cup down, he typed: brokenhearted Jake in a cozy snowfall. A fire. A blanket in front of the fire. He's waiting, but we don't know for what. A woman appears, wearing a diaphanous robe that reveals and hides all at once. A beauty, s.e.xy and strong, and she slides down behind our hero and begins to kiss his neck. A knock comes at the door. Camera zooms in on Jake's face, showing nothing. He glances over his shoulder, gets up to answer the door- brokenhearted Jake in a cozy snowfall. A fire. A blanket in front of the fire. He's waiting, but we don't know for what. A woman appears, wearing a diaphanous robe that reveals and hides all at once. A beauty, s.e.xy and strong, and she slides down behind our hero and begins to kiss his neck. A knock comes at the door. Camera zooms in on Jake's face, showing nothing. He glances over his shoulder, gets up to answer the door- There was a sudden b.u.mp against his leg. Julian, heavily engrossed in his writing, startled. He looked around the laptop screen to see Alvin.

"Oh, it's you, Dog," he said, reaching out to scratch the red-gold head. It was as silky as it looked. "Where's my daughter?"

Alvin leaned back, throat exposed, a most obvious invitation. Julian grinned and kept scratching the side of his face. Alvin reached up and put a paw on his wrist: lower. lower. He licked his jowls, looked over his shoulder toward the stairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt, and worriedly looked back to Julian. He licked his jowls, looked over his shoulder toward the stairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt, and worriedly looked back to Julian.

"Problem?" Julian asked.

Faintly, he heard Portia yelling. Into the phone, probably. "You don't like yelling, do you? You want me to go check on her?"

Alvin leapt up and pranced toward the stairs, watching to see if Julian was smart enough to actually follow. They went down the stairs, and as Julian always did, he pa.s.sed his hand through the strings of water falling in perfectly straight lines from the ceiling two stories above.

As they got to the bottom of the steps, Alvin slowed. Portia's voice, slightly hysterical, came to him clearly. "Mom, you can't just keep doing that! I can't go from school to school, back and forth, it makes me crazy. You won't even be there-you're always on some stupid movie."

Julian paused. This was a new angle. He squatted to put a gentling hand on Alvin's back. The dog stopped agreeably, waiting for a cue.

"If you miss me so much, just come visit me. How hard is that?"

Another pause. His heart lifted.

Portia's voice was absolutely solid when she said, "I will not come live there. Plain and simple. I like it here." The sound of something hitting a wall. He suspected it was a phone.

Julian trotted the rest of the way down the stairs, coming around the corner just as Portia let go of a growl of aggravation. Alvin rushed over to lick her fingers. "Your charge doesn't much like shouting," he said mildly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey!" She dropped down to her knees and kissed Alvin's face all over, scrubbing his neck, the fluff of thick hair around his neck. On the floor, her phone began to trill. "Don't answer that," she warned her dad. "My mother is a selfish, clueless ...child." ...child."

Julian lifted his index finger. "Watch this." He picked up the phone and punched the green b.u.t.ton. "h.e.l.lo, Ricki. How are you tonight?"

"Julian. I'm fine. Do you have a new movie yet?"

"No. Listen, Portia is settled and happy in the school here and I want her to stay put for the whole school year."

"I miss her, Julian. It's not fair that you have her all the time."

"There's plenty of room here. You're welcome to come visit any time you like."

"But I'm living with someone now, you know that."

"There's room for him, too."

Ricki paused. "Really?"

"We're adults. There's seven thousand square feet in this house. Doesn't he ski? We're getting our first snow tonight."

"Well, I suppose that's one answer, isn't it?" She sounded hopeful, if a bit perplexed. "I'd love to, Julian, if you really mean it."

"I really mean it, Ricki. In fact, I'm sure your daughter would love to see you, so why don't both of you come next week? I'm having a little business gathering. You can come for the dinner and stay a day or two after."

"Business?"

He knew she'd not had as many offers these days. "I'm making a new movie."

"I see. Well, let me talk to Jake."

"Jake?" Julian echoed.

"Yes. You've met."

"Right. I forgot." Scratch Jake as the hero's name, he thought. Scott? Alex? James? Maybe he didn't really have a name. No, that would be stupid.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, realizing he'd blanked her out completely.

"May I speak to my daughter now?"

"Of course," he said. "Here you go, kid."

Portia grinned, her eyes as luminescent as morning. The director side of him knew the camera would love that face. The father side of him would do whatever he could to prevent her from going into the business. "Thanks, Dad."

He thought of the treatment for his script. Maybe the hero wasn't a man. An aloof man was one thing, obvious, easy. An aloof woman, more interesting. "I'll be upstairs if you need me," he said.

"He's writing," Portia said to the dog, clasping him close to her. "You see that look on his face? That means he's disappearing into his imagination."

Julian barely heard her, his synapses clicking as he dashed up the stairs and back to his computer. Settling the computer on his knees again, he wrote, Blue eyes in a Mayan face. Haunted by the ghost of a dead lover, killed in a car accident that left her scarred for life... Blue eyes in a Mayan face. Haunted by the ghost of a dead lover, killed in a car accident that left her scarred for life...

At the back of his mind, he heard her say, "I am not going to be a story." But this wasn't about an accident. It was about a ghost. About- He paused, a sudden s.h.i.+ver on his neck. Did he want to take that chance, of alienating her? He thought of kissing her on the mezzanine, of the way she tasted like possibility. What if this flare between them had the potential to be something real?

The cynical, so-often-disappointed side of him said, Yeah, right. Real for how long? Yeah, right. Real for how long? He didn't believe in soul mates anymore. He didn't believe in soul mates anymore.

He did, however, believe in stories. What if the reason she was in his world was to give him the kernel of a new ghost story, something he'd been wanting to write for years? And what if he gave up the story for some possibility of- A flash of a woman, blonde and small, sitting before a fire, came to him. A suggestion of a shape moved behind her, and she turned, hands holding invisible hands, mouth opening to an invisible kiss. She lay back and her blouse, b.u.t.ton by b.u.t.ton, was undone by invisible hands to reveal- Julian blinked. Hot.

Commercial.

Ghosts and s.e.x.

Just like that, the weight of Movie was formed. His instincts had never lead him astray. He opened an email and typed in the vision, and addressed it to the group.

And pressed Send.

NINETEEN

POMEGRANATE B BAKLAVA 1 1 1/2 cups buckwheat honey cups buckwheat honey1 cup sugar1 cup water2 T pomegranate juice1 T rose waterSeeds of one pomegranate, divided in half2 tsp whole cloves1 tsp ground cardamom1 tsp cinnamon1 tsp grated nutmeg1 cup slivered almonds1 cup chopped walnuts1 cup chopped pistachios1/2 vanilla bean, sc.r.a.ped vanilla bean, sc.r.a.ped2 sticks unsalted b.u.t.ter, melted1 package phyllo dough

SYRUP: Combine the honey, sugar, water, juice, and rose water in a heavy small pot. Stir constantly while bringing to a boil over medium heat. Remove from heat and let cool, then add half of the pomegranate seeds.

Preheat the oven to 425. Mix spices, nuts, and vanilla bean seeds into 1 1/2 stick of melted b.u.t.ter. b.u.t.ter a 13 x 9 inch gla.s.s pan. stick of melted b.u.t.ter. b.u.t.ter a 13 x 9 inch gla.s.s pan.

On a clean work surface, unroll the phyllo and generously b.u.t.ter one layer at a time and lay it in the pan, then repeat until you've used half the dough. Spread most of the nut mixture and most of the remaining pomegranate seeds evenly over the pastry, reserving about one fourth of the mixed nuts and seeds for the topping.

Continue b.u.t.tering and layering the dough on top of the filling until all the dough has been used. Brush the top with remaining b.u.t.ter and sprinkle the remaining nuts and seeds over the top.

With a small sharp knife, cut the pastry layers into diamonds, then bake for 5060 minutes until golden, watching carefully to see that it doesn't burn. Pour the syrup over the hot pastry, and serve when cool.

TWENTY

Around ten-thirty, Elena could hear people in the dining room. "Somebody put the music on," she called out, stirring madly. She'd created a pie with pork sausages stewed in tamarind soda, onions, and apples with achiote. It was heady and strange and sweet, and it worked better than she'd hoped. She'd made cold, light pomegranate soup with caramelized corn and onions that turned out beautifully-the red broth and white kernels and the crispness of a sharp base to start the meal. The pie would be served as the main dish, garnished with red potatoes roasted in their oiled and parsleyed skins.

Dessert had given her more headaches than the rest put together. She considered shortbread with rose petals, but discarded that idea in the end-it would be too heavy after such a rich pie for the main dish. She finally settled on tiny bites of b.u.t.ter pastry topped with rose petals candied in nutmeg and honey.

She tried not to pay attention to Ivan, who worked steadfastly and with absolute focus on his projects. He disappeared into his work, a cloak of invisibility.

At ten to eleven, Juan came around. "How are you guys doing? Are you ready?"

"Do we have someone to help us pair the wines?" Ivan asked.

"I've worked as a sommelier," Brent volunteered.

"I'll do my own," Elena said. "For the first course, I want a zin. Then for number two, a heavy ale. And for dessert, coffee."

Juan wrote it all down, and then went with Brent to look at Ivan's meal. Elena started plating her soup in small white bowls, low and wide. Garnished with fresh mint and tiny rings of scallion and a few more sprinkles of pomegranate, it looked beautiful. "I'm ready."

"So am I," Ivan said. He'd made a very pretty salad of corn and rose petals and mixed greens, nice enough, but compared to her soup, it was boring, and he knew it. His face fell when Juan announced her soup to the diners. She licked her finger and made a mark in the air. He inclined his head, mouth smiling, eyes hard as gla.s.s.

They served the main dishes next. The diners groaned at the description of Ivan's shredded chicken and garlic enchiladas in a green-chile hollandaise sauce. "Fancy," she said, but felt sure her actual food would taste better. Juan described her English-Mexican pork pie, and the diners almost all went for it with gusto.

Elena felt sure she'd kicked some serious a.s.s, but as they went back into the kitchen to ready the final dish, he said, "Just wait."

"What did you do for dessert?"

He leaned over and against her ear said, "Pure decadence."

"Chocolate?"

"Not. Even. Close."

She prepared her tiny pastries and waited anxiously to see what Ivan had done. When she saw it, before she even tasted it, Elena knew she'd lost the round. By miles. "Oh. My. G.o.d," she said, drawn across the room. "What are you calling that?"

He grinned, licking honey from a finger. "s.e.x on a plate? s.e.x when you get home?"

It was a baklava, layers of very thin pastry with pistachios and walnuts and the buckwheat honey and pomegranate seeds, drizzled with pomegranate syrup and sprinkled with little chunks of powdered sugar. Individual pomegranate seeds, like tiny rubies, were scattered around the diamond-shaped serving. "It's absolutely gorgeous."

"Thanks, Jefa." Jefa."

"I'm still going to win. My soup was a thousand times better than your salad."