The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,113

tripped on Alvin, and he groaned as he stretched out his paws, which were growing little winter tufts. “C’mon, honey,” she said in less than a whisper, using a hand to nudge him away. The air was cold on her naked body, but everything from her head to her toes screamed in protest at moving quickly, so—hunched over and as crooked as a gnome—she lurched into the bathroom.

Her face in the mirror showed the mottled, swollen remains of her crying fit. Furious, she turned on the taps. Water exploded from the wide, high-pressure showerhead, and she stepped into the hot spray, letting it wash away her foolish emotional storm and her weakness and her indulgence. After a few minutes in the heat, she found she could stand straighter, and breathed in as her physical therapist had taught her, imagining a cord straightening her body, aligning hips and shoulders.

It didn’t always work, but it did this morning. She had a lot to do. Not the least of which was getting out from under Julian’s roof. Staying here would be a disaster. A thread of bright pink sharpness moved in her chest as she thought of him holding her last night.

No, no, no. She could not want this, want him. She didn’t think there were any more broken hearts in her.

And yet, what was she doing with the restaurant? That would break her heart, too. Losing it, failing there.

At least there, she had some control. Before Julian awakened, she was dressed and out the door with Alvin, and letting herself into the kitchen at the Orange Bear. Alvin ate his breakfast in the sunshine of the porch, crunching kibble as a breeze ruffled his fur.

There was no one else about, and she went to the server station to start a pot of coffee. Across the room, thin as gauze, was Isobel, sitting on the bar, swinging her legs, her hands loose in her lap. She said nothing. Elena measured coffee grounds into the pot and pressed the auto button. When she headed up the stairs to see if there were any pastries left, Isobel was gone.

But there, in the kitchen, were Hector and Nando, one of the dishwashers. They looked haggard and a little grimy, but they were happily eating eggs and tortillas smothered in chili. The savory scent of pork and chili made her stomach growl.

“Qué pasa,” Hector said, lifting his chin.

A sense of relief burst in her. “Hey! Where were you guys?”

In Spanish, Hector said, “There was a lot of confusion, so we got away. We were afraid to come in last night.”

Elena nodded, her legs so rubbery she sank down on the chair. Nando passed her a tortilla, and she tore it into strips. “Juan?”

Hector lowered his eyes. Shook his head.

“Damn it.”

The walk-in door opened and Hector’s sister emerged, all limbs and big eyes, wearing a flowered dress that was too thin for the weather. Elena said, “Can you do anything in the kitchen?”

“Sí,” she said, then in English, “I can cook. Wash dishes.” She lifted a shoulder. “I told you I would come work when you needed me.”

Elena measured her. Nodded. “You’re hired.” Against her hip, her cell phone buzzed, and distractedly, Elena answered. “Hello?”

“Ha! She lives!” said the voice on the other end of the line. Mia.

A bolt of anger, orange and molten, surged through her, and she turned away from the group at the table. “Look,” she said, “I’ve had a rotten, rotten weekend and I really don’t need more bullshit.”

“Sweetie!” Mia said in her liquid voice. “I’m never your enemy. Are you ever going to give me a chance to explain?”

“I don’t know.” Something ached, an empty place, and into the unguarded moment, she spoke a single truth. “It’s not like I let a lot of people in.”

“I know, Elena. Neither do I. But I fell in love. That’s been easy for you, but not for me.”

She stood in the blue north light of the upstairs kitchen and felt the cell phone get hot against her ear. She couldn’t think of what to say. “This is not a good day to have this conversation, Mia. It was a terrible weekend, all right?”

“Okay. But promise you’ll give me some time. Soon, okay?”

After a moment, Elena said, “I’ll try.”

Mia was quiet. “Fair enough, I guess. Listen, though, I called with something you might not hear about in time—a friend of mine is a secretary at the Travel Channel and they’ve just slated a special on Aspen restaurants.