The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,117
the stairs, she had to make a decision—her tower room with the loft, where she would be alone? Or Julian’s bed, which was closer, bigger, and didn’t require climbing any more? It was an easy choice.
There was also a television in there. Elena clicked it on, stripped off her clothes, and staggered into the shower, where she let the heat and steam ease away some of the trouble. Afterward, she realized it was impossible for her to bend far enough to pick up her bag, stuffed with clean underwear and other things, and simply found a pair of Julian’s running pants and a T-shirt to put on.
Then she climbed into his big, comfortable bed, pulled the quilt around her neck, and collapsed.
Julian and Portia went to Elena’s house to gather her clothes, but the police wouldn’t let them in, citing the instability of the structure. “Do you think you could figure out her sizes?” Julian asked his daughter.
She shrugged. “Pretty close.”
“Let’s go shopping, then.”
Portia brightened. “How fun! I love to shop for people! Don’t you think she would look good in pink?”
Julian inclined his head. “I haven’t seen her in many clothes except the chef’s whites. Pink might be nice. Do you think she’d like it, though?”
“Yeah,” Portia said. “Trust me, Dad. If there’s one thing I get, it’s women’s clothes.”
So, as much to give his daughter the obvious pleasure of shopping as to bring Elena something to give her comfort, they headed to the main drag to buy overpriced silk T-shirts from the boutiques. In one such shop, Portia rummaged through the shirts on hangers, fast, and said, “You like her, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“I mean, like her like her, as in kissy kissy.”
He chuckled. “Kissy kissy?”
“You know what I mean!” She pulled out a diaphanous pink and green paisley print with long sleeves. “Ooh, this is good.” She put it in his hands.
For a moment, Julian didn’t know how to answer her.
And then he fell back on his vow to be real and honest with her as much as he could. “I do like her. She’s real.”
Portia nodded. “Yeah, that’s why I like her, too.”
She tugged him over to a new area, and flipped through blouses and shirts and skirts. Pulled out a blue T-shirt, silky and simple, and Julian imagined how gorgeous Elena’s breasts would look beneath it. He took it from her. “I choose this one.”
She laughed. “You do like her!”
The airlessness in his chest, his sadness, swirled up. “Yeah.”
“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”
He quirked his lips mockingly. “Five times the charm?”
“Why doesn’t anyone stay married? I’m scarred for life, being a Hollywood child, you know.” Her voice was unconcerned and she held a shimmery gold top against her chest. “I think you should buy me this to make up for it.”
Julian snorted. “I’ll buy you something, cupcake, but not that. It’s way too old for you.”
She grinned, looking suddenly like her eight-year-old self. “I’d really like some new jeans. And maybe you could buy me sushi?”
“Will you see the ski instructor on Tuesday?”
Portia smiled faintly, and pulled out a red shirt with a square neckline and floaty sleeves. “I already called him,” she said, and put the blouse in his hands. “That one for Elena. She’ll look hot, trust me.”
“You called the ski instructor?”
“Yep.”
Standing there in the boutique with the smell of expensive fabrics and signature perfumes in the air, with natural light pouring over his daughter’s faintly freckled nose, Julian was overcome with love. On some level, he knew this was a minute he would remember, this very one, standing with her, and took the time to press all the golden pleasure of it into his pores, his heart, the gray folds of his memory.
“I’m glad” was all he said.
After dinner, they returned to the house. On the stoop was a big bag with a big plastic container inside. A note in a mannered hand said, Chicken Soup, for Elena. From Ivan. Julian carried it inside. It was still warm.
Alvin greeted them cheerfully, but without the crocodile. “Hey, honey,” Portia said, bending down to kiss him, her packages forgotten in her rush to hug the dog, “whatcha doing? Where’s your toy?”
Alvin backed up, still smiling, his tail still wagging, and wuffed softly.
“Go get it,” Portia said.
Alvin didn’t move, just inclined his head, turned away, turned back.
“What’s wrong, honey? Where’s Elena? Where’s your mom?”
The first soft ripple of worry moved through Julian’s throat. “What’s up, Alvin? What do you need? Show me.”