The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,3
my daughter.”
“Then by all means, let’s go to the Sylvia.” It was an agreeable and famous old hotel.
They walked there beneath a sky that grew darker by the moment, heavy with rain. He moved with such effortless, long strides that Elena looked at his feet to see if he was actually touching the sidewalk. She felt a little dizzy, overwhelmed, and tried to think of something to say. “Don’t you have a movie out right now?”
“It’s just gone to DVD.” He looked sideways at her. “Are you a horror fan?”
“Not really. I like ghost stories, but the slasher flicks are too violent for me, honestly.”
“I prefer ghost stories,” he said, pulling open the door.
She looked at him. “Why don’t you make more of them, then?”
“The others are in fashion.” He tucked his hat in his pocket. “They finance my smaller projects.”
A man in a white shirt and white tie came hustling forward and seated them at a table by the windows. Elena ordered tea and milk; Mr. Liswood, coffee. In the corner, she saw a cluster of uniformed staff whispering, looking their way. She nodded toward them. “You’ve caused a stir.”
He skimmed the jacket from his shoulders. “I don’t think it’s me.”
A woman held up the newspaper and pointed to the picture. She waved, smiling. “Oh,” Elena said, pleased. She waved back.
“Your first taste of fame?”
She thought of long ago, the New Mexico newspapers. But that had been more notoriety than fame, so dark and heavy she’d had to flee to escape it. “In a way,” she said, then shifted her attention back to him. “But you’re no stranger to it, are you?”
“I am not usually recognized for myself,” he said, “but for the wives I have unwisely collected.”
His rueful straightforwardness disarmed her, and Elena laughed, the sound shaking loose from some rusty place in her chest. His wives were tabloid fodder, starlets who began their careers in the teen slasher flicks that had made him his fortune. Restaurants were a sideline. Celebrity owners were not always the most adept, but Julian Liswood had earned the respect of the press and—harder to capture—his workforce. The Blue Turtle was the third he’d opened to spectacular success.
Elena said, “They have been rather beautiful wives, as I recall.”
“Well, you know what they say: never marry a girl prettier than you.”
She thought, with a pang, of Dmitri. “Been there.”
“Hard to imagine.”
“Oh, believe me—” She almost said, there have been so many men, but that would have been too frank. Outside, rain began to splat against the window. She shivered slightly. Pulling her cup toward her, she said, “Now, tell me, Mr. Liswood, what do you have in mind?”
“Please call me Julian.”
“I’ll try. Julian.”
He took his time, stirring a lump of rough brown sugar into his coffee with a tiny spoon. His oval nails were manicured, and she wondered what kind of man had time for something like that. But of course, in his world, the veneer of such details would be required. She envisioned a cocktail party sparkling with beautiful people, manned by obsequious servers. It made her nervous.
Finally, he put down the spoon and tapped the newspaper on the table beside him. “You have strong views of the restaurant business.”
“Are you waiting for me to apologize for it?” she asked. “I’ve been in kitchens for nearly twenty years. I’m tired of holding my tongue.”
Amusement flickered over his mouth. “Not at all. I’m intrigued.”
She took a breath. “Sorry. I might be a little testy just this minute. It’s never fun to be fired.”
“No.” He leaned back as the server, a young woman in a tan oxford shirt and black pants, approached. She was dewy and lean, with a smile that could bring in a lot in tips. She was also slightly messy and Elena wanted to brush her off, tell her to tuck her shirt in and iron her blouse next time.
Instead, she listened as the girl explained the buffet, and exchanged a slight smile with Julian. No one in the restaurant business ate at a buffet if it could be avoided. “I’d like the asparagus omelet,” Elena said. “Fruit instead of potatoes, please, and a glass of grapefruit juice.”
“I’ll have the mushroom omelet,” he said, handing her the menu. “Potatoes with mine, and a glass of milk instead of grapefruit juice.”
As she departed, Julian said, “You may know that the Blue Turtle is not my only restaurant.”
“Of course.” There were three in a line down the west coast. Vancouver, San Francisco, and San