The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,30

She let a puddle of silence build. Establishing command. “You must have questions.”

“Are we creating an entirely new menu?” Ivan asked.

“We are.”

“Are you going to fire all of us?” one of the young ones asked.

“No. I’m actually only bringing in two of my own people. One is Mia Grange, a pastry chef from London, and this is Patrick Nolan, sommelier and maître d’. We studied together in Paris and worked together at the Yellow Dolphin.”

“Hel-lo, Patrick,” Ivan said, and managed to make it into a slur. Something sharp arced between them. If Patrick was a prized cock, what animal was Ivan? Slouched there against the wall, too thin and hungry, he made her think of a blue-eyed coyote.

God, he was going to be so much trouble! She hoped he would be worth it. “We have a lot of work to do before we reopen. Let’s get started, shall we? You boys pull some tables together. Patrick, will you get the supplies out of the car?”

Juan stepped forward. “I will make coffee, Jefa.”

An ally. She nodded. “Thank you.”

They moved. “Ivan, will you go down the street and get some snack food? I’m sure you know the best place to get something.”

“Did you really call me Rasputin?”

It bugged him and pleased him. Elena smiled. “Have you ever seen a picture of him?”

“No. History wasn’t my thing in school.” He stood too close, deliberately crowding her, an intimidation move that often worried women in a busy kitchen. He smelled of soap, not tequila. An improvement.

Elena took several twenties from her wallet without moving away. She leveled a gaze at him. “Get a selection of sandwiches and sweets and chips, just whatever.”

“The grocery store will be cheaper and faster than any of the sandwich joints.”

She glanced around the room, noted the studiously not-listening minions. “Whatever you think is best.”

“Ah, hell, let’s just go with something decent.” He took the money. “Back in twenty.”

Out in the blue day, Ivan lit a cigarette as he headed for the sandwich shop. A woman with her hair swinging in a ponytail glared at him and he blew the smoke skyward. Ordinarily, he might have goaded her. He was the native here, after all, and he’d bet she wasn’t. Natives were as scarce as hen’s teeth, and there was a huge gulf between them and the obscenely wealthy Others, who thought it all belonged to them.

But today, his mind was on the new guy.

Chef had come in, bringing with her that air of a snow queen from some old fairy tale, with her pale hair and exotic face and the air of the tragic about her that took the heat from Ivan’s anger. Behind her, taking the position of a bodyguard, protective and fierce, was a young man. The sun from the door was on him at first, blotting out details, so Ivan couldn’t really see him until he moved out of the light into the room.

Something stirred, hot and orange, at the base of Ivan’s spine. The queen had brought a prince with her, a prince who carried with him a fragrance of wealth and privilege, an aura of the way things should be done. Ivan, cynic of the highest measure, knew a long moment of airless surprise, stunned by his reaction. Patrick was not his type.

And yet.

Fuck, he thought, exhaling. He bent and stubbed out the cigarette in a pot filled with sand. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Life was hard enough these days. He didn’t need another challenge. Another fall. It was a miracle he wasn’t dead already. One more would probably kill him.

He would have to be careful with that one. Careful, careful, careful. He went inside the shop.

When they were all assembled around two tables shoved together, with sandwiches and coffee and soft drinks in big glasses from the bar, Elena outlined her vision of the structure of the restaurant. Alan and Patrick in charge of the front of the house, Alan as general liaison between front and back, Patrick manager of the floor staff and service questions. “I would like consultation in final decisions,” Alan said.

“Consultation,” she agreed, “but Patrick has final decision.”

He shot a sullen look toward Ivan. “Fine.”

“Ivan,” she said, “tell me about the two kitchens. How does that work? What would you change?”

“I’d have to give it some thought,” he said, layering tomatoes and cucumbers, goat cheese and olives on a croissant. His fingers were deft, his arrangements unstudied and beautiful, a fact she tucked away. “We’ve used the lower level as