The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,46
and the effect was very intimate. Liswood’s Latest Dish? the headline read. A blurb beneath it continued in the same lurid vein.
The phone rang and she turned, too abruptly. A slashing sword crossed her spine, nape to tailbone, and she froze, letting it ripple through. Taking a breath, she barked into the phone, “Hello!”
“Good morning, Elena,” said Julian. “Bad time?”
“Not really. Do you know a good massage therapist?”
“I do, as a matter of fact. I can call her for you as soon as we’re done here.”
“Is this about the photo?”
“The tabloids? Yes. How did you hear about it?”
“An email from a friend who saw it,” she said mildly.
“I’m calling to warn you that you’ll probably have to deal with paparazzi over the next few days, but maybe we can use it to the advantage of the restaurant.”
“Huh. Okay. Never thought of that angle.” A claw hammer slammed itself up her left thighbone, into the depths of her hip, and her leg abruptly gave out. She sank onto a stool, making the smallest possible oomph. “How?”
“I had a call for an interview with a Denver paper. We’ll just give it.”
“I’m game.” She tamped down the irritation over Dmitri’s email. “The massage therapist—is she therapeutically oriented?”
“She’s one of the best, Elena. Get off the phone. I’ll call her right now and have her call you.”
“That would be great.”
The woman, called not reassuringly Candy, called back within minutes and Elena arranged to have a massage at ten. In the meantime, she could get in a walk to see if that would loosen things up, and go into work, get things going at the restaurant. She gathered Alvin’s leash, put on her walking shoes, and realized within a few steps that the weather was changing, the colors turning from the canvas of vivid blue and yellow to the subtler shades of coming winter. Over the blue mountains, clouds hung low like pale gray angora. She had to go back in for a coat and made a note to buy a scarf and hat and mittens in the next few days.
Alvin and she headed down to the river path, where she met the odd runner, hands gloved, legs in Lycra, earphones blocking out the world. Piles of heart-shaped leaves rattled underfoot, and the river rushed by, cold rising from it like a portent.
The tabloid photo didn’t bother her. A famous director was bound to be stalked by photographers, and what did she care about what they said about them?
But the email from Dmitri rankled. Bastard. Couldn’t stand to see her succeed, even though he was doing very well himself. His jealousy irked her—because it was not the jealousy of a man who wanted a woman, but that of one chef trying to take another down. Specifically a man who wanted to bring a woman down.
Walking briskly with Alvin at her side, her cheeks getting cold, she perversely felt again the piercing loss of him—her lover, friend, absolute ally. They had taken such pleasure creating the Blue Turtle together. He was so zesty, so full of life, so sexy and lusty. Cooking, food, women, sex, music, dancing, travel—Dmitri scooped it all up with two hands, gulped it down. He smoked too much and drank too much and could not be faithful to anyone for more than a few months, but the world felt twelve times brighter in his company.
Tears pricked her eyes. Why did she care about him, anyway? Why did it hurt? Why couldn’t she, like women she’d known, just walk away from relationships that didn’t work out? They’d had a good time. They’d created a restaurant and made lots of love and shared a good solid couple of years. That was more love than many people got.
But this wasn’t about Dmitri, was it? She was just getting so bloody tired. Tired of starting over and starting over and starting over. Before Dmitri, it was Andrew; before Andrew, a long stretch when she left men alone except for casual things, when she fell in love with her work in a big way, and studied and cooked and moved up through the ranks. Before that, Timothy, an Englishman she met in Paris. Before Timothy—
Oh, it didn’t matter. She was depressed over the dream, that was all. A long-ago love. Of course Edwin seemed perfect—he had lived so long ago. She sniffed.
And she wanted Mia to get here, damn it! She needed another woman in this kitchen. Desperately. Patrick was a great ally, but he was not