The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,49

he would find.

Julian, my man, it read. David always talked like that, as if he were the moneyman in a bad movie.

Is there a problem? I expected a script last week and it’s still not here. I hope you’re just temporarily sidetracked by the new restaurant and not flaking out on me. I know you didn’t want to do the slasher flick, but the studio is breathing down our neck for another in the series. You know it’ll break records. Call me, man.

Behind him in the house, he could hear the cleaning crew vacuuming the already pristine floors, and he stood up abruptly. “Georgia?” he called.

She came around a corner, her bob curling nicely around her crisp scarf. He filed the image away automatically. “Yes, Mr. Liswood?”

“That’s enough for today.”

“Sorry, is this a bad time? Were we bothering you?”

“No. Yes.” A tangle of irritation bloomed in his throat and he had to take a breath to avoid snapping at her. “No, it’s not a bad time, but yes, the noise is bothering me today.”

“No problem,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”

He went back to the table. Took a sip of coffee. Looked at the clouds dropping into the valley. Opened a reply and typed:

David,

Come to dinner in Aspen next week. I’ll have the new chef make us a tasting menu and we’ll talk about the next projects. I’m not opposed to another slasher pic, but I have some other ideas, too. Next Thursday? Bring Jenny. She can see the new house.

Julian

As he sent the email, he thought, One down, four to go. He wrote all four—producers, business advisors, their partners and wives—and pressed Send. Done.

Now he just had to have a story to sell them next week.

Candy, a tall, athletic blonde in her forties, proved to have a great space in the attic of a restored Victorian downtown, and great hands to ease the agony in Elena’s hip. The music was simple and quiet, flutes with some underlying bells or something that helped ease her, too.

“What is this music?” Elena asked, groaning when Candy hit a tight spot in her neck.

“Alice Gomez.” She eased around Elena and pulled the sheet down, revealing her scarred and misshapen back. “Car accident?” she asked, matter-of-factly.

“Yes.”

Candy put her hands flat on Elena’s spine, side by side, and gently moved downward, strong fingers tracing the shape of bones, ribs, musculature. “Broken back,” she said quietly, “maybe three places?”

Elena felt a flicker of that night, so silent. So cold. “Four.”

“Lose a kidney? Spleen, maybe?”

“Both.”

Down the hands went, so hot Elena wanted to weep with the comfort of them. “Hip. Hmm. Lot of trouble here now. Are there pins? I’m not seeing this very clearly. Oh—” she said quietly, pressing a thumb into the bound muscles. “Lots of pain here, isn’t there? It’s a wonder you walked in here.”

“I’ve been on my feet a lot.”

“You have to rest more,” she said. “But I think you know that.” The hands moved, gentle and hot, pressure there, probe there, a lingering, circular centering on the spot over the back of her womb, a womb that was saved, but only the shell of it, not the contents. “It was a terrible accident, wasn’t it?” she said gently. “You lost a lot. Other people?”

“Yes,” Elena said. The weight of tears pressed into her throat, and she swallowed them away. In the corner, Isobel sat on the floor with a little girl, playing with dolls.

Candy worked and worked, moving energy, easing tightness, shifting heat from tangled joints, pressing coolness into overheated spots.

When Elena got up, two hours later, she could move without wanting to double over every third step. She made an appointment for the same time and day every week.

The masseuse wrote Elena’s name down in her book, then stood up, tossing her heavy hair over one shoulder. “I can help you, and you can help by taking more days off—maybe every fourth day, if you possibly can.”

Elena raised an eyebrow. “I’m a chef.”

“Right. I figured you’d say that. But try to rest more when you’re out of there. Get in the hot tub, take long walks, do whatever you can to ease those muscles.” She turned and opened a file drawer, flipped through folders and drew out a piece of paper. “Try some of the hip exercises on this sheet, twice a day. You might loosen up a little in a hot shower or bath, then very gently try some of the stretches before you go to bed, and again when