The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,59

I’m sure your daughter would love to see you, so why don’t both of you come next week? I’m having a little business gathering. You can come for the dinner and stay a day or two after.”

“Business?”

He knew she’d not had as many offers these days. “I’m making a new movie.”

“I see. Well, let me talk to Jake.”

“Jake?” Julian echoed.

“Yes. You’ve met.”

“Right. I forgot.” Scratch Jake as the hero’s name, he thought. Scott? Alex? James? Maybe he didn’t really have a name. No, that would be stupid.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, realizing he’d blanked her out completely.

“May I speak to my daughter now?”

“Of course,” he said. “Here you go, kid.”

Portia grinned, her eyes as luminescent as morning. The director side of him knew the camera would love that face. The father side of him would do whatever he could to prevent her from going into the business. “Thanks, Dad.”

He thought of the treatment for his script. Maybe the hero wasn’t a man. An aloof man was one thing, obvious, easy. An aloof woman, more interesting. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” he said.

“He’s writing,” Portia said to the dog, clasping him close to her. “You see that look on his face? That means he’s disappearing into his imagination.”

Julian barely heard her, his synapses clicking as he dashed up the stairs and back to his computer. Settling the computer on his knees again, he wrote, Blue eyes in a Mayan face. Haunted by the ghost of a dead lover, killed in a car accident that left her scarred for life…

At the back of his mind, he heard her say, “I am not going to be a story.” But this wasn’t about an accident. It was about a ghost. About—

He paused, a sudden shiver on his neck. Did he want to take that chance, of alienating her? He thought of kissing her on the mezzanine, of the way she tasted like possibility. What if this flare between them had the potential to be something real?

The cynical, so-often-disappointed side of him said, Yeah, right. Real for how long? He didn’t believe in soul mates anymore.

He did, however, believe in stories. What if the reason she was in his world was to give him the kernel of a new ghost story, something he’d been wanting to write for years? And what if he gave up the story for some possibility of—

A flash of a woman, blonde and small, sitting before a fire, came to him. A suggestion of a shape moved behind her, and she turned, hands holding invisible hands, mouth opening to an invisible kiss. She lay back and her blouse, button by button, was undone by invisible hands to reveal—

Julian blinked. Hot.

Commercial.

Ghosts and sex.

Just like that, the weight of Movie was formed. His instincts had never lead him astray. He opened an email and typed in the vision, and addressed it to the group.

And pressed Send.

NINETEEN

POMEGRANATE BAKLAVA

1 1/2 cups buckwheat honey

1 cup sugar

1 cup water

2 T pomegranate juice

1 T rose water

Seeds of one pomegranate, divided in half

2 tsp whole cloves

1 tsp ground cardamom

1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp grated nutmeg

1 cup slivered almonds

1 cup chopped walnuts

1 cup chopped pistachios

1/2 vanilla bean, scraped

2 sticks unsalted butter, melted

1 package phyllo dough

SYRUP: Combine the honey, sugar, water, juice, and rose water in a heavy small pot. Stir constantly while bringing to a boil over medium heat. Remove from heat and let cool, then add half of the pomegranate seeds.

Preheat the oven to 425. Mix spices, nuts, and vanilla bean seeds into 1/2 stick of melted butter. Butter a 13 x 9 inch glass pan.

On a clean work surface, unroll the phyllo and generously butter one layer at a time and lay it in the pan, then repeat until you’ve used half the dough. Spread most of the nut mixture and most of the remaining pomegranate seeds evenly over the pastry, reserving about one fourth of the mixed nuts and seeds for the topping.

Continue buttering and layering the dough on top of the filling until all the dough has been used. Brush the top with remaining butter and sprinkle the remaining nuts and seeds over the top.

With a small sharp knife, cut the pastry layers into diamonds, then bake for 50–60 minutes until golden, watching carefully to see that it doesn’t burn. Pour the syrup over the hot pastry, and serve when cool.

TWENTY

Around ten-thirty, Elena could hear people in the dining room. “Somebody put the music on,” she called out, stirring madly. She’d created a pie with pork