The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,6
planning to be there by August 1. I’d like to get started shortly after that, get the new menu in place and work out the bugs before the ski slopes open.”
“Is there a firm date for the slopes, or does it depend on snow?”
“It’s December 9 in Aspen. So”—he narrowed his eyes, gazed in the distance—“we’ll aim for a soft opening by late October, early November, aim for a grand opening mid-December.”
Dismayed, she said, “So, you’ll be on-site?”
“Yes. Does that bother you?”
Yes, she wanted to say. His presence would be distracting, in so many ways. That urbane intelligence. The still gaze. Those sensual curls. Aloud, she said, “Not if you don’t get in my way. If you tell me it’s my kitchen, I’ll take that pretty literally.”
“Understood.” He’d neatly finished his breakfast while they spoke, invisibly eating while Elena thought and talked. The server whisked away his empty plate. Elena noticed the girl had tucked in her blouse. She smiled. The girl smiled back.
Julian said, “There are a couple of conditions.”
“I’m listening.”
“I get final approval of the menu, and I want to hire someone to professionally write the descriptions.”
“No problem.”
“You’ll have control of the kitchen staff, naturally, but the current manager stays, and—uh—I’m pretty sure we need to keep the chef.”
“The drunk?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting choice,” she said, inclining her head. “Why do you want to keep him?”
“The steak pie. The fact that the place has made some money in spite of the fact that there are so many problems. He’s a James Beard award winner. Obviously a lot of talent there.” He pursed his lips, peered at something in the distance, a vision of what might be, perhaps. “But, basically, it’s a gut feeling. Could be right, could be wrong.”
Elena speared a vivid red strawberry, a fruit at its prime, and fell into admiring it. The smooth red flesh, quilted with the tiniest seeds. It tasted slightly grainy, imbued with the sunlight of a summer morning. “Mmm.” She stabbed another and held it out to Julian. “Have a taste.”
He bent in without hesitation and took it from her fork. She glimpsed his tongue. “Excellent.”
She handed him another one, which he took with his fingers. “The chef in Aspen—he’s executive now, right?”
Julian nodded. He knew exactly what she was asking. The chef would be demoted—he’d hate her the minute she showed up.
“That might be a little volatile,” she said.
“A challenge, I’m sure,” he said, but there was no apology in it.
“What’s his name?”
“Ivan Santino.”
She wrote it down and stuck it in her pocket. If she had to deal with him, she’d want to go in armed. Someone in the community would know something about him, surely.
Then for a moment, she said nothing, trying not to let anticipation or fear rush her into anything. Without hurry, she ate some more of her omelet, savoring the sharpness of Swiss cheese, the smoothness of asparagus. She broke a corner of her toast and ate it.
Across the table, Julian was a column of still energy. She liked his face, his black eyes, that tumble of curls, but more than anything, she liked that he could sit there with his hands clasped unmoving around a coffee cup and wait for her to think.
She also liked that he would make a big move for the sake of a child. “May I ask about your daughter?”
He lifted a shoulder. “She’s fourteen—running with a crowd I think is too fast.”
“And Aspen is slower than LA?”
“No. It’s a lot smaller, however, and I can keep an eye on her more easily.”
“Good for you,” Elena said, and meant it. Finished with her meal, she put her napkin aside and picked up her tea. “What will you pay me?”
He named a figure that was a third more than she currently earned. “And because accommodation is so difficult in Aspen, we’ll see to it that you have living space. A condo, probably.”
“I have a dog,” Elena said. “I have to have some space for him. Yard space.”
“Bring him. Everyone in Aspen has a dog.”
She thought of her two-year-old rescue mutt, a fluffy chow-Lab mix with a head like a Saint Bernard. “Probably not like Alvin.”
Julian grinned, showing teeth for the first time. The eye-teeth were a little crooked, and she liked him for not fixing them, even with all of his millions. “Alvin?”
“From Alvin and the Chipmunks, remember them?”
He laughed. “I’ll have to see this dog.”
The sound of his laughter was weirdly familiar, a song she remembered from long ago. Scowling, Elena took a breath.