The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,76

not a great life.”

Elena inclined her head, thinking of the challenges, the losses, the fight to be taken seriously. “It’s not easy,” she said, “but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” She gestured back to the diners. “How many of us get a chance to make people feel like that?”

Katya nodded. “I think I’d really like it.”

“Keep thinking about it. If you want a job, give me a call.”

“Really?”

“You have talent.”

The boys came back and they got busy filling platters with the next set of tidbits.

Two hours later, Ivan stood on the deck in the cold night, smoking. He watched the glittering crowd through the windows. What would it be like to have that kind of money? To be so perfect? The babe in the slinky halter was so exquisite she was like fresh truffles, rare and unbelievable—her skin as thin and smooth as milk, covering bones arranged like some precious sculpture, her breasts taut and high. Her face was perfect, her hair, even her long slim hands. Perfect. How could you fuck a creature like that?

A wisp of air moved over his wrist, and Patrick appeared. “We’re about finished up,” he said with that faint accent, a little British, a little Boston, a lot upper class.

“Did your parents have parties like this, Patrick?”

He gave Ivan a wary glance. “Yes.”

“Did you like them?”

“Not then,” he said, and swallowed, and in that small, small gesture, Ivan understood that Patrick had been out of place in his parents’ world, too. An Irish boy, a macho world, masters of the universe, and there was gay little Patrick, who wanted to go into the restaurant business. How could Ivan not have seen that before now?

Because he was busy with that chip on his shoulder, as usual.

“Are you cold?” Ivan said, opening his jacket, inclining his head in that ironic way so Patrick could refuse. Patrick looked up, hesitating, but Ivan willed himself not to be too ironic, and just stood there, arms open. The air bloomed hot and orange, as Patrick, abruptly, moved in and pressed into the space Ivan made for him.

For one long second, Ivan closed his eyes and stayed perfectly, perfectly still. Patrick was small and sturdy and compact, his shoulders fitting neatly beneath Ivan’s arm. Ivan closed his jacket and clasped him close, smelling the waft of soap and aftershave and gel from his hair.

Desire bled between them, sparks in the black night, and Ivan felt the air leave his lungs, felt the airlessness of wanting something so badly it nearly burned, and the fear of retribution for seeking it. Pain and hunger and resignation of loss all wound in a braid as solid as a horsewhip, and he hated himself for the way his hand shook as he lifted it to Patrick’s smooth, precisely shaved jaw. “I smell like cigarettes,” he said apologetically.

“You smell like you,” Patrick said. “I like it.”

Ivan bent and kissed him, the plump lips as tender as pastry, his mouth a hot cavern. It was a tender kiss, and sultry, and full of things that burned the top of Ivan’s skull.

“Not here,” Patrick said. “We should go. To my place.”

“Yeah,” Ivan said, his voice barely rumbling in his airless desire. “Good idea.”

Once they’d cleaned up the kitchen, Elena let Katya go home, giving her a card. “You want to learn the kitchen from the ground up, give me a call. But I’m hard-core about showing up and being on time. Sabe?”

The girl nodded.

Now that the diners were hitting the mellow stretch, lingering in their chairs and drinking coffee and liqueurs, Elena poured a very fine Spanish red into a globe made of thinnest glass and settled on a bar stool. On a heavy ceramic plate were some of the items they’d served, held back for the pleasure of the staff. She took a tiny piece of a zucchini blossom, and slivered off a thin slice of duck tamale. Heady stuff. It made her dizzy it was so delicious.

She sipped her wine and thought of Edwin on that long-ago day in Espanola. What shape would her life have taken if he’d lived? If that night had never happened? Where would she be?

Not here.

She held the glass in her hand and looked around the expansive kitchen with its marble counters and the small squares of window over the sink that looked out to nothing very much but light and probably flowers in the summertime.

Certainly not here.

She took one tiny fragrant sip of wine, imagining Espanola. Or even