The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,79
sitting righ’ at tha’ table?” Her words were slurry, but the emotion was earnest.
Elena didn’t know what the rules were in talking to a teenager, especially a “troubled” girl. But she knew how to be honest. “He had a lot going on tonight. It seemed to be a business meeting that mattered quite a lot to him, and he wanted to present something and show off his new restaurant food.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, maybe the thing to do would be to support him when he needs you.”
“Oh, like they always are there for me?” The purple of her mascara had smeared around her eyelids and made her look like a tired child prostitute. So much anger in those eyes. Too much knowledge.
Elena lifted a shoulder, patted the bed next to Portia to give Alvin permission to come up beside her. If ever a child needed a dog, it was this one. “I don’t know what happened before, Portia. Maybe they’ve never been there for you the way parents are supposed to, but what I see now is that your dad really loves you and he’s gone to a lot of trouble to create a safe and stable environment for you here in Aspen.”
The girl’s eyes closed and tears leaked out, tinged faintly blue with mascara. Alvin leaned in and licked her face, and she laughed.
Elena stood up. “You can keep him overnight,” she said, “but I want him home first thing in the morning, understood?”
“Are you sure?”
As if pleading to spend the night, Alvin sighed and put his head down on Portia’s belly. “I’m sure. Good night.”
“Where is your family, Elena?”
“New Mexico.”
“Is your mom there?”
“My grandmother is.”
“Is your mom dead?”
“Who knows.” Elena leaned on the threshold. “I haven’t seen her since I was eight. My mother was a little party girl who dropped me off at my dad’s mom’s house when I was eight and never came back.”
“Wow, that sucks.”
“It did, at the time. But mi abuela was good to me.”
“Abuela,” Portia repeated with soft breathlessness. “Tha’s a good word.”
“It is,” Elena agreed, and turned off the light. She waited, but within seconds, dog and child were snoring in unison.
It pained her to leave Alvin, but there it was. It would cause more pain to take him home. He was happy there. Portia needed him. And a dog of her own. She’d talk to Julian about that.
But for now, she went to see if she could find him, or perhaps leave a note somewhere, appraising him of the situation. He should know what was going on.
Ricki Alsatian, Portia’s mother, was in the kitchen, pouring a new glass of wine when Elena came into the room. “Oh!” she said, smiling, perhaps in embarrassment, though the wine had been left out just so the guests could help themselves. “I thought you’d gone!”
“I’m on my way. Just a few details to finish up. Is Julian wrapped up in his presentation?”
The woman inclined her head, the blonde hair tumbling down her tiny, toned arm. She was exquisite in the way of the very well tended. “You call him Julian?”
Which, for some reason, reminded her that Julian had once been married to this ethereal being. Twice, as a matter of fact. “I tried to call him Mr. Liswood, but he’s not that formal.”
She smiled faintly. “I see.”
“Have you seen him?”
Ricki sipped her wine. “No.”
For a minute, Elena wondered if she knew that her daughter had gone to bed very drunk. She wondered what Ricki was doing here, actually.
None of her business.
“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Elena said politely. Her coat was hanging in an anteroom off the kitchen, and she headed there to get it, halting when she heard Julian’s voice drifting down from the mezzanine. “That’s it, gentlemen. I’m weary of slasher pics, but I’ll do another one if you let me do this one first.”
She stopped, hands in her pocket. He must be in his office, and the conversation carried into this quiet spot.
Another man said, “Ghosts, Julian? The market for horror is teenagers. How can we get them with ghosts?”
“I’m not sure this is a teenager movie. Adults like ghost stories, not kids.”
“Kids spend more money at the movies.”
As if it were a liquid seeping through the floor, Elena felt Julian’s frustration. “And I’ll make another slasher picture. After this one.”
Obviously, he was busy. Where could she leave him a message? She went back to the kitchen, found a piece of paper and wrote: