The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,87
cut himself,” said Ivan, coming over with ice and a wet towel. “Tell him to bind it, for God’s sake! Fuck, this is why I hate bilingual kitchens.”
Like there was any other kind. One of the others said something profane in Spanish, and Elena glared at him, too. She bent to examine Hector’s hand. She said in Spanish, “Put pressure on it, but first let me see.”
She shook her head as she saw the gash, deep and long across the flesh pad beneath his thumb. “You have to go to the ER. Juan, you take him.”
The kitchen stilled. Juan just looked at her, then to Ivan. Hector stared balefully at his hand.
“What is it?” Elena asked.
“It’s cool, Jefa,” Ivan said. “I’ll take him. We’ll be back in time for dinner.” He winked and herded Hector toward the door. “C’mon, man.”
Elena narrowed her eyes at Juan. “What gives?”
Juan gave a Latin shrug. “Nobody likes American medicine.”
But something was awry. She narrowed her eyes. “C’mon, Juan, what’s going on?”
“De nada,” he said, and put his hand on her shoulder, turning her toward the dining room. “Let’s go put the meal out.”
For a moment, she stood, testing her intuition. There was something wrong, but she couldn’t quite discern what it was. “Go,” she said to Ivan.
She caught a wordless exchange of glances between the two men, but for now, she left it alone. “I’m going to check the storerooms. Double-check everything before you go tonight.” Then she scowled. “Damn. If Hector’s out, who will we get to replace him?”
“I’ll ask around.” Juan stirred his stockpots. “Hector won’t miss, though.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “Dinero.”
Julian paced around the house, up to his office, down to the kitchen for coffee, for a slice of cheese, for—whatever. Nothing sounded good, no matter how many cupboards he opened. It wasn’t food he wanted just now.
Portia, looking weary, brought two water glasses upstairs and put them in the sink. Alvin followed behind her and flopped down on the kitchen floor with a big sigh.
“What’s with you?” Portia asked her father.
He shook his head. “Restless.”
“Is it the movie?”
A sharp prick of guilt stabbed him. The lie of omission. “Kind of.”
She slid onto a stool, crossing her arms on the counter. “Do you have to wait on approval or something? I thought you were past all that with those producers.”
He inclined his head. “Well, they want more of the slasher series, but I convinced them to let me do the ghost story. There are some…issues with it that I’m trying to work out.”
“They should let you do what you want,” she said with the innocence of fourteen. “You started with ghost stories.”
He gave her a sideways grin. “That’s true.” The first film had been a remake of The Importance of Being Earnest, with a twist: one of the “Ernests” gets killed in a mix-up, and his ghost gives the other one a lot of trouble. He’d been twenty-five years old when he made it, and although it was raw in ways, he sometimes thought it was one of his best efforts. But embarrassment or pride, that was how a life in movies went—you threw yourself into whatever you were doing at the time.
“I like ghost stories,” she said.
“So do I, as it happens.” He put the kettle on. “Have some hot chocolate with me?”
She nodded. “Is my mom gonna be in the movie?”
Ricki and her newly appointed husband had flown out this afternoon, after a long chat. “I hope so. I wrote the part with her in mind.”
Her delft-blue eyes fell on his face, showing nothing. “That’s nice. It’s been harder for her to get parts lately.”
“That’s Hollywood,” he said with regret. “No matter how beautiful, it’s harder for a woman to land a good role after forty.”
“Do you think my mom is beautiful?”
Julian chuckled. “Anyone with eyes thinks your mother is beautiful, Portia. She’s like a painting.”
She nodded, gnawing her bottom lip.
“What’s on your mind, kiddo?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I guess it hasn’t helped her a lot, has it? Being beautiful? She’s not all that happy. Five husbands and all those boyfriends and nobody seems to stick. Not that I think you ran out on her or anything.” She waved a hand. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” The kettle began to rumble, and Julian took two mugs from the shelf and opened the cupboard to look for hot chocolate. There, left over from the tasting party, was a stock of Ibarra chocolate in a