The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,92

flyers, letting everyone know the restaurant was open. So far, the list showed reservations for six-thirty, seven, and seven-thirty. Not tons, but a satisfying number.

Next, she did a walk-through of the entire restaurant, starting with the front of the house, which had been, thanks to Patrick and Julian and Alan, completely transformed. The old tattered, seventies-style furnishings and fixtures had been removed, along with all the kitschy Old West art. The downstairs rooms each had one bright wall—rich terra-cotta rose in one, a warm yellow in another, with intimate corners set up for couples as well as tables for small groups. The light fixtures and hardware had all been replaced with mission-style iron with an Art Deco flair, to complement the early-twentieth-century paintings by Diego Rivera and Georgia O’Keeffe and other artists from the Taos school. There were small tributes to Elena’s New Mexico, in the milagro crosses she’d posted in nooks and crannies, and the whimsical El Día de los Muertos skeletons—paintings and little statues—engaging in all the pursuits of life—getting married and dancing and holding little babies and, of course, eating and cooking. Patrick’s elegant eye kept everything in exquisite balance—color and ethnic eccentricities together with beautiful art—in both setting and décor.

Upstairs, the open bar area was less formal and just as gorgeous. Here were tables for larger groups, and, by the windows overlooking the valley, a space for those who just wanted drinks and snacks.

Patrick and Alan were in the middle of the room, setting up a long table for the staff meal, at which Juan would serve the special of the evening to servers and cooks and bartenders and hostesses—everyone.

She hugged Patrick quickly. “Great job. It looks so good!”

Alan, who had at first seemed temperamental, nodded. “I can’t believe it’s the same place.”

She went through the kitchens, too, checking stores of prepped items such as guacamole and sliced vegetables and fruits, and the numbers of tamales ready to be steamed and served, and the desserts Tansy had left. She went through the stocks and sauces, tasting, making sure the seasonings were right. “Add a little cracked pepper,” she said, “and some lemon juice to the soup.”

Juan served the family meal at four, and Ivan narrated the specials of the evening for the wait staff. When he was finished, she delivered a short, sweet pep talk. “We’ve worked hard for this. Be sure to keep notes of things that work very well or don’t work well, so we can talk about them at the staff meeting Monday.”

There was, after that, an hour of music in the kitchen, of cooks and servers sharing war stories of openings they’d worked in other restaurants, other times, other places.

It was only then, during the hush before what they all hoped would be a storm, that Elena was suddenly ambushed by memories of the opening of the Blue Turtle in Vancouver. She and Dmitri had worked so hard, the menu there a fusion of southwestern and French cuisine, a blend of such gorgeousness that both chefs had been giddy with the display that first night. And it had been a spectacular opening. From the minute it opened, the Blue Turtle had been beloved by Vancouverites. They loved her dishes in particular, though Dmitri always took credit.

Bastard, she thought again, going through the kitchen one more time. One more time. This time, it was all hers.

Win or lose.

In the end, they did 141 covers, managed to get the diners in and out without much fuss. Elena, sweaty with the hard work of the night, was at her desk, feeding numbers into the computer, when Julian showed up at the door of her office. “Everyone gone?” she asked.

He nodded, came into the office and closed the door. A small smile curved up the edge of his lips. Coming around behind her, he bent as he kissed the back of her neck. “Are you finished?”

“Oooh,” she protested, ducking away. “I’m sweaty! You won’t want to do that.”

“I might,” he said, his hands on her shoulders, brushing away the hair from the back of her neck. “I might like you sweaty. I might like—” He bent and touched his tongue to the knobs of bone below her hair. The concentrated nerves there, so unused to attention, leapt up like flowers to the watering lap of that muscle. “Mmm,” he said, and did it again, slowly licking from nape to shoulder, “lightly salty.”

Elena shivered, closing her eyes. His slid a hand around her throat, fingers lightly brushing