sly little stories out of Hollywood, insider dish she loved hearing.
A couple of times, Elena joined them, and on those days, she cooked, even though he tried to get her to just sit and enjoy the meal. She waved him away, and brought Portia into the kitchen with her, giving instruction in simple, traditional cooking.
Late at night, or in the mornings after her first stint at the restaurant, he spent time with Elena.
And he was writing, a very dark and very sexy tale of loss and redemption, his screenplay about a thwarted ghost and a woman trying to shake off her losses. It didn’t escape him that he was writing a part for his ex-wife, a fragile, midlife creature who needed to learn to stand on her own two feet, but in his mind it was Elena who moved through the scenes.
Casting had begun. Schedules were being aligned. He hoped to start shooting in early summer, get as much of it done as possible before Portia had to start school again in the fall.
He wrote it at night, when Portia was doing her homework or watching movies—they sat together in the great room before a big crackling fire, or in the family room while she did homework. He found he liked sitting in the same room with her, an iPod in his ears to help him focus, his fingers flying over the keyboard in the low light, the rooms feeling more like a home than any place he’d lived in a very long time.
Now and then, he wondered what he would tell Elena. When he would tell her. Not even that marred his floating sense of well-being. He was sure, when the time came, that he could convince her that he was just doing what storytellers did.
Even the weather was cooperating. Snow started showing up in early November. At first, it would snow one day and melt the next. Then a slow-moving system stuck around for a few days and the slopes were covered with white for the first time. The locals started chortling to each other about old El Niño. It might even, they said to each other, be a season like the winter of 2005–06, when the snow bases had climbed to over a hundred inches in some places.
One night, sitting with a pencil between his teeth, watching his daughter hunch over the coffee table where she did math homework, and savoring the anticipation of seeing Elena in the morning, he realized the strange loose feeling in his chest was happiness.
It scared the hell out of him. And yet, what was life about, except the possibilities of happiness? Maybe happiness, this once, could stick around.
There was really nothing standing in the way this time, was there?
Well, except that one little lie.
To Elena’s mind, the next few weeks were a perfectly orchestrated golden time. There were the usual adjustments to staff, the rearrangements and reassignments and a couple of firings, but the main group worked. Elena and Ivan and Juan formed the core of the kitchen; Alan and Patrick and a clever, beautiful bartender named Marta led the front of the house. Beneath them, front and back, was the usual army of servers, bussers, prep cooks, dishwashers, and others. One surprise turned out to be Tansy Gutierrez, the pastry chef who specialized in Mexican pastries. Her homey churros were wildly popular.
One morning, Julian showed up early at her apartment. “I have to go to Vancouver,” he said, giving her a newspaper. “There’s been a fire at the Blue Turtle.”
“What?” She scanned the article. “How bad is it?”
“Dmitri thought they’d have to close for a few weeks, at least. They think it was an electrical fire in the kitchen. Started overnight and caught the grease pits.”
She whistled. “It’s amazing there’s anything to be salvaged.”
“Someone saw the smoke and called it in. The fire department came very quickly.” He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you would go stay with Portia while I’m gone.”
“Of course. Alvin will be delighted.”
After he left, she could not resist one small email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: fire!
Dmitri, I just heard about the fire. You must be so upset. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I hope it’s back up and running very soon.
Elena
Two days later, she awakened alone in Julian’s bed, snowed in by a sudden storm that had trapped Elena in the house, and everybody else out of it. Alvin snored at her feet to keep her from feeling too alone. Julian was supposed to return today, and