The man was six feet or a little better, glistening gold all over—sun-bleached streaks in gold hair, shaggy the way a lot of skiers wore it, eyebrows and arm hairs bleached by constant exposure to the sun. Cheekbones chiseled like swords angling down to the mouth of a comic-book hero—firm, sharply cut. The guy should be a model. Everyone turned around to look as he crossed the room, his tight ass and tiny waist impossibly fit. As if he felt Ivan’s gaze, he looked over his shoulder and winked, all self-assured elegance.
Fuck. Ivan wanted to slam things, bang and storm, but he did not. He carefully moved around the room, wondering where Patrick was, if he’d seen this Adonis come in.
Naturally, Elena hired him. A ski bum. Dag, who not only looked like that but turned out to have a Danish accent, which gave him that little soupçon of extra pizzazz, as if he needed it. When Patrick met him, Ivan was in the room, and Patrick just coolly shook his hand and said, “Welcome,” before he rushed off to find Elena.
Dag turned around, watching Patrick, and he smiled, with a smooth, slow perfection that made the top of Ivan’s head whirl off. Stepping close, Ivan growled, “Back off.”
“Ah,” he said, grinning, and lifted his hands, as if under arrest. “No problem. No problem.”
On Christmas Eve, the restaurant closed at eight, and by ten, Ivan and Patrick were settled in front of the Christmas tree at Patrick’s place, drinking eggnog and listening to rock-and-roll Christmas carols, which Ivan insisted upon. Springsteen sang “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town,” in that raw, ragged voice, and Ivan leaned back happily, drink in hand, to watch the lights sparkle. Patrick was cutting out paper snowflakes that he was going to use for table decorations tomorrow, when a few people would come over for a Christmas goose with all the trimmings. Patrick had made a special request for it, tickled by the idea of a Dickens sort of Christmas, and Ivan tracked down one of his suppliers to get a honking big bird—he laughed every time he said this—and it was marinating now. Ivan would get up at dawn to put it in the oven so it would be ready for dinner. He’d also secretly rented a Victorian-era costume, complete with a top hat, in which he thought he looked pretty hot.
The restaurant was closed. All of Liswood’s restaurants were closed for Christmas and again on New Year’s Day. He felt everyone deserved a couple of days off every year, no matter what, something Ivan found remarkable.
“This is great,” Ivan said.
Patrick smiled up at him. “It is. I’m so looking forward to our dinner tomorrow! Thank you for cooking goose.”
“One big honking bird,” Ivan said, laughing.
“The joke might be a little overdone,” Patrick said, but he was grinning. He unfolded thin white paper to reveal a beautifully intricate snowflake. “Sure you don’t want to try one?”
“I’m sure.”
“What was happening in your life last Christmas?” Patrick asked.
Ivan had to think about it. “Nothing very good. The restaurant had problems because the owner was putting all the profits up his nose. I was living in a trailer out by Carbondale and it sucked. But I got a good review in the Denver Post for my steak pie. I haven’t made that for you, have I?”
“No. I’d love to try it.”
“You’re easy, man. It’s great to cook for you.”
Patrick inclined his head crisply. “Thank you.” He took another piece of paper from the pile. “Were you seeing anyone?”
“Not really. I hadn’t been back here long.” Sipping the creamy, rummy eggnog, he pursed his lips. “How about you, lover? What were you doing last Christmas?”
“I was living in New York. I went home to Boston for Christmas, but it wasn’t particularly pleasant. My boyfriend wouldn’t come with me—he said my parents were stuck up—so I went alone and we were on the outs, so I wasn’t happy.”
“Was that the bartender, the one who almost came here with you?”
Patrick nodded. “He wasn’t very nice, honestly. It was way past time to break up with him. You just get used to things being a certain way.”
“Are your parents stuck up?”
“Yes. But they are still my parents.”
“Do they like your boyfriends as a rule?”
“They’ve only met one or two.” Patrick placed another snowflake neatly on the pile. “They’d rather I wasn’t gay, but they’re big on dignity, so they’re polite enough.”
“They’d hate me, wouldn’t they?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Not exactly in their world, am I? All rough edges and crooked teeth.”
“You’re a James Beard–winning chef. That will impress them.” Patrick touched his ankle. “And seriously, they love me, so when someone is important to me, they do their best to like them, too.”
“But they don’t always.”
“Of course not.”
Ivan thought of Dag, the polished Dane, with a twist of worry. “Have they ever met Elena?”
“Several times, when she lived in New York. My mother isn’t crazy about her, but my father thinks she’s hot.” A smile quirked his lips. “One is connected to the other, I’m quite sure.”
“Wouldn’t they like it if you were with someone like old Dag?”
Patrick looked perplexed. “Dag?”
“The new guy in the kitchen. The Scandinavian.”
“The ski bum? You must be kidding. He’s a player. I don’t like players.”
“I’m a player.”
“No,” Patrick said, putting down his scissors. “You pretend to be, but you have a very passionate heart.” He inclined his head. “You just haven’t had anyone love you through thick and thin, that’s all.”
Stung by those blue eyes, Ivan looked away. “Wow.”
Then Patrick came to sit beside him. Touched his hand. “I think I fell in love with you at first sight, Ivan. And I’m pretty sure you felt the same way. Let’s try to just enjoy it, shall we? We got lucky.”
Ivan pulled him close, his hand spreading open over the tumbled blond hair, feeling the preciousness of his skull. “Yeah,” he growled. “Yeah, I did. Thank you.”
“I really don’t like jealousy. It will ruin things.”
“I’ll do my best.” He thought of breakfast. “Tomorrow morning, I’m going to cook you my very best French toast. You will so love it.”
“Ivan, I’m going to get fat!”
“No, you won’t,” he said. “We’ll work it off.”
Elena finally remembered to call Maria Elena on the evening of Christmas Eve, when she was setting up the kitchen in Julian’s house to make tamales with Portia. They had dozens at the restaurant, but when Elena told the girl about making them with the women on Christmas Eve, Portia really, really wanted to try it. And Elena didn’t mind it.
Mama answered with a slightly irritated “Hello?”
“Hi, Mama,” she said. “How are you?”
“Elena, h’ita! It’s so nice to hear your voice. What are you doing? We got your package yesterday—so many presents for all the little ones, you must be getting rich!”
Elena laughed. “It’s just little things, Mom. Be sure and put out all the chocolate on Christmas Day.”
“I guess since you sent it, you’re not going to be here on Christmas this year, huh?”
One year, Elena had flown into Albuquerque and rented a car and arrived at Mama’s house in time for mass on Christmas Eve. Maria Elena had never forgotten it, and every year, Elena could hear the hope that Elena would repeat the surprise. For one minute, Elena imagined how that would be, crowded into the little house with too many people, and lots of children, and the happy sound of laughing, and the smell of coffee and pine, chill and chocolate, in the air. “I’m afraid I can’t this year, Mama. We’re still getting the restaurant up and going. Maybe I can pop down in January sometime.”
“I’d like to see you, m’ija. What are you doing for Christmas?”
“I’m working mostly. I’ll spend some time with my friends—you remember Patrick
? I brought him with me when I lived in New York. We came for something—maybe your birthday, huh?”
“Sure, sure. Nice boy. Not married, though.”
Elena’s lips twitched. “Not yet. He’s here in Aspen, too. I hired him to be my sommelier.”
“That’s nice.” In the background was music on a radio, tinny and thin, and the sound of clattering pans. “We’re having Christmas at Darla’s this year. She’s got more room and all the kids can play easier in her basement.”
“That’s a good idea.” She tucked her phone between her ear and shoulder and ripped open the corn husks she’d bought at the store. “Hey, I’ll tell you, I am making tamales with a young girl here. She’s fourteen and dying to learn. We’ve already made six kinds of Christmas cookies.”
“Very nice.”
“You okay, Mom? You sound tired.”
“Oh, it’s just that time of year. Too much to do. Not enough time to do it all.”
“Well, don’t wear yourself out.”
“I won’t, baby. You enjoy yourself, okay?”
“I will. I love you, Mama.”
“I love you, too. Be good.” And then, defiantly and laughing at once, she added, “Find a husband!”
Elena groaned. “Bye, Mama!”
On Christmas morning, Elena felt shy, waking up next to Julian. They’d stayed up late together the night before, drinking hot chocolate by the fire in his bedroom and listening to his vast collection of CDs. Then they’d made love for a long time in the fire-lit dark, and fallen asleep naked and spent, well after midnight.
Julian was still asleep when she wakened, and for a few long moments, she simply looked at his dark curls, the blunt nose. His mouth was open a little, and he made a soft whistling sound as he breathed, somehow endearing. Tiny threads of silver showed in his chest hairs, and the texture of the skin there revealed his age. He would be fifty next year, she’d finally found out, not that he looked it most of the time. The running and yoga kept him supple and younger than his years.
Still. If she let him in, that would be something to contend with, that he was more than a decade her senior and she would likely outlive him. It scared her to even think in those terms, long terms, as they had only been together a couple of months. But, looking at him, lying here, she knew there was something real in this bond, in whatever it was that was blooming between them.
It made her stomach hurt. There was always that other shoe, wasn’t there? Death, disease, other women, boredom and contempt, all those things people did to each other.
It had been hell trying to figure out what to give him for Christmas—they were at that awkward stage of not dating a terribly long time, but they were also very intensely involved. He was also quite wealthy, so he bought whatever he liked. She needed to find something that would show him she’d been paying attention. It took ages, but she finally realized what it should be, and wrapped up her gift and put it under the tree, but now she was nervous. What if he didn’t get it? What if it was too personal?
Portia, on the other hand, was a breeze. Elena had found plenty of cute dog toys and accoutrements for the puppy Julian had arranged to have delivered this morning. Elena squinted at the clock. They would be here with the puppy in twenty minutes. She slipped out of bed and shimmied into jeans and a T-shirt. In the kitchen, she started a pot of coffee and let Alvin outside, then brushed her teeth and peed in the powder room off the kitchen. It was one of her favorite bathrooms, this one, with a brown glass bowl sitting on a counter for a sink, and the faucets coming out of the wall, imitating garden art.
Don’t get used to it, she told herself. Ease, comfort, luxury. It wouldn’t last.
But for today, this was the most fun she’d had at Christmas in a long time, and she couldn’t wait for Portia to get up and meet her dog. She skimmed a brush through her hair, let Alvin back in, and there was a knock at the door.
Her heart leapt and she rushed into the foyer to answer it, punching the numbers on the alarm to let the woman in. She carried a dog kennel, and Alvin, who’d been eager to see what was going on, lowered his head with an apprehensive expression. “It’s okay, baby,” Elena told him.
The woman said, “He’s been groomed and fed. I wish I could be here to see Portia’s face when she sees him.”
“I’m excited.”
“Thank you again, and please thank Mr. Liswood for the extraordinarily generous contribution.”
“I will.”
After the woman left, Elena knelt and opened the kennel to take out the young dog. He wasn’t much more than four or five months, still a puppy with his broad head and big paws. He wiggled and trembled in her arms, looking at Alvin, who was just perplexed. Elena knelt and let them smell each other. “Be nice, you guys.”
The pup shivered against her knees as Alvin sniffed him thoroughly, head to toe, stopping every so often—the joint of the left back leg, the edge of his ear, a spot midway down his back—to sneeze or snuffle or take another deep sniff. His tail wagged slowly as he inspected this creature, and then he stepped back and bent down and barked. Sharply.
The puppy jerked, then wiggled to get free, and dopily walked over, head down, to play. He was so adorable—big nose and soft fur and that wide bulldog head and the curly tail of a husky.
After she ascertained they’d be okay, Elena captured the pup and called Alvin and they headed upstairs to haul Julian out of bed so they could wake Portia up.
Portia’s reaction was squealing and absolute astonishment. “Oh, how did you know?” she cried, hugging the puppy, who obviously recognized her and wiggled in a far more effusive way when she hugged him than he had when the others greeted him. “He’s the best little pup and nobody wanted to adopt him, and oh, look at him!” She blinked back tears, and gazed at her dad with adoration. “Thank you, Daddy. He’s the best dog and I promise I will take very good care of him.”
Next to the bed, Alvin whined, his crocodile in his mouth.
“Oh, I still love you, too,” Portia said. “Do you have a toy? Come on!” She patted the bed. “Come on up!”
Alvin looked at Elena, who rolled her eyes. “Oh, go ahead, you traitor.”
Julian pulled her forward. “Elena helped.”
Portia grinned, rubbing both dogs with one hand each. “I figured. Thank you, Elena.”
“You are so welcome.”
“C’mon. Let’s go upstairs and open presents. I have stuff for you guys, too!”
They all tramped upstairs—two dogs, a girl, and two adults—and Elena realized this was the first Christmas morning that felt like Christmas morning in years and years. What if—
Don’t borrow trouble, said a voice. Her own. Live now.
So she shyly gave Julian his dual gift, and Portia her pile of dog things, and they each gave her boxes, too, and they all tore into them. Portia had a pile of things from her father, who insisted she needed to be spoiled at Christmas because she’d been doing so well in school and in her job. All she had required, it seemed, was a stable environment. She got new skis and ski pants and books and—
“A laptop? My own laptop?”
Julian nodded. “I’ll still be checking on you, you know, and you can keep it upstairs, but it’s yours. You don’t have to ask for permission to use it.”
For the second time that morning, Portia’s eyes welled. She leapt up and hugged him around the neck, her checkered pink and purple pajamas riding low on her strong hips. Elena ducked her head, feeling like an interloper.
And not. Because Portia had showered her with presents—beautiful cut-glass earrings and a silver bracelet and a blouse with airy sleeves, all exactly to her taste.
And Julian gave her a small package, not so small it was jewelry, but small enough to intrigue. “You first,” she said, nervous now. Ready to get it over with.
The first was obviously a book and he opened it. “The Best Book of Potato Latkes,” he said, and stared at it for a long moment. Elena’s nervousness grew. Did he remember their ea
rly conversation about special food?
He raised his eyes, and smiled. “Perfect. Thank you.”
“They go together.”
The other box held a small, antique menorah she’d found online. It had come from a New Jersey estate. He took it out. His voice was raw when he said, “Thank you, Elena.” He reached for her hand, squeezed it, and she realized he was hiding enormous emotion.
“Your real gift is not here yet,” he said. “I ordered it and there was a small delay. This is just a little something I thought you’d like in the meantime.”
She grinned and opened the package, which was a Day of the Dead skeleton in a small kitchen, wearing roses in her hair. Elena laughed and kissed him. “It’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”
FORTY
IVAN’S FRENCH TOAST
Perfect for that New Year’s Day celebration
6–8 slices thick-sliced cinnamon raisin bread or rich bread like brioche
5 eggs
1/2 cup milk
1 tsp each grated lemon and orange zest
1/2 tsp vanilla
Powdered sugar and raspberries
Whip eggs, milk, zests, and vanilla together in a glass bowl. Get the skillet ready by heating till drops of water dance and disappear. Dip the bread and let the mixture soak in, then grill till golden. Garnish with fresh butter, raspberries, and powdered sugar.
FORTY-ONE
The turn of the year brought a serious cold snap, with temperatures dropping below zero at night, making the entire mountain region an ice rink no matter how hard the sand trucks and snowplows worked. Enough snow fell that the slopes stayed prime, and Aspen partied. The hotel rooms were packed, the restaurants filled to capacity, everyone was happy, making pots of money on the tourists and skiers who wanted to mingle with the beautiful people.
The Orange Bear was full every night and word of mouth was excellent, but the bad reviews still rankled. The day the Condé Nast magazine hit the stands, Elena and Julian bought every issue in town and threw them in the Dumpster at the back of the restaurant. Slapping her hands together crisply afterward, Elena grinned. “That felt better!”
The Lost Recipe for Happiness Page 31