From Barcelona, with Love by Elizabeth Adler Read Free Book Online Page B

unrecognizable delicacies that diners flocked to try—or at least to say they had been there and eaten the latest thing. Floradelisa did not serve her family’s popular and inexpensive red wine at her restaurant, only the finest of Riojas, or Bordeaux, or Burgundies would do. Though of course the de Ravel sherries—the chilled Manzanilla and the rich Oloroso—were served as aperitifs, or to complement special dishes.
    Her restaurant, Floradelisa’s, was outrageously expensive, super-chic, and almost impossible to get into, and it ran its owner’s life. Short, untidy, and frustrated, with no man in her life, Floradelisa’s home a mess and her kitchen immaculate.
    She trotted—at full speed, as usual—over to the sofa to kiss her brother, who made a halfhearted attempt to get up to greet her. She gave him a push back down. “Don’t bother, I can see you’re comfortable.”
    She plumped next to him and he eyed her, frowning.
    â€œCouldn’t you at least dress up just a little?” he asked.
    Floradelisa looked down at her outfit. She was wearing her usual chef’s white jacket, liberally stained with some kind of purple sauce, her hideous black-and-white-checked polyester chef’s pants, and the usual work clogs.
    â€œI came straight from the kitchen,” she explained. “I have to get back there as soon as possible.”
    â€œOf course you do, Flora.” Lorenza always called her Flora, finding she tripped over the longer name, though no one else ever did. “I was just telling Antonio I expect people who work to look like what they do, what they are. You know, a vintner, a chef…”
    Flora smiled, amused, and Lorenza thought she really had the prettiest blue eyes, startling in her pale face, but now two spots of color burned her cheeks.
    â€œYou look hot, your cheeks are pink,” she said as Buena came in bearing a tray with a silver coffeepot and the platinum-rimmed cups Lorenza hated. They had been a wedding present from someone, she couldn’t remember who, and were too fancy for her taste. She guessed Buena had thought this was a “fancy” occasion; three of Juan Pedro’s children under the same roof. With her.
    â€œIt’s from slaving over a hot stove,” Flora explained, stealing a long thin biscuit from the plate before Buena had time to hand them around. “And I’m starving.”
    â€œYou don’t look it,” Antonio said, unkindly, taking in his plump sister once again. “You should lose some weight.”
    â€œOh, shut up, Antonio. You have my job and try to lose weight. I’m always having to taste something … a bit here, a bit there.…”
    â€œAnd a bit everywhere else.” He refused coffee and slumped sulkily back against the sofa cushions.
    â€œYou look tired, Flora,” Lorenza said. “I know you’re at the market before dawn, and then you work all hours, God knows what time you get to bed. But I do think you should take time out to go for a walk, get your hair cut, and maybe a manicure every now and then. A girl should keep up with those things.”
    Flora burst out laughing “Oh, Lorenza, there are girls like me, and there are girls like you. I simply don’t have the time.…”
    â€œNor do I,” Lorenza said sharply. “We must make time, Flora.”
    â€œSo what time is Jassy coming, anyway?” Antonio glanced impatiently at his watch, his father’s old Patek Philippe, gold on a thin alligator strap.
    Lorenza thought the watch probably qualified as an antique by now and was probably worth a small fortune. She almost wished she hadn’t given it to Antonio, but it had belonged to his father, who had worn it every day, and it was only right it should belong to his son. Pompous prick though he was.
    â€œLet’s hope Jassy’ll be here soon,” she said. “I’d like to get this over