“I like to eat,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. He cut into his tenderloin, which melted like butter around his knife. “But yeah, I like to cook once in a while, too. Do you?”
She nodded. “Very much. Brings out my creative side.”
“It can be a very sensual thing. I took classes from a Spanish master chef at his country home. He had this amazing kitchen, with all these antique etched glass bottles and carafes. It was a feast for the senses, having all this colorful, fragrant food in front of you, the hissing sound the fresh ingredients made when they hit the hot oil, the way the sunlight struck all his beautiful glass containers. Here . . . have a bite of this tenderloin. It’s amazing,” he said.
“It sounds wonderful,” she said, her eyes taking on a dreamy cast as she chewed the bite of juicy meat he’d slipped between her lips. He wondered if she had any idea how sexy he found the dress she was wearing. The ties at her gleaming shoulders were the most remarkable teases. “I’d love something like that. To direct all my attention for six weeks to one task, and to do it in such an evocative place.”
He nodded. “That’s the main thing—the direction of all your attention into one task, one action, one moment. Very Zen.”
“Are you a Buddhist?” she asked as she tore a slice of bread apart.
“No, but I have spent a lot of time in Tibet and Thailand. I admire their spiritual practices. I use a lot of mindfulness to prepare for a role. I don’t want to just pick up a hammer and mimic being a blacksmith, for instance. I want to do it—feel what it’s like to have this extension, this hammer in your hand, to be melding all the elements of fire, air, earth and water into a concrete tool, imagine what it’d be like to have that fire blaze in your face while you forged and branded this something that would serve its purpose and be passed from father to son for a century or more.”
She regarded him soberly. “I saw that, where you played the fourteenth-century blacksmith. It was the first movie I ever saw you in,” she said quietly. “Afterward, when I learned you were an American, I was shocked. I would have sworn from your accent that you were Welsh.”
He shrugged. “I have an ear for accents. It’s not a skill, really; more like something I was born with. Some kind of freak gene, as Katie puts it.”
“I think you’re being modest.”
“No. I’m not. A lot of it just comes when you throw yourself wholesale into something. Put on the clothes of the character, live in the landscape, use the tools, eat the food, and do it all mindfully.”
“You’re right. It is all very Zen.”
“I told you I respected the religion. I would, even if their only offering was tantric sex,” he said, grinning.
Her eyes widened. He stilled. It was true, what he’d said, but he shouldn’t have been so blunt. He rushed in to smooth over his error.
“But in the end, I suppose it’s hard to completely wring the Protestant kid from Southern California out of me. Or maybe I’m just too lazy to be a full-fledged Buddhist. Or too hedonistic,” he said, eyeing another bite of butter-drenched lobster. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about you. I hope you don’t think I’m being nosy, but I saw that Formula 1 racecar postcard in your kitchen. Are you a fan of the sport?”
“No, that’s from my father. He manages the European Formula 1 team. He used to drive himself and was very successful.”
“Are you close to him?” Everett asked.
“No, not especially. His job is his one true love. We’re not one of those feuding fathers and daughters or anything. I don’t begrudge him the life he’s chosen, or the fact that I rarely see him. We don’t have a lot in common. I’m much closer to Seth, and always have been. Seth has been my whole family for half my life.”
Her comment seemed to ask for a follow-up question, but Everett restrained himself. Joy was such a private person. He respected that, even if he did plan to peel back her layers. Discovering Joy’s depths clearly wouldn’t be a quick endeavor, or an easy one.
He found himself relishing the challenge.
“Rill asked Seth to do makeup for Razor Pass tonight,” Everett said.
Her eyes warmed. “I know! I’m so excited for Seth. What a wonderful opportunity—to work with Rill. And Seth loves the book,” she enthused, referring to the novel Rill was adapting to film.
“Did he give Rill an answer yet?” Everett asked.
Joy shook her head. “Knowing Seth, he’s at the hotel right now, drawing feverishly. He’ll give Rill an answer when he gets some results.”
He smiled. “Rill didn’t ask him for any samples. He just offered him the job.”
She made a face. “You have to know Seth. He’s a perfectionist. He won’t accept until he sees the proof in front of him that he’s right for the job. He has to draw to find the proof.”
“Strange lot, artists,” he said, tracing the graceful line of her neck and shoulder with his gaze.
“They say the same about actors,” she murmured, her eyes lowered, her voice smoky.
“They say correctly.” He touched the back of her hand where it rested on the table. She turned it over, twining her fingers with his.
They talked for a while longer, sipping their wine, Everett drawing her out until she seemed much more comfortable and relaxed. The clock in the kitchen caught his eye. He reluctantly withdrew his hand from hers and wiped his mouth with his napkin.