His voice was hungry, and he reached for her even as the words left his mouth.
They fell back into her apartment, he kicking the door closed. He made love to her with an intensity that made her arch and cry out, his hands and mouth possessively taking her body. There was a near desperation in the way they came together, both of them knowing it was a bad idea, but neither able to fight it. He lost himself in her body until early dawn, when he rolled over, kissed her shoulder, and said, “I have to get back upstairs before the girls wake up.”
Portia felt drugged, her limbs deliciously weak, her body sore and aching in a wonderfully used way. “Be up soon,” she murmured, burrowing into the sheets and covers. “Making huevos rancheros for you guys this morning.”
* * *
A few days later, she finished another breakfast upstairs—after Gabriel had pulled her behind a door, slammed her against the wall, and kissed her until her head spun—then she came down to her apartment to start cooking for The Glass Kitchen. She decided to make salmon baked in a touch of olive oil, topped with pine nuts, and served over spinach flash-fried in the salmon-and-olive-oil drippings. She added brown rice that she had slow-boiled with the herb hawthorn. Just as she finished, Cordelia arrived with a woman she had found standing on the sidewalk out front.
“My husband has high blood pressure,” she explained, negotiating the stairs down into Portia’s apartment with care. “He’s never happy with anything I make for supper, so I should tell you that you probably don’t have anything that will work for me.”
Cordelia took a look at the meal, raised an eyebrow at Portia, and then turned to the woman. “This is the perfect meal for your husband’s high blood pressure. Fish oil, nuts, hawthorn, whole grains.”
Next, a pumpkin pie went to a woman who couldn’t sleep.
“Pie?” she asked in a doubtful tone.
“Pumpkin,” Portia clarified, “is good for insomnia.”
An apricot crumble spiced with cloves and topped with oats and brown sugar went to a woman drawn with stress. Then a man walked through the door, shoulders slumped. Cordelia and Olivia eyed him for a second.
“I know the feeling,” Olivia said, and fetched him a half gallon of the celery and cabbage soup Portia had found herself preparing earlier.
The man peered into the container, grew a tad queasier, and said, “No thanks.”
“Do you or don’t you have a hangover?” Olivia demanded, then drew a breath. “Really,” she added more kindly. “Eat this and you’ll feel better.”
He came back the next day for more.
“Cabbage is no cure for drinking too much,” Cordelia told him.
He just shrugged and slapped down his money for two quarts of soup instead of one.
The knowing was steering Portia with a force and intensity that she had never experienced before. She tried to be happy about it, but it was hard not to worry. Yes, the knowing had brought good into her life, but the good was far outweighed by the bad. So she worked all day, and then when Gabriel came down the fire escape to her, they made love half the night. She didn’t tell her sisters. He was her secret. They behaved with circumspection when they met in the kitchen (most of the time); they never went on dates; they never talked about anything serious. When it came to The Glass Kitchen, they existed in a sort of wary standoff, too busy losing themselves in each other to talk about it.
Ariel started wandering into The Glass Kitchen after school and doing her homework at a space she had carved out for herself in a corner. It was easy to forget she was there. One afternoon about two weeks into their new endeavor, Olivia jumped when Ariel spoke.
“Sweetie, you scared me.” Olivia laughed. “When you scrunch up like that, doing homework like a mad little scientist, it’s like you’re practically invisible.”
After that, Ariel planted herself at the end of the kitchen counter, where no one could help but see her.
A few days later Portia was upstairs completing the Kanes’ meal of grilled lamb chops, sliced potatoes roasted in olive oil, and sautéed broccoli rabe. After having found a stack of blood oranges at a street cart on Columbus, she planned to surprise her charges with a blood orange ice she had thrown together, minus the orange liqueur Gram had always included.
Miranda walked into the kitchen, ignoring Portia and Ariel. She pulled out some green tea in a tiny bag, threw it in a cup of water, then slammed it into the microwave.
Miranda’s phone beeped with a text. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she responded, forgetting as the tea circled. Portia wasn’t paying close attention when Miranda pulled the cup out and immediately took a drink.
“Ahg!” the girl cried, dropping the cup to the counter with a splash.
Portia had just finished chopping the flavored ice. She instantly put a scoopful into a glass. “Put this in your mouth!”
The girl gasped and gagged, closing her eyes, and she sucked on the shards of ice. After long seconds, she sagged back against the counter and swallowed, then just stared at Portia.
“It’s weird, you know,” Ariel said, looking at them.
“What’s weird?”
They turned and saw Gabriel walking into the kitchen, going through the mail.
“Hey,” Portia said softly.
He shot her a look under those thick lashes of his that made her remember the way he had shuddered the night before when she had kissed a path down his abdomen.
After a second, he shifted his gaze to his daughters.
“What’s weird, A?”
The girl shrugged. “Portia makes stuff downstairs, and then random people show up who need whatever she makes. Or even here. She made some strange ice just before Miranda burned the cra—I mean, crud—out of her mouth. It’s, well, weird. Like magic.”
“Ariel,” Gabriel stated, his voice crisp. “There’s no such thing as magic. It’s a fact of life that people see what they want to see. They adjust their expectations to what they see in front of them.” He turned to Miranda. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she snapped.
“See, you’re fine now, after the ice,” Ariel persisted. “I’ve seen it happen, lots of times.”
Portia felt a shiver of unease. “I wish I had a magic wand,” she said with a laugh she didn’t feel. “But the truth is that I make whatever I feel like, and hungry people want it. End of story.” She displayed their dinner. “Just like you all want to eat tonight.”
Ariel rolled her eyes. “There’s that you all thing again.”
“Yep, you all better eat before it gets cold.” Portia walked over to the door as casually as she could.
“See ya!”
She waved, bolting when Gabriel gave her a curious look and started to say something.
Twenty-two
ARIEL HAD BEEN SITTING at her spot in Portia’s kitchen for days, brewing over how she could get more info on her mom and dad, while the sisters cooked. She did her best to keep the whole invisible thing to herself. If she hadn’t already been going to the Shrink, mentioning the invisible thing would definitely have gotten her carted off to one.
Somewhere between a batch of cheese tarts and custard-filled cream puffs, Ariel realized that with some careful questioning, surely her grandmother would spill some info on Mom and Dad that would help with the report. Which left Ariel figuring out a way to get to Nana’s house that didn’t involve a taxi. Subways, Ariel had learned, didn’t go across town north of Fifty-ninth Street.
It was a few days later when she finally managed to sneak her old bike out of the town house. Of the few things from the old house they had brought with them, she wasn’t sure how a bicycle had made the cut. But, yay, it had.
She hopped on the bike without bothering to change out of her school uniform. She had a good three hours, maybe four, before her dad came home—plenty of time to get to her grandmother’s, then back.
She went straight into Central Park at Seventy-second Street because obviously that was way safer than riding ar
ound with all the taxis at her back. She hadn’t ridden the bike in years. But now that she was wheeling down the curving road into the park, streamers on the handlebars fluttering in the wind, remembering just how much she used to love riding Ethel.
She named her bike that because of watching reruns of I Love Lucy with her mom. As much as Ariel would have liked to be Lucy, she knew she was more the sidekick. She was Ethel. Mom never agreed with her, but Ariel went ahead and named her bike that, to mark the truth of it. Moms always think their kids are lead actors, even when it’s obvious to the whole world that they aren’t.
All she had to do was cross at the Seventy-second Street transverse, then take the walking path to the pedestrian exit at Seventy-seventh Street on the east side. Bikes weren’t allowed on the walking path, but still she decided it was better to risk getting chased down by a park ranger than to ride on the park road because of all the cabs.
It didn’t take Ariel more than fifteen minutes to make it from her house to her grandmother’s. After chaining the bike to a pole on the sidewalk, she rang the bell on the towering stone town house. Ariel’s town house was nice and all, redbrick with a fancy green tin mansard roof, but her grandmother’s was like a mansion. Big blocks of stone, curlicues carved everywhere, and a massively imposing door. Even after her dad managed to buy the basement of their town house from Portia, it would never be this fancy.
Ariel buzzed a second time before the intercom crackled and the housekeeper’s voice floated out.
“Hi, Carmen. It’s Ariel. I came to see my grandmother.”
“Oh, chica. Does your abuela know you are coming?”
“No. But I wanted to surprise her.”
True. She didn’t want her grandmother to put her off.
“So sweet. Such a good nieta.” The door lock buzzed. Ariel grabbed the handle and pushed inside. Her grandmother was coming downstairs with a confused look on her face when Ariel walked into the living room.
“Ariel?”
Helen Kane didn’t look happy. Not that it was a surprise. She wasn’t exactly the milk-and-cookies type of grandmother.
“Hi, Grandma!”
Helen shuddered.
“Oh, sorry,” Ariel said, adding, “Nana.”
Helen drew a deep breath, as if Ariel tried every last ounce of her patience. Ariel had always assumed that it was her mom who made Helen crazy. But Mom was dead, and her grandmother hadn’t changed.
“Why are you here, dear?”
At least she got a dear out of the deal.
“I thought I’d stop by and say hello.” Hopefully put some of her weird worries to rest. “Now that we live so close, it seems like a shame not to see you more!”
She could tell from Helen’s hard gaze that she wasn’t buying that fib.
“Is Uncle Anthony here?”
Helen hesitated. “No, he’s out.”
“Oh, darn.” Not.
“You’re here to see your uncle?”
“I’m mainly here to see you. But I was just thinking about all the amazing things he’s done in his life.”
Her grandmother’s hard gaze softened. “Yes, he has done a lot.”
Forget the fact that the man didn’t work—or so her dad said—but whatever. Ariel knew that complimenting the golden boy would soften Helen Kane right up.
“Yeah, I was thinking about Uncle Anthony’s trip to Africa. It sounded really awesome.”
Her grandmother raised an eyebrow. “Anthony told you about his trip?”
Actually, no. Ages ago, Ariel had heard about the Africa trip when her mom and dad were fighting. Dad had used Africa as an example of her uncle’s irresponsibility. Mom said it showed he was adventurous. But Nana didn’t need to know that.
“Actually, my dad talked about it.”
“Well, I suppose it was a long time ago.”
“Totally. But I don’t remember when exactly he went. Ages and ages ago, right?”
“It was nineteen ninety-eight.”
Helen walked through the living room and went into the kitchen. Despite the lack of invitation, Ariel followed.
“Carmen, I’d like my tea now,” Helen said.
“Si, señora.” The housekeeper gave her employer a meaningful look and nodded toward Ariel.
Helen sighed. “Ariel, would you like some tea?”
“Sure. Tea would be great.”
She followed her grandmother into a back sitting room that overlooked the gardens one level below. The gardens at Ariel’s house were a mess, though she had seen Portia out there a time or two digging around.
“Oh, yeah, I remember now. Uncle Anthony went in nineteen ninety-eight. I wasn’t even born then.”
Carmen brought a tray filled with fancy china stuff and made a big to-do about serving, like Nana was a queen or something.
“So, you were telling me about Uncle Anthony going to Africa,” Ariel prompted, taking a sip, trying her best not to spill anything.
“Was I?”
“Yes, you said he went in nineteen ninety-eight? Did he go in the spring or summer?”
“Why do you want to know?”
Ariel wasn’t about to answer that question, at least not truthfully. “I just can’t quite get it in my head. You see, I’m writing a social studies report.” That was true. “About our family.” Also true. “About cool things our family does.” Sort of true. “And Uncle Anthony is the King of Cool Stuff.”
Nana smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Yes, he is. Always has been.” She sat back and looked out into the garden. “You should have seen him as a little boy. The most beautiful child anyone had ever seen. Everyone said so. I couldn’t go anywhere without people stopping me—on the street, mind you—and commenting on what a beautiful child he was.”
Ariel refrained from asking where Dad had been in all this walking-the-beautiful-baby-around business. She wanted answers and while she didn’t completely have her head wrapped around the thoughts bubbling to the surface, she figured it was better to avoid bringing her dad into it.
“When he was young,” Helen continued, “Anthony went on any adventure his father and I allowed. When he was six, he asked to go to sleepaway camp in Vermont. Sleepaway camp at six!” Helen chuckled. “At ten, it was camp in Colorado. Then Montana. I couldn’t believe it. At seventeen, he wanted to travel to Costa Rica on summer break to build houses for the less fortunate.”
In some recess of her mind, Ariel remembered another conversation she’d overheard. Her dad and uncle going at it, yet again.
You had to go everywhere I did, her dad had shouted.
I looked up to my older brother. What of it?
You didn’t go because you admired me. You went to show that everyone, everywhere, loved you better.
Ariel had expected her uncle to deny it.
And they did, didn’t they?
Silence, followed by her dad’s cold voice.
Yes. They always loved you more.
Ariel hadn’t understood at the time, and she hadn’t thought of it again until now. Sitting with her grandmother, a sick feeling started to build in her stomach.
“Yeah,” she said with a laugh she didn’t feel. “Uncle Anthony is amazing. Costa Rica at seventeen. And you said he went to Africa in nineteen ninety-eight?”
“Yes. May nineteen ninety-eight. He hasn’t lived in New York full-time since.”
Ariel’s heart pounded so hard that she bumped the teacup, the china clattering. Helen jerked her gaze away from the window, her normal smooth beauty pinched as she took in Ariel. “It’s your father’s fault that he left, you know,” Helen said, as if trying to gain supporters to her cause.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a very sad thing when one brother is jealous of another,” Nana said, her mouth sort of pinching together. “I’ll tell you for your own good, since you have a sibling as well. And so you can understand that your father is just plain being unfair to your uncle. Your father has always hated the attention Anthony received.
So when Anthony wanted to go to camp, Gabriel made us send him, too. Vermont. Colorado. Costa Rica.”
Ariel wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this. I believe it was the other way around didn’t seem to be what Helen had in mind.
“And then Anthony met Victoria.” The pinched look turned bitter. “Even more than your father, Victoria was responsible for everything falling apart. As much as I’m not one to speak ill of the dead, the first time I met her, she looked like—” She cut herself off and focused on Ariel, her lips pursed hard. “Like a girl raised in a housing project. But your mother was smart. The next time I saw her, she was wearing a sweater set and pearls. She played Gabriel against my Anthony. In the end, she ran Anthony off to Africa, heartbroken, when she chose Gabriel over him. I’ve always wondered what Gabriel did to win her. He’d never won against Anthony. Ever.”
By then, her grandmother was leaning forward, intent, lost to her own words. Then she sat back abruptly and eyed Ariel warily.
Ariel sat, stunned. She couldn’t believe what her grandmother was saying. Uncle Anthony had said he met her mom first—but he’d dated her? More than that, how could Nana say this stuff about her dad?
She sat up straight. “A mom shouldn’t love one kid more than the other.”
Helen glanced out the window. “Mother or not, there are some people who simply pull everyone to them. Anthony is like that.” She looked back, directly at Ariel. “Your father always made it hard to love him.”
Ariel’s chest was burning so much that she couldn’t even think of what to say. So she jerked up from her seat and dashed to the front door, slamming out into the street. As soon as she managed to free her bike she pedaled as fast as she could back across the park to the Upper West Side, tears flying in the wind along with the streamers.
Twenty-three
PORTIA LOVED THE SMELLS of cooking and baking. It turned a house into a home.
It was October, barely two weeks after she and her sisters had opened up the test version of The Glass Kitchen. Standing at the sink, she washed her hands, getting ready to start cooking for the day. Ariel had been quiet lately, sitting at the end of the counter, busy doing homework and writing in her journal. But sometimes she just sat there, lost in thought, her brow creased. Portia had asked if anything was wrong. Ariel had blinked, then scoffed, diving back into homework.
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