The Glass Kitchen

by Linda Francis Lee

  Thank you,

  Victoria Polanski Kane

  Ariel took a deep breath and then slid her fingers under the flap of the second envelope, her chipped and half-painted nails taunting her as she broke the seal. Her hands shook even more as she pulled out the letter and started to read.

  Gabriel,

  Not Dear Gabriel, or Dearest Gabriel. Just his name. Short. Harsh. Impersonal. She hated that.

  If you’re reading this, something has happened to me, which hardly seems possible as I write these words. But that’s not the point.

  Will it surprise you if I said I was never brave enough? I never was, not really. I’m still not, as writing this letter instead of telling you to your face proves. But here’s the truth: I never meant to hurt you or the girls. In my own way, with this key and letter, I’m trying to fix things. Believe it or not, I really do try to be a better person, even if you would swear that I rarely succeed.

  Ariel felt as if her mom’s frustration and anger boiled from the page. All that stuff, that emotion between her parents that she had never let herself see.

  I know as I write this that eventually I’ll have to fix things in a better way than this letter I’m going to give to a lawyer. But I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell you what I’ve done. I’ve worked hard for years to keep my secret.

  Frankly, I plan to live a long life, so with any luck you’ll never know that I was a fool. I always said “Fake it ’til you make it.” I wonder if that ever works, or if we end up spending our lives trying to be someone we’re not. Who knows? But I do know that when it came to the Kane brothers, Anthony believed in me. Your brother loved me for the drama of me. You never believed. You hated the drama. Why couldn’t I have just wanted Anthony?

  The truth is, I wanted you all along, even though it was Anthony who made me feel alive. Of course you never wanted me. I knew that. But I wanted you anyway. I knew you’d give me the life I wanted. So I got you the only way I knew how. I was young and pretty, and had the sort of hunger that most hardscrabble, scared girls have, which isn’t so hard to understand, given where I came from. I knew what I wanted and was determined to get it. That’s all I could see. I never considered who might get hurt in the process.

  Of course you remember that drunken night when I seduced you and ended up pregnant. You thought I was shallow, and you hated me after that, but you married me anyway, as I was sure you would. From the moment I met you, I knew you were a man who took his responsibilities seriously. THAT is what I did love about you. And I wanted that responsibility to be me. You would give me the life I wanted. You would be my prince to my Cinderella. Foolish, I know. But isn’t that every poor girl’s dream? Anthony would never be able to do that for me. I thank my lucky stars every day for that night, for Miranda. And I thank God you couldn’t have loved Miranda more. It’s to your great credit that your resentment of me never spilled over to our daughter.

  Proof that Miranda was Dad’s real daughter.

  Ariel’s stomach lurched; she hated the truth, not that she really wanted Miranda not to be legit. It was just that Miranda being legit proved that Anthony hadn’t lied about that part.

  Her heart pounded, but she kept reading.

  That wasn’t my only sin. I also knew you hated that Anthony thought you seduced me to win me away from him. I’m still amazed that you never told Anthony the truth: that I seduced you.

  If I’m really truthful, I loved that he was madly jealous that we married. Do you understand the draw for a girl like me to have two men seeming to fight for me, even if one of the men wasn’t really fighting for me, but for his unborn child? And when you never forgave me—always made it clear that I had tricked you, even if it was through your stoic silence—is it really a surprise that I would seek out the only man who did make me feel beautiful and loved? When you married me, I swore that I would never sleep with Anthony again, and I swear I wouldn’t have if you had ever tried to love me. Do you get that part of this is your fault?

  In the end, yes, I went back to your brother. Does it matter that it wasn’t right away? Does it matter that we both knew by then that our marriage was falling apart?

  Of course it doesn’t. But even then, I was given a gift. This time, it was Ariel.

  Ariel moaned out loud, her fingers curling into the paper. She squeezed her eyes closed, every inch of her growing hot and sick and hurting. But she couldn’t stop now.

  Just as with Miranda, you loved Ariel from the moment she came into the world. I saw the love in your eyes as you held Ariel for the first time. I never had the heart to tell you Anthony was her father, not even as a way to hurt you more when I still couldn’t find a way to make you want me. But Anthony knew, and I’ve paid dearly to keep him quiet.

  But that’s the past.

  Anthony Kane might love me in his own equally selfish way, but he cares more about himself and money than anything else. Do not, I repeat, do not ever let him convince you otherwise. If you are reading this, then I’m no longer in a position to continue funneling money to Anthony in order to keep Ariel safe. Please don’t let him hurt her. Please don’t let him use her to hurt you. Hopefully by the time you read this, I will have been able to pull it all together so that you have everything you need to make sure he can’t.

  I have done a lot of things I’m ashamed of. Despite how I got them, the best thing I have produced in my life is our daughters. Ours. Yours, Gabriel. Both of them. I can only hope my sins won’t get in the way of you keeping both of them safe.

  Victoria

  Ariel couldn’t breathe. What did it mean? How could Anthony hurt her? A scream pounded inside her, wanting to get out. Panic licked at her as her greatest fear was realized, the one that she had been too afraid to say out loud: Anthony really was her father, and Gabriel Kane didn’t know. Yet.

  After he read this, would he turn her over to Anthony?

  “No,” she whispered.

  Her fingers closed around the small key, deciding she should figure out what the key opened before she told anyone about it. Inch by inch, she went through her mom’s study, biting her lip hard to keep the tears away. Maybe her mom had a safe somewhere with money to pay off Anthony. She picked up decorative boxes and frames filled with photos—photos of her, Miranda, Dad—looking for something that needed a key.

  There was nothing. Her mom would never have hidden the box or whatever it was in the bedroom, not the one she shared with Dad. Ariel stuffed the envelopes in her backpack and left the study. She peered down the stairs. Most of the kids were in the living room playing weird dare games. She could just make out a girl shoving marshmallows into her mouth, one by one, the kids egging her on and then laughing when she spit them out. Seriously, idiots. But there was no sign of Miranda or Dustin.

  She ran down the stairs, through the dining room, through the swinging door into the kitchen, then into the den. A bunch of kids were in there now, but still no Miranda. Ariel kept going to the stairway leading to the basement.

  Nerves made her slip and clatter down the thin wooden staircase, catching herself on the banister, stumbling into the dark space, but she managed to find the tiny chain that worked the lightbulb. The bulb cast a weak light, not much, but she managed to find a flashlight, then went through the basement. She was hardly breathing as she went through old metal lockers with no locks, cabinets, boxes. Nothing that needed a key.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” she cried, slamming the lid on a trunk, dust puffing up in the dank air.

  Crashing down onto a low work stool, she dropped her head into her hands. She was covered in dust and grime, her wild hair tangled, her clothes filthy. But she still didn’t have what she needed.

  She sat up all of a sudden. Would their mom have told Miranda something? Was that why Miranda had said they would talk later?

  Ariel hurtled up the stairs from the basement, her backpack banging side to side on her shoulders like a pendulum as she ran. In the den, two kids were now making out on the couch, the TV bl
aring, beer cans lying about the tables like crumpled tin soldiers. She raced through the swinging door from the den to the kitchen and then to the dining room and found a girl crying at the table, a friend trying to console her. She didn’t stop. In the foyer, another girl stood on the stairs sipping a beer, a guy leaning up against the banister, probably trying to convince her to go upstairs to one of the bedrooms.

  Ariel ran past them. Her shoulders had started to ache, so she pulled off her backpack as she entered the living room. Just then a cheer erupted, startling her. Two boys were stuffing the fireplace with old newspapers and flicking burning matches onto the paper. Every time they got a leap of flames, they cheered.

  These dopes were still trying to make s’mores. “You can’t do that! You’ll catch something on fire!”

  They didn’t even look at her.

  Two girls sat on the hearth, pulling out the graham crackers and chocolate, shoving marshmallows onto a couple of pens. The fire was messy, ash getting everywhere. Just the sight of the chocolate made Ariel desperately wish she was back in New York, sitting at the counter island in Portia’s kitchen, watching her work her magic with food. If only she’d never come out here.

  If only she’d never gotten in the car with her mother.

  Tears beat behind her eyes like prisoners trying to escape. Someone started retching and she jerked around. A kid was vomiting into one of her mom’s decorative brass pots. Three boys circled around him, laughing hysterically. “Lightweight! Lightweight!”

  One of them held a bottle of vodka. Probably her dad’s. Already empty.

  Just then, one of her mom’s tasseled pillows flew by her head. “Who the fuck are you, little girl?” a boy shouted, from where he slouched on the sofa, beer can in hand. Another boy, somehow looking older, sat there, his brow furrowed.

  She dropped her backpack and picked up the pillow, hugging it tight. “None of your business. Where’s Miranda?”

  A bunch of them whipped around to face her.

  “Freakin’ A. It’s Miranda’s sister.”

  Ariel hardly recognized Miranda’s new friend Becky. She had on a ton of makeup. “What the hell are you doing here?” Becky demanded. “You’re supposed to be in the city.”

  “Becks,” another girl said. “Cool it.” Then she smiled at Ariel, sweet, too sweet. “You want to play with us, Miranda’s sister?”

  “No. And you better get out of my house before I call the police.”

  The girl just laughed. “Seriously, you’re not that uncool, are you? Come on, do shots with us.”

  Her face felt hot and sweaty, her heart pounding even harder. “Where’s Miranda?”

  “What a baby!” Becky said, turning away. She saw Ariel’s backpack and yanked it up. “Do you have any money in here?”

  Ariel grabbed for it, but Becky leaped out of the way and started pawing inside. Journal, pens, multicolored socks spilled out. “That’s mine!” Ariel yelled.

  “We need money for booze,” Becky said, staying out of reach. “Your dad’s a freaking millionaire, everyone knows that. But all he had in this place was a few stinking bottles of Ketel One.”

  Ariel grabbed for the pack again, but Becky smirked and tossed it to another girl.

  Ariel pivoted and leaped for the other girl, who only laughed and threw the pack over her head to one of the guys, who tossed it to another kid in the foyer.

  It was like a game playing out in slow motion, until she realized that Becky was laughing even harder. She turned around to find the girl was holding her journal.

  “‘Musings of a Freak,’” Becky read, giggling madly. “You are a freak.”

  The music swirled through Ariel’s head like notes swimming through melting marshmallow. It took a moment to figure out that this awful girl was reading her thoughts out loud—her frustrations, her hopes, her fears—for everyone to hear. Part of her was mortified, and some other part pulsed with fury. But something else clawed at her and stung her nose.

  Smoke still puffed out into the room instead of going up the chimney. The boys making s’mores didn’t seem to care. One of them threw back a shot, then tossed his plastic cup into the fire, making the smoke smell so bitter she could taste it on her tongue.

  “Hey, moron—” she heard someone say, but then a big pop sounded and the fire flared up, and still none of the smoke went up the chimney.

  “Shit,” one of the boys said, falling back a step.

  “Yeah,” another said. “Son of a bitch, you’re a moron.”

  Somebody threw a glass of beer on the fire, but it didn’t go out.

  “Oh, no,” Ariel cried, swiping her nose with her sleeve, as it only got worse. She grabbed a beer can from the table and ran forward, too, but the can was empty. The fire popped, a flying ember hitting her sleeve. She stared in shock as her shirt started to burn.

  “Damn.” The cool boy from the sofa pushed up, tore off his jacket, and wrapped her arm with his coat. Then he grabbed a full water bottle from his pack and threw the contents onto the flames, and the fire sizzled and hissed as it went out. “Seriously, morons,” the guy muttered.

  Ariel dropped the empty can, and still, she couldn’t do anything but stare, her mouth open.

  The guy leaned down and looked her in the eye. “You’re okay, kid. Got it? Now go home. Get out of here. You’re too young to get involved with this crazy shit.”

  Her lip trembled.

  “You’re fine, kid, really.” He straightened and shook his head. “I’m out of here. If you want a ride, this is your chance.”

  She couldn’t move. She wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine.

  He shrugged and headed for the door. “I’m out of here.”

  She lost it then. She started crying in big, gasping sobs as she staggered back from the hearth. She dashed at her eyes, swiping away soot and tears and a year of holding on by a thread.

  She didn’t care what any of them thought of her. She couldn’t stop crying. It was all of it, the one tiny gesture of kindness from a stranger who walked out the door, the forgotten house, her mom, the dad who wasn’t really her dad, the lies she hadn’t known about, the life she didn’t know how to fix.

  Somebody put a hand on her shoulder and she twisted away, facing the fireplace, her body racked by tears, gasping as she tried to catch her breath. But all she managed to suck in was smoke.

  With a gasp of surprise, she felt her lungs squeeze, her throat going tight. Her eyes burned, and she felt them start to bug out. She told herself not to panic. She wheeled back around, looking for her backpack. Looking for Einstein. But he wasn’t there. Her backpack was gone.

  She opened her mouth to cough, but it wouldn’t come, just more smoke filled her mouth and nose.

  The kids started to murmur, their faces distorting. But she couldn’t move. Her legs felt wobbly, sounds overloud in her ears.

  “What’s wrong with her?” she barely heard.

  “Stop being a freak!” Becky shouted.

  “I think she’s having some sort of fit. Crap.”

  “She’s probably epileptic. She’s gonna froth!”

  “Damn, get me out of here.”

  The voices swelled in her head before growing distant. Then all of the sudden she saw Miranda run into the room. Ariel wanted to weep in relief when she felt her sister’s hands grabbing for her, hands circling her arms, rough and frantic. But a second later she realized that it was too late. Her head swam, the prisoners behind her eyes finally going quiet, the world going black.

  And she disappeared.

  Forty-one

  AS SOON AS Gabriel turned the Mercedes onto the narrow residential street, Portia knew for certain something was wrong. She felt it in the vibration of her thoughts, violets and watermelon flashing through her mind in a kaleidoscope of dread.

  Gabriel must have felt it, too. He cursed beneath his breath and hit the gas, every ounce of civilized man falling away.

  Portia had never been to New Jersey, much less to Montclair. The full m
oon cast silver light on the giant old houses that were set back from the road, built far apart, a gracious lawn rolling up to a sprawling Victorian with brilliant white latticework, followed by a stately redbrick Colonial, and finally a beautiful old Tudor, its slate roof shining like blue-black water in the bright night. The opposite side of the imposing street dropped off in a gentle cliff to even larger houses in the distance below.

  Outside the Tudor, cars lined the road, lights blazing inside.

  “The party,” Gabriel bit out, slamming on the brake in front of the house.

  Portia saw the teenagers coming and going. Gabriel double-parked in front of what she assumed was the Kanes’ New Jersey house. Cars filled the long, narrow driveway that disappeared around back. Gabriel raced to the front door.

  Portia was right behind him, unease filling her like hot water rising in a pan. It wasn’t the idea that someone was throwing a party at Gabriel’s house that concerned her. Something else quickened her pulse, a kind of horror that she couldn’t name.

  They were halfway across the lawn when kids started barreling out the front door, running and yelling at each other.

  Gabriel pushed past them like a beast possessed, Portia at his heels. At some level the opulence of the house registered along with the dread, the sure knowledge that she didn’t belong to this world, to this family. Robert’s sprawling home was nothing compared to this stately mansion, her family’s double-wide as foreign to this world as a mud hut on a Burmese hillside.

  “Dad!”

  Portia’s heart stood still when she ran into the living room. Miranda was a mess of tears and wrecked hair, mascara streaming down her face, looking like a crying child playing dress-up.