The Glass Kitchen Page 26

  She didn’t bother with the first two books. She went straight to the third volume. The one Gram had always said wasn’t for novices. The one she hadn’t read until now.

  She cracked the old spine and found spidery handwriting on the first page.

  Every kitchen should be filled with glass—to drink from, to see through, to reflect the light of a wonderful meal prepared with love. To ensure that the light is not lost, I have filled these pages with everything that has been passed down to me from earlier generations of Cuthcart women. I hope each generation to come will do the same.

  Imogen Cuthcart

  The Republic of Texas, 1839

  Portia started to read the fragile pages, first tentatively, then greedily. Images swirled as she read. Stews and roasts, herbs and spices, broth and gravy, cookies and pies. Sweet and sour. Joy and laughter, pain and sorrow. No life could be without these.

  The language was stilted, the meals old-fashioned, but the advice was progressive, considering how old the book must have been. Each time Portia came to a notation, she recognized the ones that her grandmother had made, modern takes on antiquated forms of cooking, be it the update of a gas oven from coal-stoked, or a mixer to replace beating a cake by hand.

  There were as many recipes for folk medicine as for meals. Obviously food had been the main source of healing for her forebearers. Gram had traded in her own version of food as a great healer, both physically and mentally. What surprised Portia was how each of these older, more complicated entries made so much sense to her, as if she already knew the wisdom she found copied down so carefully over the years, as if she had been born with a knowing that was far deeper than her ancestors’, truly deeper than her grandmother’s, as Gram had said.

  Portia turned the last page and the breath rushed out of her. Gram had written this page herself, years after the book was originally compiled.

  I dreamed a meal. A big meal. A final meal. I keep telling myself that it’s impossible to know for sure. My knowing is coming in fits and starts these days. But the images of food in this meal are strong, and I’ve been at this long enough to know, to feel certain, that when I see this meal, it will be time for me to stop. What I don’t know is what I will do when my turn is over, when it is time for me to pass the baton. How will I be able to bear it when my whole life has been the knowing?

  Though that shouldn’t be my worry. I should worry that I haven’t taught Portia what she needs to know. Why is it so hard for me to let go? Why is it so hard for me to teach her? Why won’t I let her read any of these books, and most especially this one?

  Because I’m jealous that she has always had more power than me, and if she reads it, she’ll realize that she doesn’t need me at all.

  The Meal

  Chile cheese and bacon-

  stuffed cherry tomatoes

  Pulled pork

  Endive slaw

  Potato pancakes

  Homemade catsup

  Portia stared at the entry. Her chest constricted.

  It wasn’t her selfishness coming to fruition through the food and the single place setting that had pushed Gram into the lightning. It had been Gram’s meal, Gram’s knowing, that had been realized in Portia’s cooking.

  She felt weak with relief, freed—a feeling followed quickly by a burst of frustrated anger.

  “It didn’t have to be that way, Gram,” she whispered to the empty room.

  If Portia had known her grandmother had lost the knowing, she would have worked with her to find a way forward for both of them. If she had known, she wouldn’t have fallen into the trap of living a half life with Robert. Trapped in a half life of guilt thinking she had made a meal that had killed her grandmother.

  But it also meant that now she finally knew how to move forward.

  Thirty-seven

  ARIEL CRAWLED OUT her window to the fire escape. She still hated the fire escape, but crawling out onto the thin metal stairs moved all her worry away from her disintegrating family and onto the fact that at any second, she could plunge to her death. Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration, but try telling that to her brain. Three stories above ground seemed really high when she was standing on two-foot-wide thin slates of metal.

  But tonight even the precariousness of her perch on the fire escape wasn’t helping. It had been a week since Portia had left them, and she needed someone to talk to. Not the Shrink. Not her dad. And definitely not Miranda, since Miranda was the person she needed to talk about. Which left Portia, and Portia was gone.

  Not that her dad was doing anything about it. Hello! He should have been dragging Portia back where she belonged—downstairs in the garden apartment that should have been hers.

  The thought of that made her smile, since Ariel had spent the whole first few weeks Portia had lived there calling it a basement. But just like Portia, Ariel had fallen in love with the old place.

  With her legs dangling off the sides, she rested her forearms and chin on the metal side slat and looked out at the big buildings all around her. It was so different here in New York from their house in New Jersey. There, the house nestled into the cliff, gardens built up the back side, with stone steps taking you higher and higher. Her mom had loved those gardens. It felt weird to think that if Portia ever saw them, she’d love them, too.

  Would Portia ever see their house? Maybe they would move back now that things were getting so awful with Miranda.

  The sound of the door opening to the garden broke the quiet.

  “Yep, I could easily live here.”

  Ariel scooted back against the wall. Peering through the floor slats, she watched as her uncle walked out into the garden. She couldn’t in a million years imagine her dad buying the place for Anthony to live in. The two guys practically hated each other. So it didn’t make sense.

  “Anthony, you don’t want to live here any more than Gabriel wants you here.”

  Her grandmother.

  Anthony laughed, a sound that didn’t seem very happy. “No, he doesn’t, does he? I can’t think of a better reason to move in. That should up the ante for what he’s willing to pay me. Or if he gives it to me, like he promised, I’ll sell the damn thing, take the money and run.”

  Her grandmother made a disgruntled noise, then walked back inside.

  This whole thing was about money. Ariel took a deep breath. If she could figure out a way to convince her dad to give his brother what he wanted, then Anthony would be gone. It made so much sense. It was perfect. It would make everyone happy. Well, not Miranda, but she couldn’t solve everything. But wasn’t she good at talking to her dad, getting him to see her point of view?

  Leaping up, she staggered, then grabbed the railing as she hurried as fast as she could down the zigzag of fire escape steps.

  Her uncle looked up. “Ariel, what the f—”

  She made it to the ground, safe, almost breathless, and gasped, “I’ll get you the money, Uncle Anthony!”

  “What?”

  “I can tell you don’t really want to live here! And Dad would hate it.”

  At the mention of his brother, Anthony’s face creased hard.

  “Don’t you see, it’s the perfect solution? I can make Dad see it. How much money do you want?”

  As the words hurtled out of her mouth, she felt all the pieces of her world finally coming together.

  “Why?” he said carefully. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because!” she blurted out, “I know you’re Miranda’s dad!”

  The words tumbled out before she could think them through, as if they had been dammed up and finally broken free. “I know you’re her real dad. And I think she knows it, too, which is why she’s acting worse and worse and getting in more and more trouble. It’s because you’re here and not being her dad, don’t you see? But you don’t want to be her dad, and if you stay, you make my dad mad. If you do stay, eventually something is going to explode and everything will come out, then everyone will know your secret, including my dad. Then
what’re you going to do?”

  “Miranda’s dad?” Uncle Anthony said. “What are you talking about? Jesus, I’m not Miranda’s dad. Have you lost your mind?”

  Ariel didn’t believe him for a second. “Just tell me, Uncle Anthony. Tell me how much it will take to make you go away?”

  His expression hardened, anger filling his eyes.

  She drew a sharp breath. “Sorry! That came out wrong, I swear. It’s just that we both know you’d be way happier not hanging out in New York. You love all that great mountain-climbing stuff, and wrestling with lions, or whatever it is you do.”

  “I do not wrestle lions.”

  He spaced the words in a really furious way. In fact, she’d never seen him so angry. “Sorry!” she repeated, thinking fast. “I swear, cross my heart, I won’t tell a soul about you being Miranda’s dad.”

  “I am not Miranda’s father.”

  “Okay, seriously. You’re forgetting who you’re talking to. Me. The smart one. Of course you are. I saw when my mom and dad got married. I know Miranda’s birthday. And your mom said you and my mom were in love before you left for Africa.” She was on a roll, every last bit of what she’d learned spilling out. “Don’t you see? If you stay, all you’ll do is make things worse. For yourself!” she added quickly. “I swear, I can find a way to convince him to give you more money.”

  “Ariel—”

  She had no idea she was crying until she felt the tears streaming down her face. “You have to go, Uncle Anthony. You can’t let anyone know you’re Miranda’s dad!”

  “Damn it, Ariel. I am not Miranda’s dad! I’m yours!”

  Thirty-eight

  A SOUND LIKE ocean waves rushed in Ariel’s ears and the world jerked.

  “What? No,” she breathed. “No, no, no.”

  Her head spun, images of her mother dancing through her mind, like the home movies running in slow motion. Mom laughing. Mom dancing. Mom and Anthony. Always Anthony coming back into their lives.

  Her mom had loved Anthony Kane, not his brother, Gabriel.

  And, worst of all, awful Uncle Anthony was … was her father.

  Ariel dashed back up the fire escape, Anthony muttering and cursing just behind her. But she didn’t stop, didn’t look back. She bolted up to Miranda’s window instead of hers before Anthony could get her, and banged.

  “What are you doing?” her sister demanded when she opened her window, Anthony flattened back into the shadows.

  Coward.

  The word rippled through her. The man who said he was her father was a coward. The one who was strong and great wasn’t her real dad. How could that be true?

  Ariel threw herself inside Miranda’s room. She wanted her to do something, make the awful words go away. She wanted her sister to look at her like she loved her, like she cared. She wanted someone in this wacky world to see her, not let her disappear any more.

  “Seriously, Ariel, what is your problem? You’re not allowed out there.”

  “Uncle Anthony says he’s my dad,” she whispered, realizing that her hands shook. “You don’t think it’s true, do you?”

  For half a second, Miranda’s eyes widened. Then her cell phone rang. “Look, if it’s true, it totally sucks. But I don’t believe it. As much as I like him, we both know he’d do just about anything to get up in Dad’s face.” Her phone rang again. “Seriously, forget him.” She flipped open her phone. “Hey, Dustin.”

  Her tone changed completely, her whole body going soft as she listened to whatever the Creep was saying.

  “I’m totally ready,” she said. “I’ll meet you at Port Authority. The DeCamp bus to New Jersey.”

  Ariel gaped. “You’re going to New Jersey?”

  “Shit, I’ve gotta go. I’ll meet you there.” She glared at Ariel. “Don’t you dare say a word. I’m already totally late. I’m going to the old house.”

  “What? Why?” Ariel gasped.

  “We’re going to … hang out.”

  “You’re going out there to have sex with him!”

  “What if I am? Are you going to be a total baby and tell Dad?”

  At the mention of their dad, Ariel felt her lip tremble.

  Miranda sighed, impatient. “Listen. We’ll deal with the whole dad thing tomorrow. I mean seriously, what are the chances that it’s true? Uncle Anthony can be so lame, and everyone knows he hates Dad. He probably said it just to be mean.”

  Ariel felt a sickening mix of gratitude that her sister said something nice and a sizzling worry about what Miranda was getting ready to do.

  “Why do you have to go all the way out there to … do it?”

  “Dustin thinks it will be fun. I shouldn’t even tell you this, but the first time is supposed to be special. He has a surprise for me.”

  “But he broke up with you! Now he’s saying you’ve got to go out to New Jersey to have special sex with him? That just seems weird.”

  “It is not weird! Kids go out to New Jersey all the time.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. We’re taking the bus. Totally easy.”

  “But what will Dad say when he finds out?”

  “He won’t find out. He thinks I’m spending the night with Becky.”

  “This is a really bad idea, Mir.”

  “Tell Dad, and you’re not my sister anymore.” Miranda said it flat and mean; then she grabbed her bag and slammed the door on the way out.

  * * *

  Ariel paced her bedroom. She felt sick and weird and terrified at the possibility that her dad wasn’t her dad. Panic stuck in her throat, making it hard to breathe.

  A lump swelled in her throat. What would she do if was true? What if Anthony took her away? What would she do if she had to go live with him? She couldn’t imagine her dad not being her dad. She couldn’t imagine him not coming in and checking on her in the middle of the night. After a whole life of him being Mr. Busy Working Guy, it seemed unfair that he’d get taken away now, when he was staying at home so much of the time.

  Her uncle had to be lying. Just like Miranda had said.

  The thoughts went round and round in her head until she felt as if she was going to throw up. But there was something else. Miranda had gone to New Jersey. To their old house.

  Ariel buckled over, clutching her stomach, other memories pressing in on her. The fact was, their old house held something she hadn’t wanted to face.

  “Do you remember my memory chest, Ariel?”

  The words hit Ariel hard, words she had refused to think about. They were her mother’s words as she lay trapped in the car, blood streaking down her face.

  “Mom,” Ariel had cried. She hadn’t cared about any chest. “You have to be okay!”

  Ariel had watched, terrified, as a tear rolled down her mom’s temple, into her hair. “You’re a big girl now, A.”

  “I’m only eleven!”

  “Nearly twelve,” her mother breathed.

  Ariel still hadn’t understood how she could be unhurt while her mom was such a broken mess. Plus, it was Ariel who had made her mom so angry that she had driven fast, too fast.

  “Ariel, pay attention.” Her mother had struggled to speak. Ariel had experienced the awful feeling that she was watching her mother disappear.

  “Listen to me, Ariel. I was an idiot. I didn’t think. But now you’ve got to find the box. It’s in my study. Upstairs. In a little cabinet behind my memory chest. You have to get the box.” She had tried to move and moaned. “Find it. Make sure you give it to Gabriel.”

  Ariel was crying by then, hard and loud. “What do you mean?”

  But her mom hadn’t answered, her eyes fluttering closed, and Ariel watched her mother disappear.

  “Mom! Mommy!”

  Police and firefighters had arrived on the scene, pulling Ariel out of the car. But they hadn’t been able to free her mom.

  Over a year had passed since then, and Ariel hadn’t done what her mom had asked. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with the chest, or
the box her mother must have hidden behind the chest. She had tried to pretend that her mother hadn’t even said the words. She had resented the Shrink for wanting her to remember. But Portia had said that sometimes you had to dig deep to find answers. Ariel had hated when Portia said that. But now she knew she had to do it.

  She flew to her stash of money, hoping she could catch up to Miranda. She’d have to sneak out of the house. So she wouldn’t run into her dad. Or non-dad.

  She swallowed back tears, shoved the money into her backpack, and made it out the front door without being caught.

  * * *

  It wasn’t nearly as hard to get out of Manhattan as Ariel had thought it would be. She’d been saving money since the whole city clerk-cab fiasco. Every chance she got she asked her dad for money for this and that. Her dad never asked to see the birthday presents she supposedly bought for her nonexistent friends. She wasn’t ever going to get caught in some random place again without enough money to get home.

  Who knew that the next “home” she would need to get back to would be her old one in New Jersey? That was weird.

  Of course she had always known that she’d have to go back someday.

  She took a taxi to the Port Authority Bus Terminal and made it on to a DeCamp bus without anyone questioning her. By then, she’d missed Miranda, probably by a couple of buses, but she managed it herself. Pretty soon she was looking out the window of the bus as it hurtled through the Lincoln Tunnel, focusing on the way her ears popped as they drove deeper under the Hudson River. Better than focusing on what she’d find when she got to Montclair.

  What would she do if she walked in on Miranda in bed with Dustin?

  A few tears escaped, but she used her sleeve to swipe them away and kept staring out the window so no one could see.

  When they came out of the tunnel, she saw the giant buildings of Manhattan standing like a wall of cement and glass just across the Hudson River. Twenty minutes later, the bus pulled into the parking lot by the Upper Montclair train stop. Everything looked the same as when they’d lived there before the accident. But of course it wasn’t. It felt like some weird awful song.