Linda Lee - The Glass Kitchen: A Novel of Sisters

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.

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 around 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.