“Doesn’t matter. She would tell you herself if they did. Our family always bore the brunt of some rumor. I swear, when our father died, people showed up to the funeral just to get the tea. We were a famously unhappy bunch. What else can I say? I will say, though, that she seems better than before. Not quite so...intense, is maybe the word. She’s looser, softer. I like her better this way.” Gabriella drains the rest of the wine as the sky finally darkens fully into night. She hiccups a little on the last drop. “Unless she’s good at hiding herself. Who knows? I only really knew her until I was nine.”

Downstairs, the apartment smells like a bakery, and the scent folds me in, a warm buzz expanding through my chest as the last drafts of wine kick in. Anneliese has really outdone herself, though. White tablecloth, lit candles, pots de crème garnished with raspberries and mint, cloth napkins I didn’t even know existed folded into exquisite shapes. A new bottle of wine sitting grandly in the middle of the table.

“Damn, Ann, what’s the occasion?” Gabriella sits down, pulls the cork out of the wine bottle and splashes more burgundy into her glass.

“Does there have to be one? Or can I just be celebrating all of us together? Alive and well?” Anneliese pulls my chair back, waiting for me to sit before she reclines herself.

“Sounds kind of suspicious to me, but I appreciate it.” Her spoon clangs against the porcelain as she takes her first bite. “Jesus, this is insane. Where did you learn to cook, again?” She takes another bite, and a dramatized murmur escapes her lips. “This is better than Jean-Georges, I swear to God.”

“Keep it down. I just got Jordan to go to sleep.” But I can tell Anneliese is basking in her sister’s friendly drunken glow. It’s cute to see, a little family moment that I’m privy to because this does seem like my family now. Gabriella’s conversation with me, her slow but sure way of bringing me in, has solidified that for me. I tuck into the pudding and close my eyes, savoring every nuance of the vivid flavors, made stronger by the sour taste of wine still on my tongue.

18

September 1996

She gets the call during the cake cutting. No one would have heard it, the phone’s shrill ring, not above the cadence of all those children’s voices, the moms’ and nannies’ too, wafting around the table and chairs placed in the shade under the sycamore with the swing. Insipid whispers of Happy Birthday from the grown-ups, screeches of discontent as one little boy is pulled away from the cake by his mother, a tiny fawn-like creature whose legs nearly give out with the effort of reining the boy in.