ACT I
the inheritance
Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.
William Shakespeare Macbeth,Act1,Scene5
Sometimes the smallest things are the biggest.
Like the slim rectangular box that sits at the bottom of my tote. Maybe just six inches long and two inches wide. Light, flimsy, its contents clatter when shaken. But it’s a whispering presence, a white noise buzzing in my consciousness.
Max, dapper in a houndstooth blazer and thin camel cashmere sweater, peers at the oversize menu, considering. As if he isn’t going to order the penne ala vodka and salad he always does. I hold mine, as well, perusing my options. As if I’m notgoing to get the pizza margherita, no salad. The tony Italian restaurant on Broadway across from my publisher’s office is packed, silverware clinking, conversations a low hum. Lots of business being done over sparkling waters and tuna tartare.
Outside the big picture window, beside which we sit, the river of traffic flows, horns and hissing buses, the screech of brakes, the occasional shout from annoyed drivers. Beneath all of that, I feel it, the presence of that slim box, so full of possibility.
The waitress takes our expected orders, deposits Max’s usual bottle of Pellegrino. I’m a tap water girl, but he pours me a glass, always the gentleman. I note his manicured nails, buffed and square, the white face of his Patek Philippe. No smartwatch for him. Max appreciates timepieces for their elegant union of form and function.
“So,” he says, placing the green bottle on the white tablecloth.
I don’t love the sound of that word. Max and I have known each other a long time. There’s a heaviness to it, a caution.
“So?”
“Your proposal.”
That’s why we’ve met for lunch, to discuss the proposal I’ve submitted for my new book.
He slips my proposal out of the slim leather folder he’s laid on the table between us.
“There’s a lot to like here.”
That’s publishing code for Idon’tlikeit. How many times did I say the same thing to authors I was editing?
I have always been a writer, scribbling in the nooks and crannies of my days, my foray into publishing just a stop on the road to the writing life. But Max never wanted to be anything else more than an editor, the one who helped talented writers do their best work.
“But?” I venture. He lifts his eyebrows, clears his throat.
Max and I met when we were both editorial assistants, fresh out of the Columbia Publishing Course. We were so eager to enter the world of letters, literature geeks seduced by what we imagined was the glitz and glamour of the industry. He climbed the corporate ladder, while I stayed up late, got up early, holed up on weekends to complete my first book.
By the time I had finished my first draft, Max was a young star editor at one of the biggest publishing companies in New York, the first person I asked to read my manuscript; he was the first person to say he believed in me, the first editor to buy something I’d written and to make me what I’d always wanted to be. A full-time writer.
He runs a hand through lustrous dark hair, which he wears a little long, takes off his tortoiseshell glasses. “I don’t know, Rosie. There’s just something—lacking.”
I feel myself bristle—lacking? But underneath the crackling of my ego, I think I know he’s right. The truth is—I’m not thatexcited about it. The belly of fire that you need to complete a project of this size, honestly, it’s just not there.
“There was so much fire in the first one,” says Max, holding me in the intensity of his gaze. He’s so into this—his job, this process. “There were so many layers—the justice system, the misogyny in crime reporting, the voices of the children. It really grabbed me, even in the proposal you submitted. I could see it. It was fresh, exciting.”
“And this isn’t.” I try and probably fail to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
He leans in, reaches a hand across the table. “It is. It’s just not as exciting. The first book, it was a success, a place from where we can grow. But the next book needstobebigger, better.”
Bigger. Better. What’s next? That’s the mantra of the publishing industry.
“No pressure,” I say, blowing out a laugh.
My first true-crime book was about the violent rape of a young Manhattan woman, the travesty of justice that followed where a man was wrongly convicted and the real criminal went free, then continued on to rape and kill three more women. It took me five years to research and write while working a full-time job as an editor. The book did well, not a runaway bestseller but a success by any measure. The moment was right for that book, post Me Too, where society was casting a new light on women wronged by men, looking at older stories through fresh eyes.
It’s been a year since the book came out, the paperback about to release soon. I can’t take five years to write another one.
Max puts a gentle hand on mine. His touch is warm and ignites memories it shouldn’t. His fingers graze my wedding and engagement rings, and he draws his hand back, steeples his fingers.
“Is this reallywhat you want to be writing?”
“Yes,” I say weakly. “I think so.”
“Look,” he says, putting his glasses back on. “You’ve had a lot on your plate.”
I’m about to protest but it’s true. My husband, Chad, and I had been taking care of Chad’s elderly uncle Ivan, who recently passed away. Between being there for Ivan, Chad’s only family, in the final stages of his illness, and now managing his affairs, it’s been a lot. Scary to watch someone you love die, so sad, sifting through the detritus now of his long and colorful life. Uncle Ivan—he was all we had. I’ve been estranged from my family for over a decade. His loss feels heavy, something we’re carrying on our shoulders. With the temperature dropping and the holidays approaching, there’s a kind of persistent sadness we’re both struggling under. Maybe it has affected my work more than I realized.
I think of that box in the bottom of my bag, that little ray of light. I am seized with the sudden urge to go home and tear it open.
“Look,” he says when I stay quiet. “Just take some time to think about it, go deeper. Ask yourself, ‘Is this the story I really want and
need to tell? Is it something people need to read?’ Make meexcited about it, too. We have time.”
We don’t, actually.
The money from the first book—it’s running out. Chad has a lowpaying gig in an off-off Broadway production. This city—it takes everything to live here. Our rent just went up and we need to decide whether or not we can afford to renew the lease. It’s just a onebedroom, five-story walk-up in the East Village, and we’re about to be priced out unless one of us gets paid a significant sum. Chad has an audition for another better-paying job, but things are so competitive, there’s no way to know if he even has a chance. It’s just a commercial, not something he’s excited about, but we need the cash.
Today he’s at the reading of Ivan’s will. But we don’t expect to inherit anything. Ivan died penniless. His only asset the apartment that will go to his daughter Dana.
Did I rush the proposal because I’m feeling desperate? Maybe.
The waitress brings our meal and I’m suddenly ravenous. We dig in. The pizza is good, gooey and cheesy. The silence between us, it’s easy, companionable, no tension even though it’s not the conversation I was hoping to have. Writers, we only want to hear how dazzling we are. Everything else hurts a little.
“You said there was a lot to like,” I say, mouth full. “What doyou like about it? Give me a jumping-off point to dive deeper.”
“I really like the occult stuff,” he says, shoving a big bite of penne into his mouth. It’s one of the things I love most about Max, his passion for good food. Chad is so careful about everything he eats, either losing or gaining weight for a role. “You kind of glossed over that.”
I frown at him. “I thought you didn’t like ghost stories.”
There were several supernatural elements to my last book—the little girl who dreamed about her mother’s death the day before it happened, how one of the children believed he communicated with his murdered sister through a medium. Both of those bits wound up on the cutting-room floor. Toowoo-woo, according to Max. Let’sstay groundedintherealworld.
“I don’tlike ghost stories—per se,” he says now. “But I like all the reasons why people thinka place is haunted. I like what it says about people, about places, about mythology.”
I feel a little buzz of excitement then. And that’s why every writer needs a good editor.
The proposal is about an iconic Manhattan apartment building on Park Avenue that has been home to famous residents including a bestselling novelist, a celebrated sculptor and a young stage and screen star. It’s also had far more than its fair share of dark events— grisly murders, suicides and terrible accidents. It’s a New York story, really—the history of the building, its unique architecture, how it was built on the site of an old church that burned down. I want to focus on each of the crimes, the current colorful cast of characters that resides there, and tell the stories of the people who died there— including Chad’s late uncle Ivan, a renowned war photographer.
I’ll still have access to the building, even though we’re almost done cleaning out Ivan’s things. His daughter, from whom Ivan hadn’t heard in years, even as he lay dying and Chad tried to call again and again, is now circling her inheritance. She wasn’t interested in Ivan, or his final days, his meager possessions. But the apartment—it’s worth a fortune. Anyway, I’ve befriended the doorman, Abi. He is a wealth of knowledge, having worked in the building for decades. I think he’s long past retirement age but doesn’t seem to have any plans to hang up his doorman’s uniform. Somefolksdon’tgetto leavetheWindermere,MissRosie, he joked when I asked him how much longer he planned to work. Someofusaredestinedtodie here.
“And I like the crimes,” Max says, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “So I think if we can tease some of those elements out, I can take it to the editorial meeting.”
The truth is I’m more excited about revising the proposal than I was about writing the book when I walked in here. He’s right. It’s not the architecture, the history of the building—it’s the darkness, the crimes, the people. The question—are there cursed or haunted places, some energy that encourages dark happenings? Or is it just
broken people doing horrible things to each other? A mystery. That’s what makes a great story. And story is king, even in nonfiction.
“I’ll get right to work,” I say. “Thanks, Max.”
“That’s what editors are for, to help writers find their way to their best book.” He looks pleased with himself. “Now, what’s for dessert?”
Outside, a loud screech of tires on asphalt draws my attention to the street just in time to see a bike messenger hit by a taxi. In a horrible crunching of metal and glass, the biker hits the hood. His long, lanky limbs flailing, flightless wings, he crashes into the windshield, shattering it into spider webs, then comes to land hard, crooked on the sidewalk right in front of the window beside us. I let out an alarmed cry as blood sprays on the glass, red-black and viscous.
Max and I both jump to our feet. I find myself pressing against the bloody glass as if I can get through it to the injured man. I’m fixated on him, then remembering Ivan, those last shuddering breaths he took.
The biker’s eyes, a shattering green, stare. His right leg and left arm are twisted at an unnatural angle, as if there’s some unseen hand wrenching his body. I reach for my phone, but Max is already on his. We’vewitnessedanaccident,onBroadwaybetweenFifty-Fifth andFifty-Sixth,outsideSerafina.Amanisbadlyinjured.
He’sdead, I want to correct him. But I don’t. Once you’ve seen the look of death, you recognize it right away. It’s a kind of vacancy, a light lost, something fled. Those green eyes are empty, beyond sight. A stylish young woman in a long black coat and high heels runs up to the twisted form and drops to her knees while she’s talking on the phone.
She puts a tender hand to his throat, checking expertly for a pulse. Then, she starts to scream. Her screaming, so helpless, so despairing —does she know him? Help.Help.Somebodyhelphim.Or does she, too, recognize that look? Does it connect her as it does me to every loss she’s ever known?
I’m still pressing against the glass, transfixed.
A crowd gathers, blocking the man from sight. In minutes, an ambulance arrives. There’s a frenzy of angry honking horns, people
frustrated that their trips have been delayed by yet another accident. Max moves over to me, puts a strong arm around my shoulders.
“Are you okay? Rosie, say something.”
I realize then that I’m weeping. Fat tears pouring down my cheeks. Turning away from the scene on the street, and into Max’s arms, I let him hold me a moment. I take comfort in his familiar scent, the feel of him.
“I’m okay,” I say, pulling away finally.
“You sure?” he says, face a mask of concern. “That was—awful.”
We sit back down in stunned silence. Time seems to warp. Finally, the man is shuttled away in an ambulance, and the crowd disperses. We’re still at our lunch table, helpless to do or change anything. How long did it all take? Someone from the restaurant steps outside, dumps a bucket of soapy water over the blood that has pooled there. Then he uses a squeegee to wash the blood from the window right next to me but instead just smears it in a hideous, wide, red swath.
I get up quickly, almost knocking over my chair. The rest of the diners have gone back to their meals. The show is over; everyone returns quickly to their lives. As it should be, maybe. But I am shaken to my core. So much blood. I feel sick.
“I have to get out of here. I’m sorry.”
Max rises, too. He tells the hostess he’ll come back for the bill, then shuttles me outside and hails a cab. The traffic is flowing again, and one pulls up right away.
“You’re so pale,” Max says again, opening the door. He presses a hand on my shoulder. “Let me pay the bill and run you home?”
“No, no,” I protest, embarrassed to be so rattled. “It’s fine.”
I just can’t stop shaking.
“Call me when you get in,” he says. “Let me know you got home safe.”
Then I’m alone in the back of the cab, the driver just a set of eyes in the rearview mirror, city noise muffled, Max’s worried form growing small behind me. My pulse is racing and my mind spinning. What just happened? What wasthat?
An accident. One of hundreds that happen in this city every single day. I just happen to have been unlucky enough to witness it.
My father would surely declare it an omen of dark things to come. But he and I don’t share the same belief system. I haven’t spoken to him in years; amazing that I still hear his voice so clearly.
The cab races through traffic, dodging, weaving, the cabbie leaning on his horn. I dig through my tote and find the little white, blue and purple box, pull it out so that I can put my eyes on it. A pregnancy test.
In the face of death and loss, what do we need most? Hope. Life.
I can’t get home fast enough.
I let myself in through the heavy grated metal street door, check the mail, which contains only bills and useless fliers. Then I walk up the five stories to our apartment. I’m still a bit shaky, but the bike messenger accident is already fading some.
I guess that makes me a real New Yorker, now indifferent to the misery of others. New York City, as much as I love it, is an assault, a daily punch in the face. You do have to shut down a bit to survive its noise, odors, catcalls, lurking predators, its violence. I find myself revising the event. It wasn’t that bad. Maybe he was just stunned, not dead. He’ll be injured, of course, but ultimately live to messenger another day. Right? Right.
By the time I’ve reached the fifth floor, I almost believe it. I unlock our apartment door and push inside. I am hoping Chad will be home already, but he’s not.
The apartment is sun-washed and tidy, and I feel some of my tension drain as I kick off my heels and pad across the wood floor. Despite my desperate revision of the event, I’m still flashing on the sight of the man hitting the windshield, hearing that crunch of metal, seeing that spray of blood. Underneath that, there’s a current of deep disappointment that the meeting didn’t go the way I had hoped. After hanging my coat and tote on the hooks in the hallway, I carry my little box right into the bathroom.
I’m two weeks late.
This is it.
The absolute worst time to have a baby when we’re both broke, our futures uncertain. But I don’t care. This is the thing I want more than I want any other thing—a baby, a family. My whole body, my heart, aches for it. I stalk playgrounds and offer to babysit the children of our friends. I browse baby names online and gaze longingly at images of stylish nurseries on Pinterest. It’s not just me; Chad wants this, too. We so badly hope to create the family neither
one of us have. I’m estranged from mine; Chad’s parents both died too young in a car accident. Now that Ivan’s gone, we’re alone.
We’ll make this work. This baby. This life. We will. He’ll get this commercial. I’ll rework my proposal and Max will love it.
In the dim yellow light coming in from the thin frosted bathroom window, I lay out the kit on the porcelain sink. I read the instructions carefully, just to be sure I’m doing everything right—even though I’ve done this plenty of times, the enterprise always resulting in another disappointment. In the end, though, it just comes down to peeing on the stick. I do that, place the little lid over it and lay it down.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror, which has a little chip out of the corner. My face, framed by wild dark hair, frowns in concentration, squinting a little from staring at the tiny type. My resting worried face. When left to its own devices, my brow wrinkles; the corners of my mouth turn down. I force a smile at my reflection.
“You’ve got this,” I tell the girl in the mirror. I am not sure she believes me.
Fifteen minutes. Not more. Not less.
In the living room, I sink onto the couch we bought with my first big advance payment. It seems a silly expense now, more than some people might pay for a used car. But it is as plush and ensconcing as a hug; it embraces me. I grab the cashmere throw, another aspirational purchase, and wrap it around my shoulders.
Breathe.
I check my phone. No word from Chad. I wonder how the audition went. I envision him waiting in a room with other similarly handsome, charming actor types. But he’s the best. He has real talent, and it’s just a matter of time before someone sees that. From there he was going to the reading of Ivan’s will. His location is unavailable. I refresh. Refresh. Nothing.
A text from Max: You home?
Sorry, I shoot back. I’m home. I’m fine. You?
That was horrible. I keep thinking about that poor guy. His leg. You think he’s okay?
No, definitely not. Instead, I type: I’m sure he is. The ambulance got there so fast.
I flash on the twisted form of the biker, the swath of blood on the window, push it away. No, I don’t want that image in my head.
Outside the old, mullioned windows there’s a view of other apartments, the fire escape, the alleyway between buildings. Most of the windows across from our apartment are empty, dark, spaces occupied by people with actual jobs that require them to be gone during the day.
But she’s home, the young mother with her toddler. He’s in his high chair; she’s on the phone. Dark hair up, dressed in a yoga tank and tie-dye leggings, she’s graceful and swift. She’s talking to the baby now, though I can’t hear her through the closed window. She taps his nose with the tip of a delicate finger. The baby looks up at her, adoring, laughs. I feel a pang. I watch them more often than is reasonable.
Seven minutes.
I jump when the buzzer rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Urgent. Angry? Probably just some weirdo. I wait. Maybe they won’t ring again.
Again, long and loud.
This time I answer. “Who is it?”
“It’s Dana.”
Dana? Chad’s cousin? Why is she here? She and I have never even met in person.
“Oh, hey,” I say into the intercom box. What does she want?
Eight minutes.
“Can I come up?” There’s a churlish edge to her tone.
“Uh, sure.” A quick glance around the apartment. It’s neat enough. “But Chad’s not here.”
She doesn’t say anything, so I press the buzzer and open the apartment door. I hear the gate clang and she hoofs it up five flights, footfalls echoing loudly. Finally, a striking redhead, dressed in a sweeping blue coat, tight jeans, thigh-high boots, arrives on the landing. She’s panting after the exertion.
“Fuck,” she says between breaths. “That’s a lot of stairs.”
“Yeah.” I step aside so she can enter the apartment. “You get used to it. I’m Rosie, Chad’s wife. He’s not here.”
She stays in the hallway, looks me up and down, makes some kind of an assessment that I can’t read. Then, a smirk. “You’re just his type.”
I smile uncertainly. What does that mean? Like she knows him, knows me. She doesn’t.
I steal a glance at my phone. Ten minutes.
“Come in.” But she stays rooted.
“Well,” she says, looking around. “The Windermere will be a big upgrade for you two, won’t it?”
The flush on her cheeks, I’m getting, is only half from effort. The other half is from anger.
“I’m sorry. What?”
But she doesn’t seem to hear me.
“You know what my father gave me in this life?” she asks. Her mineral-blue eyes blaze, but her bluster doesn’t fool me. All I see is sadness, loss.
“Nothing,” she says when I don’t answer. “Absolutely. Fucking. Nothing.”
Jointheclub, I want to say, thinking of my own father, but it doesn’t seem like she’s looking to bond. Her stare is hard and unyielding.
“Do you want to come in? Have some water?”
But she’s obviously lost to her anger.
“Ivan was a drunk,” she goes on. “He beat my mother. Did you know that?”
I shake my head.
“Then he left us. Like with nothing. My mom struggled all her life to take care of us. The whole world lauded him, you know, for his art. But you know what he gave us? Nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. And I am. Ivan was good to me—kind, loving, a father figure even though I didn’t know him that long. But he wasn’t my father; we didn’t have any history, any baggage. “He regretted it, that he wasn’t a good father to you. Deeply.”
He hadadmitted his failings as a father and a husband. I don’t know if he regretted it necessarily. He was practical about his flaws. But it seemed like the right thing to say to her now. Wrong.
She lifts a pale, hard palm. “Don’t.”
Dana is a beauty with high cheekbones and a wide, full mouth. I can see Ivan’s cool intelligence in her eyes. Her brows are perfect arches, crinkling now in anger and sadness.
“He was a monster,” she says.
I want to tell her that he wasn’t. But I stay quiet, look down at the black-and-white tiles on the ground. I could say the same thing about my father. And I would fight anyone who disagreed with me.
She glances up at the ceiling, still breathing hard, then gives a slow shake of her head. “Do you ever look at them? His photographs. All those images of mayhem and gore. His portraits of war criminals. The battlefield shots, the corpses of children, the burned villages.”
“He was a warphotographer,” I say. “But no, I haven’t spent a lot of time looking at his work.”
“Right, because you’re a decent human being. You turn away from images of violence. But think about it. He was there, watching, doing nothing, just taking pictures. He was a voyeur, someone who gazed upon disaster, murder, death, and did nothing but watch.”
I never thought about it that way. Maybe she has a point. Or maybe she’s just demonizing him because it’s easier to hate him than it is to be the sad, abandoned little girl of a man who couldn’t love her.
“I think he saw it as bearing witness, reporting the truth,” I venture.
“Sure,” she says with a derisive laugh. “That sounds like him.”
I smell the light floral of her perfume, notice a simple wedding band on her left hand.
“Do you know what my father left me in death?”
I shake my head. She planned this, obviously. It’s not hard to predict what she’s going to say.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“The apartment—” I start.
“Is yours.” She stares at me hard.
“What? No.”
Uncle Ivan didn’t have much. His savings had dwindled to almost nothing. We knew that because we helped him pay his bills, even as
we struggled to meet our own. Toward the end wewere buying his groceries, helping to cover the building’s exorbitant maintenance fee, even though he’d paid off the apartment long ago. Luckily, Ivan served in the military before his career as a photographer, so he had decent health insurance, and all those bills were covered. Dana, his angry daughter, contributed nothing toward the end, even after repeated calls from Chad, asking for her help.
“I came in for the reading of the will. I expected that he’d leave the apartment to me since I’m his only living child. It was the very least he could do, but it seems he left it to you and your husband jointly, that he veryrecentlychanged his wishes.”
This is not possible. Ivan told me himself that he wanted it to go to Dana.
I’m about to say so when the door downstairs squeals open, then clangs shut. There are footfalls on the stairs. The gait is brisk and sure. It must be Chad.
Twelve minutes.
“I don’t know what to say, Dana.”
She takes a step forward, and I retreat, her energy pushing me back. “How about you say that you’ll sign the apartment over to me? That would be the right thing to do.”
“Dana?”
We both turn to see Chad jog up the final flight.
He’s golden, with a thick mane of straw-colored curls, faceted hazel eyes. He’s broad in the shoulders, fit and lean through the body. He has a strong jaw, just the smattering of stubble, stylishly left behind. My husband—he’s a movie star. He just hasn’t been discovered yet. Still, most women swoon in his presence. Even I do—his wife who knows all his faults and foibles.
Dana glares at him, puts a hand to her throat.
“What are you doing here?” he asks. There’s that little notch between his eyebrows that he gets when he’s angry or worried.
She takes a step back to let him walk by.
“I was just leaving,” she says. “And you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
“Don’t do this, Dana,” he says, sounding weary. “I’m as surprised as you are.”
Chad is clutching a big manila envelope. I’m starting to connect the dots.
“Like you didn’tknow,” she says, seething. “Like you didn’t plan this allalong.”
“And where wereyou?” he asks, angry now. “When Ivan was dying?”
She shakes her head, jaw tensed, looking back and forth between me and Chad. Her eyes fill with tears, hands shaking.
“Do you have any idea who you married?” she hisses at me. “Run while you still can, Rosie.” So much sadness, rage. I take another step back, wrap my arms around my middle.
With that, she turns and heads toward the stairs. “Trust me, this isn’t over,” she calls back.
“Dana,” Chad says as she storms away, her heels tapping a staccato beat. He walks to the banister and yells down, “Dana, let’s talk about this.”
But we hear the clang of the door downstairs carry up. She’s gone. We both stand a moment, stunned. Finally, he drops an arm around me and ushers me inside the apartment.
“What was that about?” I ask. I’m antsy to get to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes have passed.
He drops onto the couch, staring at the envelope in his hands.
“Rosie,” he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Ivan left us the apartment.”
All our luck has been bad lately. It doesn’t seem possible that we could receive such a boon, this change of fortune. If you can consider it good fortune to take what probably truly belongs to someone else. I don’t allow myself to accept it, push away, still focused on my other hopes.
“Give me a second,” I say. He nods, opening the envelope, lifting out the documents. Two sets of keys clatter to the distressed wood coffee table.
In the bathroom, I lock the door and close my eyes. Please,please, please.
But when I open them again, my heart sinks hard into the pit of my stomach. Just one blue line. I bite back my tears of disappointment, brace against its powerful waves. We haven’t been trying that long, I tell myself. It shouldn’t hurt this much. We’re young. It’s reallynot a good time to be having a baby.
I sit on the toilet and focus on my breath.
Then, I wrap it all up—the test, the wrapper, the box—in tissues and toss it into the wastepaper basket. I haven’t told Chad that my period is late. No reason to bring him on the roller-coaster ride with me. I stare at myself in the mirror, look into my own dark eyes, run my fingers through the thick waves of my hair and put on a smile worthy of my actor husband. Pullyourselftogether .
When I step back outside, Chad is staring at the keys in his hand.
“It’s ours,” he says. “It’s all right here. The keys, the deed, the coop documents.”
“That’s—wow,” I say, sitting beside him.
“Oh, my God, Rosie,” he says, grabbing both my hands. “That place. It’s worth a fortune.”
A two-bedroom apartment with stunning views and washed with lights in a prewar building with a doorman. Hardwood floors, towering ceilings, a working fireplace. I can hardly bring myself to imagine us there.
“It’s hard to celebrate this,” he says. “Because Ivan’s gone. But wow.”
I don’t want to say what I’m thinking because I’m the pragmatist and he’s the dreamer. But what are the taxes on an inheritance like that? That maintenance—it’s huge. Can we even afford to inherit something worth that much?
“What about Dana?” I think about the angry flush on her cheeks, the sadness in her eyes.
He lifts his shoulders. “What about her? Where was she when Ivan was dying? I mean, she never even called. He hadn’t spoken to her in over a decade.”
It’s complicated, I want to tell him, when you’re estranged from your parents. Would I go home if I learned my father was on his
deathbed? I can’t say. Maybe not. But then again, I wouldn’t expect an inheritance, either.
“She’s going to sue us for it,” I say, thinking about the angry flush on her cheeks, her parting threat.
He seems to consider, looking at the documents that are spread out, the two sets of keys that catch the meager light coming in from the window. “Let her.”
“Rosie,” he says, pulling me closer, leaning in. His eyes search my face. “It’s okay to be happy about this. Be happy for us.”
Then we’re making out, the apartment and everything else forgotten. The heat between us comes up fast; it always does. We haven’t been married that long, less than a year, just a simple affair at city hall, a gathering of friends at our favorite bar afterward. We keep promising each other a honeymoon, but we’ve been hustling so much to make ends meet, to take care of Ivan, it hasn’t happened.
His lips on my neck, his hands tearing at my white silk blouse. It falls to the floor and then I’m unzipping his jeans, hiking up my skirt and climbing on top of him. He slides easily inside me, hard, hungry. I let the passion take me as he puts his lips to my breast. It’s fast and intense, hot. I push myself deeper and he drops his head back in pleasure, groans, helpless. I put my lips on the soft flesh of his exposed throat. His arms close around me. Everything but this is gone.
“Rosie,” he whispers. “I love you so much.”
Bottle rockets of pleasure shoot through me as he climaxes with a moan that sounds like pain, and my body answers with a shuddering orgasm. I drop against him, my gaze falling outside. I forgot to pull the shades. All the windows are dark except one. The yoga mom is standing there watching us. She must have seen the whole thing.
Luckily, I’m not the shy type. When she sees me looking, she turns away, embarrassed, and shuts the shade hard. I giggle to myself, tell Chad about the yoga mom, remark how we should be more careful.
“Authors gone wild,” he says. We both get a laugh out of that one.
I keep my gaze out the window, wondering if anyone else saw. There’s a painter on the top floor; sometimes he works all night. There are a couple of young women on three who look like they have
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TO PURIFY YEAST FOR BREAD OR CAKES.
The yeast procured from a public brewery is often so extremely bitter that it can only be rendered fit for use by frequent washings, and after these even it should be cautiously employed. Mix it, when first brought in, with a large quantity of cold water, and set it by until the following morning in a cool place; then drain off the water, and stir the yeast up well with as much more of fresh: it must again stand several hours before the water can be poured clear from it. By changing this daily in winter, and both night and morning in very hot weather, the yeast may be preserved fit for use much longer than it would otherwise be; and should it ferment rather less freely after a time, a small portion of brown sugar and a little warm milk or other liquid, stirred to it a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes before it is required for bread-making, will restore its strength.
The German yeast, of which we have spoken in detail in another part of this chapter, makes exceedingly light bread and buns, and is never bitter; it is therefore a valuable substitute for our own beeryeast, but cannot be procured in all parts of the country, for the reasons which we have stated.
THE OVEN.
A brick oven, heated with wood, is far superior to any other for baking bread, as well as for most other purposes. The iron ovens, now commonly attached to kitchen-ranges—the construction of which has within these few years been wonderfully improved— though exceedingly convenient, from the facility which they afford for baking at all hours of the day, do not in general answer well for bread, unless it be made into very small loaves or rolls, as the surface becomes hardened and browned long before the heat has sufficiently penetrated to the centre of the dough. The same objection often exists to iron-ovens of larger size, which require care and management, to ensure the successful use of them. A brick oven should be well heated with faggot wood, or with a faggot, and two or three solid logs; and after it is cleared, the door should be closely shut for quite half an hour before the baking commences: the heat will then be well sustained for a succession of bread, pies, cakes, and small pastry. The servant who habitually attends at an oven will soon become acquainted with the precise quantity of fuel which it requires, and all other peculiarities which may be connected with it.
A FEW RULES TO BE OBSERVED IN MAKING BREAD.
Never use too large a proportion of yeast, as the bread will not only become dry very speedily when this is done, but it will be far less sweet and pleasant in flavour than that which is more slowly fermented, and the colour will not be so good: there will also be a great chance of its being bitter when brewer’s yeast is used for it. Remember that milk or water of scalding heat poured to any kind of yeast will render the bread heavy. One pint of either added quite boiling to a pint and a half of cold, will bring it to about the degree of warmth required. In frosty weather the proportion of the heated liquid may be increased a little.
When only porter-yeast—which is dark-coloured and bitter—can be procured, use a much smaller proportion than usual, and allow much longer time for it to rise. Never let it be sent to the oven until it is evidently light. Bitter bread is unpalatable, but not really unwholesome; but heavy bread is particularly so.
Let the leaven be kneaded up quickly with the remainder of the flour when once it is well risen, as it should on no account be allowed to sink again before this is done, when it has reached the proper point; and in making the dough, be particularly careful not to render it too lithe by adding more liquid than is requisite. It should be quite firm, and entirely free from lumps and crumbs throughout the mass, and on the surface also, which ought to be perfectly smooth.
In winter, place the bread while it is rising sufficiently close to the fire to prevent its becoming cold, but never so near as to render it hot. A warm thick cloth should be thrown over the pan in which it is made immediately after the leaven is mixed, and kept on it until the bread is ready for the oven.
HOUSEHOLD BREAD.
Put half a bushel (more or less, according to the consumption of the family) of flour into the kneading tub or trough, and hollow it well in the middle; dilute a pint of yeast as it is brought from the brewery or half the quantity if it has been washed and rendered solid, with four quarts or more of lukewarm milk or water, or a mixture of the two; stir into it, from the surrounding part, with a wooden spoon, as much flour as will make a thick batter; throw a handful or two over it, and leave this, which is called the leaven, to rise before proceeding further. In about an hour it will have swollen considerably, and have burst through the coating of flour on the top; then pour in as much more warm liquid as will convert the whole, with good kneading, and this should not be spared, into a firm dough, of which the surface should be entirely free from lumps or crumbs. Throw a cloth over, and let it remain until it has risen very much a second time, which will be in an hour, or something more, if the batch be large. Then work it lightly up, and mould it into loaves of from two to three pounds weight; send them directly to a well heated oven, and bake them from an hour and a half to an hour and three-quarters.
Flour, 1/2 bushel; salt (when it is liked), 4 to 6 oz.; yeast, 1 pint unwashed, or 1/2 pint if purified; milk, or water, 2 quarts: 1 to 1-1/2 hour. Additional liquid as needed.
Obs.—Brown bread can be made exactly as above, either with half meal and half flour mixed, or with meal only. This will absorb more moisture than fine flour, and will retain it rather longer. Brown bread should always be thoroughly baked.
Remark.—We have seen it very erroneously asserted in one or two works, that bread made with milk speedily becomes sour. This is never the case when it is properly baked and kept, and when the milk used for it is perfectly sweet. The experience of many years, enables us to speak positively on this point.
BORDYKE BREAD.
(Author’s Receipt.)
Mix with a gallon of flour a large teaspoonful of fine salt, make a hollow in the centre, and pour in two tablespoonsful of solid, well purified yeast, gradually diluted with about two pints and a half of milk, and work it into a thick batter with the surrounding flour, strew a thick layer over and leave it to rise from an hour to an hour and a half; then knead it up with as much more warm skimmed milk, or half new milk and half water, as will render it quite firm and smooth without being very stiff; let it rise another hour, and divide it into three loaves; put them into square tins slightly buttered, or into round baking pans, and bake them about an hour and a quarter in a wellheated oven. The dough can be formed into household loaves if preferred, and sent to the oven in the usual way. When a finer and more spongy kind of bread is required for immediate eating, substitute new milk for skimmed, dissolve in it about an ounce of butter, leave it more liquid when the sponge is set, and let the whole be lightly kneaded into a lithe dough: the bread thus made will be excellent when new, and for a day or so after it is baked, but it will become dry sooner than the other.
Flour, 1 gallon; salt, 1 teaspoonful; skimmed milk, 2-1/2 pints, to rise from 1 to 1-1/2 hour. Additional milk, 1 to 2 pints: to rise 1 hour. 3 loaves, baked 1-1/4 hour.
Obs. 1.—A few spoonsful of cream will wonderfully improve either of the above receipts, and sweet buttermilk, substituted for the other, will give to the bread the shortness of a cake: we would particularly recommend it for trial when it can be procured.
Obs. 2.—Shallow round earthen pans answer much better, we think, than tins for baking bread; they should be slightly rubbed with butter before the dough is put into them.
GERMAN YEAST.
(And Bread made with German Yeast.)
This has very generally superseded the use of English beer-yeast in London, and other places conveniently situated for receiving quickly and regularly the supplies of it which are imported from abroad; but as it speedily becomes putrid in sultry weather, and does not in any season remain good long after its arrival here, it is unsuited for transmission to remote parts of the country. Bread made with it while it is perfectly sweet, is extremely light and good, and it answers remarkably well for light cakes and biscuits. An ounce is the proportion which we have always had used for a quartern (half a gallon or three pounds and a half) of flour, and this, with the addition of some salt and nearly a quart of milk, or milk and water, has produced excellent bread when it has been made with care. The yeast should be very gradually and perfectly moistened and blended with the warm liquid; for unless this be done, and the whole rendered smooth as cream, the dough will not be of the uniform texture which it ought, but will be full of large hollow spaces, which are never seen in well-made bread. The mass should be mixed up firmly and well kneaded at once, then left to rise for about an hour; again kneaded thoroughly, and again left to rise from three-quarters of an hour to an hour; then divided, and lightly worked up into loaves, put into round slightly buttered earthen pans, and sent immediately to the oven. [187]
187. We give the proportions used and the exact manner of making this bread, which we have had followed for more than twelve months, with entire success.
A leaven may be first laid with the yeast, and part of the liquid when it is preferred, as directed for bread made with beer-yeast, but the result will be equally good if the whole be kneaded up at once, if it be made quite firm.
PROFESSOR LIEBIG’S BAVARIAN BROWN BREAD.
(Very nutritious and wholesome.)
Baron Liebig pronounces this bread to be very superior to that which is made with fine flour solely, both in consequence of the greater amount of nutriment which it contains, and from its slight medicinal effect, which renders it valuable to many persons accustomed to have frequent recourse to drugs, of which it supersedes the necessity. It is made with the wheat exactly as it is ground, no part being subtracted, nor any additional flour mingled with it. He directs that the wheat should not be damped before it is prepared: but few millers can be found who will depart from their ordinary practice to oblige private customers; and this determined adherence to established usage intervenes constantly between us, and all improvement in our modes of preparing food. The bread is made in the usual way, with water only, or with a portion of milk added to the yeast, as taste or convenience may dictate. The loaves should be well baked at all times; and the dough should of course be perfectly light when it is placed in the oven. Salt should be mixed with the meal before the yeast is added.
ENGLISH BROWN BREAD.
This is often made with a portion only of the unbolted meal recommended in the preceding receipt, mixed with more or less of fine flour, according to the quality of bread required; and in many families the coarse bran is always sifted from the meal, as an impression exists that it is irritating to the stomach. If one gallon of meal as it comes from the mill, be well mixed with an equal measure of flour, and made into a dough in the manner directed for white household bread, the loaves will still be sufficiently brown for the general taste in this country, and they will be good and wholesome, though not, perhaps, so entirely easy of digestion as Baron Liebig’s Bavarian bread.
UNFERMENTED BREAD.
This bread, in which carbonate of soda and muriatic acid are substituted for yeast or other leaven, has within these few years been highly recommended, and much eaten. It may possibly suit many persons better than that which is fermented in the usual way, but it is not in general by any means so pleasant in flavour; and there is much more chance of failure in preparing it in private families, as it requires some skill to mix the ingredients with exactness and despatch; and it is absolutely necessary that the dough should be set into the oven the instant it is ready. In some hydropathic and other large establishments, where it is always supplied to the table in lieu of the more common kinds, it is, we have been informed by patients who had partaken of it there for many months together, exceedingly and uniformly good. More detailed information with regard to it, will be found in our “Cookery for Invalids,” a work for which our want of space in the present volume compels us to reserve it.
“For each pound of flour (or meal) take forty grains of sesquicarbonate of soda, mix it intimately with the sugar and flour, then add fifty drops of muriatic acid of the shops, diluted with half a pint of water, or with as much as may be requisite to form the dough, stirring it constantly into a smooth mass. Divide it into a couple of loaves, and put them immediately into a quick oven.” Bake them thoroughly.
Author’s note.—Dr. Pereira, from whose book on diet the substance of the above receipt is taken, says that delicious bread was made by it in his presence by the cook of Mr. John Savory, of Bond Street, equal to any bread fermented by the usual process. We would suggest that the soda, mixed with the sugar, and a small portion of the flour, should be rubbed through a hair sieve with a wooden spoon into the remainder of the flour, and stirred up with it until the whole is perfectly mingled, before the liquid is added. Should lighter bread be desired, the soda may be increased to fifty or even sixty grains, if the quantity of acid be proportionately
augmented. As common salt is formed by the combination of these two agents, none beside is needed in the bread.
Flour, 1 lb.; sesquicarbonate of soda, 40 grains; sugar, 1 teaspoonful; muriatic acid of the shops, 50 drops; water, 1/2 pint (or as needed).
POTATO BREAD.
One pound of good mealy potatoes, steamed or boiled very dry, in the ordinary way, or prepared by Captain Kater’s receipt (see Chapter XVII.), and rubbed quite hot, through a coarse sieve, into a couple of pounds of flour, with which they should be well mixed, will produce excellent bread, which will remain moist much longer than wheaten bread made as usual. The yeast should be added immediately after the potatoes. An ounce or two of butter, an egg and some new milk, will convert this bread into superior rolls.
DINNER OR BREAKFAST ROLLS.
Crumble down very small indeed, an ounce of butter into a couple of pounds of the best flour, and mix with them a large saltspoonful of salt. Put into a basin a dessertspoonful of solid, well-purified yeast, and half a teaspoonful of pounded sugar; mix these with half a pint of warm new milk; hollow the centre of the flour, pour in the yeast gradually, stirring to it sufficient of the surrounding flour to make a thick batter; strew more flour on the top, cover a thick double cloth over the pan, and let it stand in a warm kitchen to rise. In winter it must be placed within a few feet of the fire. In about an hour, should the leaven have broken through the flour on the top, and have risen considerably in height, mix one lightly-whisked egg, or the yolks of two, with nearly half a pint more of quite warm new milk, and wet up the mass into a very smooth dough. Cover it as before, and in from half to three-quarters of an hour turn it on to a paste-board, and divide it into twenty-four portions of equal size. Knead these up as lightly as possible into small round, or olive-shaped rolls; make a slight incision round them, and cut them once or twice across the top, placing them as they are done on slightly floured baking sheets an inch or two apart. Let them remain for fifteen or twenty minutes to prove; then wash the tops with yolk of egg, mixed with a little milk, and bake them in a rather brisk oven from ten to fifteen minutes. Turn them upside down upon a dish to cool after they are taken from the tins. An additional ounce of butter and another egg can be used for these rolls when richer bread is liked; but it is so much less wholesome than a more simple kind, that it is not to be recommended. A cup of good cream would be an admirable substitute for butter altogether, rendering the rolls exceedingly delicate both in appearance and in flavour. The yeast used for them should be stirred up with plenty of cold water the day before it is wanted; and it will be found very thick indeed when it is poured off, which should be gently done. Rather less than an ounce of good fresh German yeast may be used for them instead of brewer’s yeast, with advantage.
GENEVA ROLLS, OR BUNS.
Break down into very small crumbs three ounces of butter with two pounds of flour; add a little salt, and set the sponge with a large tablespoonful of solid yeast, mixed with a pint of new milk, and a tablespoonful or more of strong saffron water; let it rise for a full hour, then stir to a couple of well-beaten eggs as much hot milk as will render them lukewarm, and wet the rolls with them to a light, lithe dough; leave it from half to three-quarters of an hour longer, mould it into small rolls, brush them with beaten yolk of egg, and bake them from twenty minutes to half an hour. The addition of six ounces of good sugar, three of butter, half a pound or more of currants, the grated rind of a large lemon, and a couple of ounces of candied orange-rind, will convert these into excellent buns. When the flavour of the saffron is not liked, omit it altogether Only so much should be used at any time as will give a rich colour to the bread.
Flour, 2 lbs.; butter, 3 oz.; solid yeast, 1 large tablespoonful (saffron, 1 teaspoonful; water, less than a quarter pint); new milk, 1 pint: 1 hour, or more. 2 eggs, more milk: 3/4 hour: baked 20 to 30 minutes.
RUSKS.
Work quite into crumbs six ounces of butter with a couple of pounds of fine dry flour, and mix them into a lithe paste, with two tablespoonsful of mild beer yeast, three well-beaten eggs, and nearly half a pint of warm new milk. When it has risen to its full height knead it smooth, and make it into very small loaves or thick cakes cut with a round cake-cutter; place them on a floured tin, and let them stand in a warm place to prove from ten to twenty minutes before they are set into the oven. Bake them about a quarter of an hour; divide them while they are still warm, and put them into a very slow oven to dry. When they are crisp quite through they are done. Four teaspoonsful of sifted sugar must be added when sweet-rusks are preferred.
Flour, 2 lbs.; butter, 6 oz.; yeast, 2 tablespoonsful; eggs, 3; new milk nearly half a pint: baked 1/4 hour.
For either of the preceding receipts substitute rather more than an ounce of German yeast, when it can be procured quite fresh; or should an ounce of it only be used (which we should consider an ample proportion), let the dough—especially that of the rusks— become extremely light before it is kneaded down, and also previously to its being sent to the oven. A somewhat smaller quantity of yeast is required in warm weather than in cold.
[R .—The remainder of this chapter is extracted from a little treatise on domestic bread-making, which we hope shortly to lay before the public, as it appears to us to be greatly needed; but, as we have already more than once repeated, we are unwilling to withhold from the present volume any information which may be generally useful.]
EXCELLENT DAIRY-BREAD MADE WITHOUT YEAST.
(Author’s Receipt.)
When we first heard unfermented bread vaguely spoken of, we had it tried very successfully in the following manner; and we have since been told that an almost similar method of preparing it is common in many remote parts both of England and Ireland, where it is almost impossible to procure a constant supply of yeast. Blend well together a teaspoonful of pounded sugar and fifty grains of the purest carbonate of soda; mix a saltspoonful of salt with a pound of flour, and rub the soda and sugar through a hair-sieve into it. Stir and mingle them well, and make them quickly into a firm but not hard dough with sour buttermilk. Bake the loaf well in a thoroughly heated, but not fierce oven. In a brick, or good iron oven a few minutes less than an hour would be sufficient to bake a loaf of similar weight. The buttermilk should be kept until it is quite acid, but it must never be in the slightest degree rancid, or otherwise bad. All unfermented bread should be placed in the oven directly it is made, or it will be heavy. For a larger baking allow rather less than an ounce of soda to the gallon (seven pounds) of flour.
Obs.—There are cases in which a knowledge of this, or of any other equally easy mode of bread-making would be invaluable. For example:—We learn from the wife of an officer who has for a long time been stationed off the Isle of Skye, in which his family have their abode, that the inhabitants depend entirely for bread on supplies brought to them from Glasgow; and that they are often entirely without, when the steamer which ought to arrive at intervals of eight days, is delayed by stress of weather. The residents are then compelled to have recourse to scones—as a mixture of flour and water and a little soda (cooked on a flat iron plate), are called—or to ship’s biscuit; and these are often found unsuitable for young children and invalids. There are no ovens in the houses, though there are grates for coal fires, in front of which small loaves of unfermented bread could be baked extremely well in good American ovens. Buttermilk can always be procured; and if not, a provision of
carbonate of soda and muriatic acid might be kept at hand to ensure the means of making wholesome bread. In many other localities the same plan might prove of equal benefit.
TO KEEP BREAD.
Bread requires almost as much care as milk to preserve it wholesome and fresh. It should be laid, as soon as it is perfectly cold, into a large earthen pan with a cover, which should be kept free from crumbs, and be frequently scalded, and then wiped very dry for use. Loaves which have been cut should have a smaller pan appropriated to them, and this also should have the loose crumbs wiped from it daily. It is a good plan to raise the bread-pans from the floor of the larder, when there is no proper stand or frame for the purpose, by means of two flat wedges of wood, so as to allow a current of air to pass under them.
TO
FRESHEN STALE BREAD (AND PASTRY, ETC.), AND PRESERVE IT FROM MOULD.
If entire loaves be placed in a gentle oven and heated quite through, without being previously dipped into cold water, according to the old-fashioned plan, they will eat almost like bread newly baked: they should not remain in it long enough to become hard and dry, but they should be made hot throughout. In very damp localities, when large household bakings take place but once in eight or ten days, it is sometimes necessary to use precautions against the attack of mould, though the bread may have been exceedingly well made; and the method recommended above will be the best for warding it off, and for preserving the bread eatable for several days longer than it would otherwise be. If large loaves be just dipped into cold water and then placed in a quick oven until they are again thoroughly dried, they will resemble new bread altogether.
Pastry, cakes, and biscuits, may all be greatly improved when stale, by heating them in a gentle oven.
TO KNOW WHEN BREAD IS SUFFICIENTLY BAKED.
When the surface is uniformly browned, and it is everywhere firm to the touch, and the bottom crust of a loaf is hard, it is generally certain that it is thoroughly baked. To test bread that has been cut (or yeast-cakes), press down the crumb lightly in the centre with the thumb; when it is elastic and rises again to its place, it is proof that it is perfectly done; but if the indentation remains, the heat has not sufficiently penetrated the dough to convert it into wholesome eating.
ON THE PROPER FERMENTATION OF DOUGH.
As we have previously said, too large a proportion of yeast, which is very commonly used by persons not well skilled in bread-making, although it produces quickly a light spongy dough, has a very bad effect on bread, which it renders much less easy of digestion than that which is more slowly fermented, and far less sweet and pleasant in flavour: it also prevents its remaining eatable the same length of time, as it speedily becomes dry. It is likewise very disadvantageous to make the dough so lithe that it spreads about in the oven; and if it be excessively stiff, and its management not thoroughly understood, it will sometimes be heavy,. To prevent this, it should be kept quite warm (never heated), and left a much longer time to rise. It will frequently then prove excellent. It will ferment rather more quickly if, when it gives symptoms of becoming light it is made up into loaves with the least possible kneading, and a slight incision is made round them and across the tops, and they are then placed in a warm air, and kept secure from cold currents passing over them.
