The goddesses of kitchen.., p.1
The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue: A Novel, page 1
PRAISE FOR BARBARA O’NEAL
THE GODDESSES OF KITCHEN AVENUE
“[O’Neal’s] characters are warmly drawn and sympathetic, their problems real and believable.”
—Publishers Weekly
THIS PLACE OF WONDER
“This Place of Wonder is a wonderfully moving tale about four women whose journeys are all connected by one shared love: some are romantic, some are familial, but all are deeply complicated. Dealing with loss, love, hidden secrets, and second chances, this stirring tale is utterly engaging and ultimately hopeful. Set along the rugged California coastline, This Place of Wonder will sweep you away with the intoxicating scents, bold flavors, and sweeping views of the region and transport you to a world you won’t be in any hurry to leave.”
—Colleen Hoover, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Kristin Hannah readers will thoroughly enjoy the family dynamic, especially the mother-daughter relationships.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Barbara O’Neal’s latest novel is simply delicious. Engrossing, empathetic, and profoundly moving, I savored every sentence of this story of several very different women who find solace and second chances in each other after tragedy (though not before facing some hard truths and, yes, a few rock bottoms). This Place of Wonder is one of the best books I’ve read in a long time.”
—Camille Pagán, bestselling author of Everything Must Go
“I have never much moved in the elevated circles of California farm-to-table cuisine, but O’Neal makes me feel like I’m there. Rather than simply skewering the pretensions, This Place of Wonder pinpoints the passions. Some of these characters have been elevated to celebrity, some are newcomers to the scene, but all are drawn together by the sensuality, the excitement, and ultimately the care that food brings them. Elegiac but also forward-looking, this is a book about eating, but more than that, it’s a book about hurt and healing and women finding their way together. I loved every moment of it.”
—Julie Powell, author of Julie & Julia and Cleaving
WRITE MY NAME ACROSS THE SKY
“Barbara O’Neal weaves an irresistible tale of creativity, forgery, family, and the FBI in Write My Name Across the Sky. Willow and Sam are fascinating, and their aunt Gloria is my dream of an incorrigible, glamorous older woman.”
—Nancy Thayer, bestselling author of Family Reunion
“Write My Name Across the Sky is an exquisitely crafted novel of three remarkable women from two generations grappling with decisions of the past and the consequences of where those young, impetuous choices have led. A heartfelt story of passion, devotion, and family told as only Barbara O’Neal can.”
—Suzanne Redfearn, #1 Amazon bestselling author of In an Instant
“With its themes of creativity and art, Write My Name Across the Sky is itself like a masterfully executed painting. Using refined brushstrokes, O’Neal builds her vivid, complex characters: three independent women in one family who can’t quite come to terms with their fierce feelings of love for one another. O’Neal deftly switches between three points of view, adding layers of family history into this intimate and satisfying study of how women make tough choices between love and creativity and family and freedom.”
—Glendy Vanderah, Washington Post bestselling author of Where the Forest Meets the Stars
THE LOST GIRLS OF DEVON
One of Travel + Leisure’s most anticipated books of summer 2020
“A woman’s strange disappearance brings together four strong women who struggle with their relationships, despite their need for one another. Fans of Sarah Addison Allen will appreciate the emphasis on nature and these women’s unique gifts in this latest by the author of When We Believed in Mermaids.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“The Lost Girls of Devon draws us into the lives of four generations of women as they come to terms with their relationships and a mysterious tragedy that brings them together. Written in exquisite prose with the added bonus of the small Devon village as a setting, Barbara O’Neal’s book will ensnare the reader from the first page, taking us on an emotional journey of love, loss, and betrayal.”
—Rhys Bowen, New York Times and #1 Kindle bestselling author of The Tuscan Child, In Farleigh Field, and the Royal Spyness series
“The Lost Girls of Devon is one of those novels that grabs you at the beginning with its imagery and rich language and won’t let you go. Four generations of women deal with the pain and betrayal of the past, and Barbara O’Neal skillfully leads us to understand all of their deepest needs and fears. To read a Barbara O’Neal novel is to fall into a different world—a world of beauty and suspense, of tragedy and redemption. This one, like her others, is spellbinding.”
—Maddie Dawson, bestselling author of A Happy Catastrophe
WHEN WE BELIEVED IN MERMAIDS
“An emotional story about the relationship between two sisters and the difficulty of facing the truth head-on.”
—Today
“There’s a reason Barbara O’Neal is one of the most decorated authors in fiction. With her trademark lyrical style, she’s written a page-turner of the first order. From the very first page, I was drawn into the drama and irresistibly teased along as layers of a family’s complicated past were artfully peeled away. Don’t miss this masterfully told story of sisters and secrets, damage and redemption, hope and healing.”
—Susan Wiggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“More than a mystery, Barbara O’Neal’s When We Believed in Mermaids is a story of childhood—and innocence—lost, and the long-hidden secrets, lies, and betrayals two sisters must face in order to make themselves whole as adults. Plunge in and enjoy the intriguing depths of this passionate, lustrous novel, and you just might find yourself believing in mermaids.”
—Juliet Blackwell, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Carousel of Provence, Letters from Paris, and The Paris Key
“In When We Believed in Mermaids, Barbara O’Neal draws us into the story with her crisp prose, well-drawn settings, and compelling characters, in whom we invest our hearts as we experience the full range of human emotion and, ultimately, celebrate their triumph over the past.”
—Grace Greene, author of The Memory of Butterflies and the Wildflower House series
“When We Believed in Mermaids is a deftly woven tale of two sisters, separated by tragedy and reunited by fate, discovering that the past isn’t always what it seems. By turns shattering and life affirming, as luminous and mesmerizing as the sea by which it unfolds, this is a book club essential—definitely one for the shelf!”
—Kerry Anne King, bestselling author of Whisper Me This
THE ART OF INHERITING SECRETS
“Great writing, terrific characters, food elements, romance, a touch of intrigue, and more than a few surprises to keep readers guessing.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Settle in with tea and biscuits for a charming adventure about inheriting an English manor and the means to restore it. Vivid descriptions and characters that read like best friends will stay with you long after this delightful story has ended.”
—Cynthia Ellingsen, bestselling author of The Lighthouse Keeper
“The Art of Inheriting Secrets is the story of one woman’s journey to uncovering her family’s hidden past. Set against the backdrop of a sprawling English manor, this book is ripe with mystery. It will have you guessing until the end!”
—Nicole Meier, author of The House of Bradbury and The Girl Made of Clay
“O’Neal’s clever title begins an intriguing journey for readers that unfolds layer by surprising layer. Her respected masterful storytelling blends mystery, art, romance, and mayhem in a quaint English village and breathtaking countryside. Brilliant!”
—Patricia Sands, bestselling author of the Love in Provence series
ALSO BY BARBARA O’NEAL
The Starfish Sisters
This Place of Wonder
Write My Name Across the Sky
The Lost Girls of Devon
When We Believed in Mermaids
The Art of Inheriting Secrets
The All You Can Dream Buffet
The Garden of Happy Endings
How to Bake a Perfect Life
The Secret of Everything
The Lost Recipe for Happiness
Lady Luck’s Map of Vegas
The Scent of Hours
A Piece of Heaven
No Place Like Home
In the Midnight Rain
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2004, 2014, 2024 by Barbara Samuel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662521324 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781662521331 (digital)
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soud ant
Cover images: © Alina Hvostikova / Stocksy; © sinoptic / Shutterstock; © Hannah Robinson Photos / Shutterstock
For my brother and his wife, Jim and Michelle Hair. Thanks for making room for me, taking care of me, making me laugh, giving me things to do and a place to hide. Thanks for the beers and the good company and the quiet acceptance. Thanks for April and thanks for Jack, the two best dogs in the universe.
And a special kiss to Jessie. It’s so nice to finally have you here on earth.
CONTENTS
JULY
PROLOGUE
OCTOBER
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
THANKSGIVING
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
CHRISTMAS
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
JANUARY
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
FEBRUARY
47
48
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JULY
Kali
Kali is depicted with black skin. She wears a necklace of skulls, carries a knife to cut through illusion, a mirror of reflection and drinks from a skull cup of blood. She stands above her disemboweled lover, phallus erect, his blood feeding the earth. Her visage is terrifying. She is loved and feared for her destructive powers, for she is both womb and tomb simultaneously.
—www.goddess.com.au
PROLOGUE
Trudy
The first time I see Lucille again, I am lying in my bed. Alone. My newly broken arm is propped on a pillow. It’s very late, close to dawn. My face is hot from crying and loss and Vicodin, which they gave me at the emergency room. The drugs are not appreciably helping stop the pain in my right arm, which is imprisoned in a cast to my elbow. It’s red. The cast, that is. Probably the arm, too, which feels like coyotes are chewing on it. And the world seems red, too, all around the edges.
When I open my eyes, Lucille is sitting in the chair where Rick always throws his clothes. She looks exactly the same, which should tip me off that something is slightly wrong, but in my current state, nothing seems real, so I just blink at her for a long minute.
It’s been twenty-five years since I’ve seen her. She’s wearing a shawl that a matador gave her, red with black silk fringes she plays with. There are heavy silver bracelets on her tanned arms, and she’s drinking a cocktail. It’s funny enough that I smile. Lucille always did believe in cocktails. My mother said she was a drunk, but she wasn’t. I knew even then that my mother was just afraid of Lucille. Afraid of her sexuality, afraid of her courage, afraid of her version of womanhood. Afraid it would leak out of her house somehow, like bad water, to poison the whole neighborhood. My mother and her friends, all the ladies on the block, said terrible things about Lucille’s clothes—gossamer blouses that showed her low-cut bras, the sleek way she wore her hair and let all of her back show, nape to waist, on summer days. She told me it was a woman’s secret power, her back. It didn’t age the way other parts might.
Men found reasons to stop by her yard when she was working with her flowers, the flowers she nudged like magic daughters from the hard ground in the desert. Poppies as big as sombreros, waving long, black, inviting stamens from their silky hearts, and roses in impossible colors, and cosmos by the thousands.
The men stopped to admire her back. And her strong brown arms, and the glimpse of her lacy bras.
But mostly they stopped to hear that wild, bold poppy laugh come out of her throat. Stopped to have her admire them. Stopped to be watered by her joy.
She was sixty-six years old when she moved into our neighborhood.
Now it has been twenty-five years and she’s at the foot of my bed, not in some ghostly form, but as solid as the cat purring on my hip. When she doesn’t say anything, I swallow the rawness in my throat and croak, “What are you doing here?”
“Time to take it back, kiddo.”
“What?”
“Your life.”
OCTOBER
Hecate
Hecate completes the goddess triad of the Maiden (Persephone), the Mother (Demeter) and the Wise Woman (Hecate). She walks between the seen and unseen world but resides in neither, carrying a flaming torch so she can see where others can’t—into the human psyche. She is accompanied by her dog (or horse), her sacred animals, and offers her magical protection in times of danger.
If you have that sense of foreboding sitting in your solar plexus, it may be that you are standing at a crossroad, and are unsure about where you need to go next. Rest assured that Hecate is walking alongside you, carrying her torch with which to guide you.
—www.goddess.com.au
1
Roberta
Sunday, October 25, 20—
Dear Harriet,
My hands are shaky as the leaves on the trees today. Hope you can read this all right. I hate seeing that I’ve got old lady handwriting. But then, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? How’d we get so old?
It’s Sunday and I ain’t been to church. Been sitting here all morning by my Edgar, trying to get enough courage up to let him go. I sent everybody away—all the parishioners who been bringing greens and pots of stew and washing up my dishes while I sit with him. Sent even the children away. They can all come back later, when I’ve gone and done what I need to do.
Sister, I been here all morning and can’t open up my mouth to say it. Go on, Edgar. I’ll be all right. He’s just waiting for that, because when he fell into this coma, I grabbed his old hand and begged him not to leave me.
And he’s such a good man, he’s holding on. There, now I’m crying again.
I been holding his hand for sixty-two years. This morning, I was holding it and remembering that morning he first came to our back door, asking for a drink of water. Remember? He’d been down on his luck, but he was so proud. He looked so good in the sunshine with his pretty head and that strong old nose. My heart flipped clean over and I wasn’t but fifteen. I’ve had no use for any other man since that day.
I been remembering all of it this morning. Wondering how it would of been if we’d stayed back there in Mississippi with all y’all. Wondering what it was he saw in Italy that made him never talk about it his whole life long. Wondering if we’d of had as good a life if we hadn’t come west to Pueblo, where we’ve been so peaceful. Home of the Heroes. Did you know they call it that nowdays? Fitting. Edgar put away all his medals, but he was sure proud when the Medal of Honor winners all came here. He put on his best suit that morning, and went down to listen to them, all four old men like him. I went along with him, of course, but I didn’t hear what he did. I asked him one time if it was so bad as all that, and he just bowed his head and said, Worse.
So I just let it be.
And he’s not a perfect man, not by any means. He was too stern with the children, fussy about things as he got old, wanting every little thing his way. We’ve had our share of dark times, too, times when I wanted to take a meat cleaver to his stubborn old head. Once or twice, he hurt my heart, but he never did it on purpose.
It’s not those times I’m thinking of now, though. I’m remembering how hard we could laugh, so much that Edgar would get to wheezing. I’m thinking about waking up morning after morning after morning with him lying beside me. Listening to him, whistling as he fiddled with a television dead but for the magic he gave it with his clever mind.
Lord, give me strength. I have got to let him go. He’s withering away right in front of my eyes. But I’m telling you the truth, sister, I’m going, too. I asked the Lord to take me. Y’all know I love you, but you, sister, know my life won’t be nothing without him.
Your sister,
