REMI'S POV
Christmas morning at the penthouse was Marisol's from the moment she arrived.
Not in the way that took over — she walked in with bags from the market and one bag that contained a large stockpot and immediately went to the kitchen with the particular quality of someone who has decided what is happening and is not seeking consensus on it. She had texted me on the twenty-third: I'm cooking. Tell me what you have and I'll tell you what to bring. I had texted her back the contents of the refrigerator and she had responded: You have good olive oil and no soffritto vegetables. I'm bringing soffritto vegetables.
By eight in the morning the kitchen smelled of onions and celery and the particular warmth of something that had been braising since before anyone was awake, and Marisol was
