The Glass Kitchen Read online

  After eating a sandwich, she saw a dim light coming from her dad’s study, so she peeked inside. At first she didn’t understand what he was doing. He was sort of lying in his big leather chair, the one with oversized padded arms. Sound asleep. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d seen her dad sleeping. Lying there, he looked almost peaceful.

  It was a strange thought, and Ariel felt stupid tears well up. She, the non-crier.

  Just like with the fire escape, before she could think better of it, she slid carefully down into the big chair right next to him. They used to sit that way sometimes, back when he would read aloud to her. She was still skinny, so she fit next to him, like a cork in a bottle. He didn’t wake up.

  “Sorry I climbed the fire escape,” she whispered.

  He didn’t move.

  He had one of those clocks that actually ticked, and Ariel’s eyelids started to get heavy. She wondered if the Shrink had told her dad about their last session. If he had, her dad hadn’t mentioned it.

  Just as her eyelids were fluttering closed, she whispered, “What would you do if I told you why I was really in the car with Mom? Why we were going so fast?”

  He didn’t answer, his breathing still deep.

  Ariel didn’t remember drifting off, but when she woke the next morning she was tucked into her bed.

  Twenty-nine

  NOT EVEN A MONTH after Portia and her sisters opened the doors, so to speak, word of mouth about The Glass Kitchen rippled through New York City like a YouTube video going viral. Sure, the food was great, but it didn’t hurt that Portia was able to provide everyone who came to her door with just what they needed, and Cordelia made sure they knew it. It also didn’t hurt that Olivia was a natural with social media on the Internet. The Cuthcart sisters had become a perfect team.

  But what Portia was really thinking about was that it had been two days since she had made Gabriel the plate of eggs and realized she wanted more from him. But as it happened, since that realization he hadn’t come down the fire escape once. He hadn’t so much as stopped by. It was odd, not to mention disconcerting, since she’d been trying to drum up the nerve to make the Gabriel Meal.

  She was on the verge of finding some schoolgirl way to run into him when he walked through her front door.

  Her heart squeezed with a mix of disappointment and relief when he didn’t rush toward her with a kiss. Not that he was the rush-toward-her sort. But still.

  Instead, he had that dangerous look of his, and his greeting consisted of precisely seven words. “You are not meeting with Richard Zaslow.”

  Portia stiffened. “How do you know I’m meeting with Richard Zaslow?”

  “Did you really think I wouldn’t hear about it?”

  Portia’s eyes narrowed.

  “Don’t get that look,” he said, his expression guarded. “He’s not for you.”

  “Not for me? He has billions of dollars, is famous for turning food businesses into huge successes, and he called us. How’s that not for me?”

  “Let me guess. He called you after he saw the photo in The New York Observer.”

  “So?”

  “The three of you looked great, kind of like Charlie’s Angels in aprons. Richard likes women. And he’s especially good at making things happen for business owners he sleeps with.”

  Portia gasped. “I don’t believe for a second he was sleeping with Bartalow Bing when he turned him into the Fat Chef.”

  “Bing was an exception.”

  “I think his ex-wife is the exception.” Everybody knew the story of how struggling cookie baker Rachel Turnbell met Richard Zaslow. Pretty soon they were rumored to be sleeping together, then they married, and all the while he poured millions into making her business a success. Not long after she was dubbed the Cookie Queen, Rachel had filed for divorce, but not before her business had started selling about 35 percent of all cookies sold nationwide. “My guess is he learned his lesson about mixing business with pleasure.”

  She finished setting out the day’s fare with a little more energy than was needed. Bang! went the brussels sprouts and pancetta. Slap! went the flour tortillas next to the fajita meat.

  He came up next to her and turned her back to him, his hands surprisingly gentle. “Look at me, Portia.”

  Reluctantly, she did.

  “He’s not for you.”

  “Really?” Portia sliced him a wry expression, stepping away. “Do you have someone better in mind? Are you offering up the money?”

  She had tossed out the words without thinking, but he looked at her long and hard.

  She held up her hand. “Don’t bother answering with that ‘Restaurants in New York City have an eighty percent failure rate.’”

  He still stared at her.

  The doorbell buzzed. Gabriel went to the door before Portia could. “Dick,” he stated, pulling open the door.

  Richard Zaslow looked surprised. “Gabriel, what are you doing here?”

  “Actually, I’m here trying to convince Portia that you’re not a great investor match for her.”

  “Gabriel!”

  Both men looked at her, and then Gabriel swung back to Richard. Richard gave Gabriel an appraising grin that Portia didn’t like one bit. She realized belatedly that these two men were friends.

  “She has you by the short hairs, doesn’t she?” Richard said.

  Gabriel grunted, not so much a threat as a primal acknowledgment between two men who were man enough to admit how things really were.

  Richard slapped Gabriel on the back. “Good luck with that,” he said, then turned to Portia. “Take him for everything he’s worth,” he teased, then left.

  Portia’s mouth fell open. “What was that all about?”

  Gabriel looked dangerously pleased, a full-watt smile that made Portia want to laugh despite the fact that she was furious.

  “I guess he wasn’t all that interested,” Gabriel said with an innocent shrug.

  Portia’s answer involved the kind of profanity that would have made her ex-husband faint. But not Gabriel. He grinned at her, and then hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, kissing her in that way that made her knees weak.

  * * *

  That night he came to her with no words, just strode up behind her as she sat brushing her hair at her great-aunt’s vanity. He took the brush and began slowly pulling the bristles through her thick hair. It had grown out and bore no resemblance to a blown-out pageboy perfectly contained by a velvet headband.

  Their eyes held in the mirror.

  “I’m giving you the money,” he said softly.

  She blinked, then stared back at him.

  “I’ll take care of you. You don’t need to worry about money anymore.”

  Portia jerked around to face him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You want to open a Glass Kitchen. I’ll provide the money.” To prove his point, he pulled a check from his pocket.

  She gasped at the amount, followed by a slow burn starting under her breastbone.

  “You can stop wearing your aunt’s castoffs—”

  She cut him off. “Are you giving me this money because you believe in The Glass Kitchen?”

  He stared at her. “Does it matter why I’m giving it to you?”

  “Of course it does! I don’t want you giving me money just because you’re sleeping with me!”

  Gabriel’s expression darkened. “This has nothing to do with us sleeping together. You need money. I have money. And before you rip up that check, if I were you, I’d ask your sisters what they think of the offer. I’m not so sure they’d be as quick to turn my money away.”

  She ground her teeth. She knew he was right, but still. He believed she would fail. Could she take money from a man who didn’t believe in her? Part of her cheered with a resounding yes. But another part of her, this newer part that was trying hard to prove she could make it on her own merit, cringed.

  Finding an investor who genuinely believed in The Glass Kit
chen held more meaning to her than simply being provided with the money. It was symbolic. Gaining an impartial investor would prove that someone truly believed in what she was doing. Finding an impartial investor struck her as a powerful step toward proving that she wasn’t dependent on a man in her life. Her husband had supported her, given her a home, provided her with a life. But the minute he got tired of her and wanted to move on, all of that had been swept from underneath her like feet giving way under a wave.

  She felt her chin set.

  His eyes narrowed, but there was a glint of laughter in them, too. “Stubborn females will be the death of me.”

  * * *

  During the next week, despite Gabriel’s frustration at her refusal to deposit his check, Portia cooked and baked for potential investors. Every night when she was alone, she pulled the check out of The Glass Kitchen cookbook, where she had hidden it. With each day that passed, her bank balance ticked lower, and she knew she couldn’t afford not to take his money. But every night she ended up tucking the check back into the book.

  Cordelia set the table again and again with the pitted silverware and stoneware dishes. Olivia arranged everything until the setting was a worthy tableaux for an elegant country-style magazine. Portia fed them food that made them melt, made them happy. And then it began to happen. The food began to work. By the end of the week they had offers from four different investor groups, as if the food combined with Gabriel’s check in the cookbook had worked like a magician conjuring up a rabbit in a hat.

  Cordelia, Olivia, and Portia sat around the table on Friday evening going over each offer, as stunned as they were thrilled.

  “Can you believe it?” Olivia laughed.

  “I’m amazed,” Portia said.

  “I am not,” Cordelia said, shaking her head. “I’ve said it all along. In this age of cooking madness, who wouldn’t want to invest in three sisters from Texas cooking food to die for?”

  Portia’s mind froze, memories of her grandmother springing to her mind. The storm. The meal of pulled pork and the lightning.

  Cordelia reached across the table. “Sorry, sweetie. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Olivia jumped up from her seat. “Let’s celebrate!”

  After no more than one circle around the living room to Toby Keith, Ariel must have heard and poked her head in the door, dancing her way inside without waiting for an invitation.

  Two songs in, Olivia headed back to the kitchen. “This calls for margaritas!” She glanced at Ariel. “And a virgin margarita for the kid.”

  Cordelia went in search of chips. Portia made a batch of fresh guacamole. Ariel threw herself onto a stool, grinning madly.

  “You guys are the weirdest adults ever. You know that, right?” She took a sip of the sweet drink. “So what are you celebrating?”

  “Great investor meetings, and”—Olivia dragged out the word—“a newspaper interview with The New York Post coming up!”

  “That’s good, huh?”

  “It’s fabulous,” Cordelia confirmed.

  “Dad’ll be happy, too.”

  “No need to tell your dad,” Portia said instantly.

  “But he’ll want to know!”

  “Of course, he will. But could I surprise him?” Portia wanted to tell him herself. Return his check. She felt certain that he would grumble at her, but that deep down he would be proud of her.

  She also hoped that it would be the beginning of a shift between them. If she felt she was making her life work, she could breathe again, she could believe things were supposed to work out. She could make Gabriel’s Meal without fear.

  Ariel blinked, but then she nodded. “Okay, you tell him.” She glanced at the clock. “I’ve got to go.”

  Portia, Cordelia, and Olivia lifted their glasses as she left. “To The Glass Kitchen!”

  “To three sexy sisters in New York City!” Olivia cheered.

  Cordelia made a face. “You’ll have to carry that flag by yourself. I’m too old, and Portia hasn’t had sex in months.”

  Portia choked on her margarita.

  Cordelia and Olivia stopped and studied her. “Portia?” they said in unison.

  “What?” She tried to look nonchalant. Innocent.

  “Hell,” Olivia snapped. “Who are you sleeping with?”

  “No one!”

  “Liar! You’re blushing!”

  “Stop!”

  “We are not stopping,” Cordelia persisted. “Who in the world are you having sex with?” She blinked in confusion. “One of the investors?”

  “Of course not!” Portia exclaimed.

  Olivia laughed as she sat back. “Then who?”

  “That’s private.”

  Olivia raised a brow, glanced at Cordelia, then back. “How very un-Portia like. Our little sister has a secret lover.”

  But when Portia looked closer, she was sure Olivia knew just who that secret lover really was.

  Fifth Course

  The Entrée

  Fried Chicken with Sweet Jalapeño Mustard

  Thirty

  PORTIA’S LIFE WAS falling into place. The money was coming in for The Glass Kitchen. The sisters were working together in a way that gave her hope that it was a good idea. And she wanted to believe there could be more between her and Gabriel Kane.

  Which meant she couldn’t put off making Gabriel’s Meal any longer.

  She remembered her grandmother’s meal. She remembered what turned out to be Cordelia’s meal, which she’d had to make when she woke up with the knowing after moving to Manhattan. Both had foretold bad news.

  But there had been good meals, too, she reminded herself. Meals that had saved her sisters. Meals that had helped people since she had been cooking these last several weeks. Though, really, each of those instances had been the result of single items. A pie. A pot of French stew. A soup. A bag of spicy chocolates.

  A tremor of nerves raced along her skin. Entire meals coming to mind had been few and far between.

  She wrote out the menu she had seen in her head. Fried chicken, sweet jalapeño mustard, mashed potatoes, slaw, biscuits, and pie—strawberry pie with fresh whipped cream piled high. Her hands shook as she started to prepare. Once she opened the floodgates to the meal, a relentless, nearly strangling need filled her.

  What scared her most was the pie. It was her grandmother’s decadent concoction—a definite sign. But, again, of what?

  Next, Portia started a list—not of ingredients, but of people whom she felt certain she needed to invite. Powering up her computer, she composed a short e-mail.

  Dear Friends and Family,

  I’m preparing a meal tonight at 7:30. No need to bring anything. I hope you all can join me. Love, Portia

  Just that.

  She sent the e-mail to Cordelia, Olivia, Gabriel, Miranda, and Ariel. However reluctant she was, she also knew she had to send it to Gabriel’s mother and brother.

  The last two guests made her the most nervous. Why would she need to invite them? Was this meal a way to start building a connection between Gabriel’s family and hers? Or proof that there was too much distance between their two worlds to cross?

  As she always did, Portia went to Fairway to pick up the ingredients she didn’t have. The chicken, the cabbage, the potatoes. Milk and butter.

  The strawberry pie again gave her pause; strawberries weren’t in season. Was she setting out to fail before she ever got started? But then she remembered she was in New York City, a place where anything could be found at any time. Strawberries were in season somewhere, and they made their way without fail to the city that had everything.

  As soon as Portia returned home, she got to work. She didn’t check the answering machine. She didn’t check e-mail for responses. If she had learned anything about the knowing, it was that whatever was to come was beyond her control. Guests would come or not. Once the invitation was issued, nothing she could say would make a difference.

  Before she started cooking, she raced out and got flowers
, though her instinct to buy freesia, delphinium, and hydrangea didn’t offer any insight to what was coming.

  She took great care in setting the table, pulling two smaller tables together in the living room. She added an antique linen tablecloth that had belonged to her aunt, candles, and the flowers in the center. By the time she had shopped and done the prep work, she had only three hours before the guests were due to arrive. The apartment was ready.

  Now for the food.

  The sense of peace came first. A smile broke out on her face, and she even laughed. She felt better and better by the minute.

  First, the chicken, filling a brown paper bag with flour and seasoning. Then the potatoes, peeling and cutting, putting them on to boil. The apartment grew hot, and she wiped her hands on her apron, then raced into the living room to open the back French doors.

  She mixed up the biscuit dough and set it aside in one of Evie’s old mixing bowls. The pie came next. She cut up brilliant red strawberries and sugared them, a feather-light crust, whipped the cream, and put it in the refrigerator. She would have to fry the chicken after she bathed, but that couldn’t be helped if she wanted the crispy outside to be perfect.

  Then she took a bath, soaking in lavender, and dressed with care. A crisp white cotton blouse and floral skirt, with low heels. At the last minute, she found a pair of old pearls that had been Evie’s. “This is the right thing to do,” she told her reflection.

  By the time she returned to the kitchen, she had only thirty minutes left. She mashed the potatoes, mixing in more butter than was good for a person.

  Her front door opened, startling her. How had the time gone so fast?

  “What’s going on?” Olivia called out.

  Her sister wore workout clothes, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She took one look at Portia and stopped in her tracks. “Really, what’s going on? Nice clothes. Your hair. And you’re wearing makeup.” She narrowed her eyes. “Your e-mail only said dinner. Who all is coming?”