The Glass Kitchen Page 8

  Great. Something else she had to figure out.

  She picked up her bowl, set it in the sink, and headed for Trident Prep. But if managing the illogical workings of the standard American family was tricky, three and a half hours later she decided the whole middle-school hierarchy thing was preposterous when she sat at a back lunch table in the school cafeteria and her tiny world erupted in a battlefield of peer pressure and social awkwardness.

  It wasn’t like she had been popular in New Jersey or anything, but Ariel was her sister’s sister and she had lived there forever, so people left her alone. But now she was the new girl, and no one had even heard of her sister—who went to a different school anyway. Ariel was on her own. Plus, Mindi Hansen thought she was the head of the world and—no surprise—she couldn’t stand Ariel.

  Ariel was sitting by herself doing homework when Mindi came over. “So, uh, Ariel, right?”

  “Last I heard.”

  Mindi obviously couldn’t take a joke. “What are you?” she demanded, tone biting. “A geek, a nerd, a moron?”

  Mindi’s friends all laughed as they walked away.

  “Actually,” Ariel muttered to the girls’ backs, “I’m someone who doesn’t need other people’s approval to understand my self-worth.”

  Quite frankly, she blamed her dad for what happened next. If he hadn’t made her go to the Shrink, she never would have known anything about self-worth and outside approval.

  Mindi froze in her Tory Burch ballet flats. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.” Her heart pounded like a fist on a drum. But because she just never learned, she opened her mouth and added, “There’s no point in repeating it because you’d never understand.”

  It was that or give in to the knot of total sad-anger raging inside her—which she had no intention of doing. What would come out? Crying? Disappearing right then and there instead of the slow melting away it felt like she was doing every day?

  Mindi leaned closer. “So, Ariel”—saying her name as three long, drawn-out syllables—“where’s your mom?”

  The question caught her by surprise.

  Mindi tapped a pink nail on her cheek. “Let me see. Is your mom, like, dead?”

  Ariel just stared at her.

  “And not dead of, like, cancer or something. She wrecked her car driving like a maniac in New Jersey, right?”

  Ariel’s mother had died in a car accident, slowly disappearing as she bled out before the ambulance could get there. Ariel knew, because she had been in the car.

  “That’s not cool,” one of Mindi’s friends said, grabbing her by the arm. “You’re putting the B in Bitch, girl. Let it go.”

  Mindi tossed her hair, smiled, and walked away.

  Ten

  PORTIA GASPED AWAKE with the taste of apples in her mouth—crisp green apples smothered in brown sugar and spice. She needed to bake.

  Lying tangled in the sheets, she tried to calm her racing heart. She tried to write off this urge, too. It was nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to moving to the Big Apple. But no matter how forcefully she told herself she had stuffed the knowing back down, she realized that she hadn’t. Not really. When she should have smelled bleach and sundried cotton, it was the scent of apples and buttery caramel that swirled in her mind.

  The urges to bake and cook were getting stronger, the knowing coming back to life like simple syrup spun into cotton candy.

  For those first couple of weeks she had managed to feel alive and carefree. But with every day that passed with her unable to find a real job, the images of food growing more persistent, panic started to grow. The only thing that kept her from a full-blown panic attack was the promise of Robert’s settlement.

  Groggy and disoriented, Portia made it out of the bedroom just when Cordelia arrived. Maybe her sister knocked, maybe not, but whatever the case, Cordelia walked right in using her own key, holding her cell phone to her ear with her other hand.

  “I’m here. I’ve got to go,” Cordelia said, looking at Portia. “I promise,” she added quickly. “I’ll call as soon as I know anything.” She dropped her phone into her handbag.

  Cordelia wore a cream blouse with a camel cashmere sweater tied around her shoulders, camel pants, and brown suede Chanel ballet flats. Her hair was pulled back in a demure twist at the nape of her neck, pearls at her ears. She looked just like a politician’s wife. No politician’s wife would be caught dead in Aunt Evie’s old dress, which Portia was now wearing regularly.

  “Who was that?” she asked, trying to pull herself together. She had no interest in letting Cordelia know she was out of sorts.

  “Oh, just Olivia.”

  “Just Olivia?” Portia sliced her a look. “What do you need to let her know?”

  Cordelia waved the words away. “Nothing.” Then she looked around. “My God, you must have worked around the clock.” She brushed past Portia, walking into the kitchen. “The place is still hideous, but at least now it’s clean.”

  Cordelia sat down at the table and pulled out a stack of books and two magazines from her shoulder bag. Portia sat down opposite her. Her oldest sister was infamous for the self-help articles and books she distributed like a librarian encouraging a reluctant reader.

  “I thought you might like some company,” Cordelia said, setting the assorted reading on the table.

  “Did you think I’d be driving myself crazy by now?”

  “Something like that.” Cordelia didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. Instead, she pushed the stack across the table.

  Portia’s eyebrow flew up. “Bon Appétit? Fine Cooking magazine? Restaurant Management for Dummies?”

  With a shrug that didn’t match the determination in her eyes, Cordelia pulled a plastic shopping bag from the tote. “I stopped at the market.”

  “How sweet,” Portia said, trying to sound sincere. “But I have more than enough groceries.”

  “What do you mean?” Cordelia scoffed. “I bet you hardly have anything in this place. Plus, I brought you a surprise. A present.”

  Portia stared as Cordelia began pulling items out of the bags with the efficiency of a nurse preparing an operating room for surgery.

  “Remember that fresh apple cake you used to make?”

  Portia’s heart practically stilled in her chest.

  Cordelia continued, laying out ingredients on the counter. She looked through the window, momentarily distracted. “It made me think about how much I miss The Glass Kitchen. For days now I’ve done nothing but think about that place.”

  Portia’s heart surged into her throat. “You hated everything about The Glass Kitchen.”

  “I did not. I might have been too young to appreciate it, but I didn’t hate it. But that’s beside the point. I would be over the moon if you’d make me one of your famous apple cakes.”

  Portia stared at the ingredients her sister had lined up with perfect precision on the scratched countertop. Apples. Butter. Brown sugar.

  Cordelia cocked her head. “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” Portia said, her voice weak. “It’s just that I’m not in the mood to bake, is all.”

  That was a lie. Her fingers itched to dive in, peel, and core, sift the flour, fold in the softened butter and brown sugar. Again and again since moving into the apartment she’d had to ignore her tingling fingertips and the smells of chocolate and vanilla that didn’t really exist. She had thrown every bit of food in the apartment away, and it still hadn’t helped.

  “I don’t believe you,” Cordelia said. “You want to bake like nobody’s business. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “No.”

  It was panic that glittered in her eyes. It was her fingers that wanted to betray her.

  But her brain knew the real cost of baking. She didn’t want to be someone who knew things. She didn’t want to sense that something was going to happen and have no idea what that was until it was too late.

  The knowing spelled worry and stress and desperately trying to save people
. Under no circumstances did she want the stress and uncertainty of the knowing back in her life. “No,” she repeated, determined.

  Cordelia sat there, quiet and watchful. After a second, she said, “Just hear me out.”

  “Cordelia—”

  Cordelia raised her hand, stopping her. “Olivia and I were talking. We want to open a restaurant.”

  Portia felt the blood drain from her face.

  Cordelia didn’t let up. “A café, really. Something small. A quaint version of, well, The Glass Kitchen. We thought, maybe, you had brought Gram’s cookbooks with you.”

  While Portia didn’t want any part of the knowing, she definitely wanted nothing to do with another Glass Kitchen.

  “It makes all the sense in the world,” Cordelia continued, with more of that calm efficiency. “And, of course, you’ll do it with us. Olivia and I agree.”

  “You and Olivia?” As if that decided everything. Apparently, nothing had changed after the loss of her grandmother, her home, her husband. She was still the little sister to be bossed around.

  “Yes, and it will be fabulous—”

  “No.”

  “Portia, it could be like old times.”

  “What has that got to do with old times? You and Olivia weren’t there. You had nothing to do with The Glass Kitchen. You were here, in New York. You—” Portia cut herself off, forcing herself to be calm.

  “No,” she reiterated, and to make sure her point was understood, she walked to the front door and opened it. “I have a million things to do.”

  Like throw herself back in bed and never get up.

  “Just listen.” Cordelia stopped herself and drew a deep breath. After a second, she continued. “If you must know, I haven’t been completely … forthcoming.” She pursed her lips, lines showing age in a way Portia hadn’t noticed before. “The truth is, Olivia and I need a Glass Kitchen.”

  Portia studied her. “What do you mean?”

  “I need something.” Cordelia said, looking away. “I’d be great running a restaurant with my sisters. I see it so clearly. I see you and me and Olivia creating the sort of place you can’t find in New York. Magical food in a magical space. Gourmand Texas style. How can it not be a huge success?”

  “Cordelia, opening a restaurant is a hugely iffy proposition under the best of circumstances, and it’s not like any of us are in a strong position right now.”

  Cordelia blushed, surprising Portia even more. Cordelia had always been so sure of herself. But then she pulled her shoulders back and looked Portia in the eye.

  “I want to open a Glass Kitchen because it’s my legacy as much as yours. But more than that, James was wrong. Everything isn’t going to be all right. It’s one thing to lose our savings. But James took out a substantial loan against his next bonus—that would be the bonus he won’t receive. Portia, I have to find a way to make money, make a living for my family. And Olivia is no better off than I am, teaching yoga, arranging flowers, or whatever it is she does between boyfriends. She’s spent every dime she made when she sold her part of this place. We need this.”

  Portia felt light-headed with worry. Then anger. How many times had she saved her older sisters when they were growing up?

  Portia closed her eyes, recalling the time Olivia took a job as a caterer with a mom-and-pop shop that was The Glass Kitchen’s only real competition. As the middle sister, Olivia had been determined to be independent, to prove that she wasn’t reliant upon Gram or Cordelia or even Portia. Portia had been planning the night’s menu when she knew she had to make bouillabaisse—but not for dinner. The next afternoon, when the bouillabaisse was perfect, with loaves of French bread just done, Olivia flew in through the back door of the Kitchen.

  “I promised the mayor’s wife I could cater a French meal for her party tonight. I promised it would be great! But everything I’ve made is a disaster.”

  Portia stood silently as Olivia glanced over at the old cast-iron stove and took a deep breath. “I have to have it, Portia,” she said. She didn’t need to be told the answer to her dilemma was in the pot.

  Now Portia stood in the small apartment in New York City, Cordelia in front of her again, tension thick in the room.

  “Yes, but remember the strawberry preserves?” Cordelia said quietly, as if she were reading Portia’s mind.

  Of course she remembered. She couldn’t forget any of it. The bad. The good. She remembered the strawberries, could smell them as if they were sitting in front of her on the counter. It had been a day when she and her sisters had argued. Afterward, all Portia could think about was making strawberry preserves. She had ended up making a huge vat of the preserves only to realize she didn’t have anything to can them in. Cordelia and Olivia had shown up with boxes of Ball jars they’d gotten at a yard sale for a penny apiece. They had ladled in tense silence, filling jars, setting them aside to cool, much as their tempers cooled.

  Once they were done, without a word of apology, Olivia had smiled with that impudent glint of hers, and pulled Portia and Cordelia into a dance. Then they took the preserves to an outdoor flea market and made enough money to pay for the dress Cordelia needed for her wedding to James.

  The knowing had provided the bridge back to each other, a way for Olivia to keep her job, a way for Cordelia to pay for a dress she couldn’t afford. Some of the few times the knowing worked for good, when it made Portia’s world better, rather than signaling a loss to come.

  “I love James,” Cordelia said now. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help him. But I need help. Olivia needs help. And, sweetie, so do you.”

  That had always been the way with the Cuthcart sisters. Fighting, furious, but unable to live without one another.

  Portia hesitated. “Tell me this, Cord. Do you really want to open a café, or is it that you don’t know what else to do?”

  Cordelia answered. “Both. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, you might not have been betrayed by your husband if you hadn’t been suppressing who you really are? Did it ever occur to you that turning your back on the … that trait Gram swore by made you blind to what was really going on with Robert and Sissy?”

  The words hurt more than they should have. It wasn’t as if Portia hadn’t wondered exactly that. But it didn’t change anything.

  “Just think about it,” Cordelia said, then gathered her things and left.

  Portia paced from room to room in her small apartment. Small, at least, compared to the Texas house she and Robert had lived in. Size was relative in New York City. A closet in Texas was a million-dollar bargain in the city.

  An hour later, the chirp of her cell phone caught her off guard. She grabbed her phone only to be brought up short by the display.

  Robert Baleau.

  She grabbed the counter, ducking as if her ex-husband could see her.

  “No, no, no,” she whispered, letting the call go to voice mail.

  As soon as the line was free, she dialed Cordelia.

  “I’m at Saks; I can’t talk.”

  Portia blinked. “You were just here. How can you be at Saks now, especially if your husband is out of work?”

  “I’m just browsing. It’s like … therapy.”

  “Tell me you didn’t just say that.”

  “What do you want, Portia?” Cordelia shot back.

  “Robert just called.”

  “Oh, my Lord! What did he say?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t answer.” Her phone beeped. “He left a message.”

  “Listen to it and call me back.”

  Not a minute after she was done listening, her phone rang again and she answered to Cordelia, saying, “I’ve patched in Olivia.”

  “What did that rat say?” Olivia demanded.

  Portia’s hand shook as she held her phone. “He said he wants to talk to me. He wants to know where I am.”

  “He doesn’t know?” Cordelia was surprised.

  “No. And I don’t want him to know. If he calls either of you, yo
u know nothing.”

  “What about his lawyer?”

  “Everything is going through my lawyer.”

  “Have you gotten your settlement yet?” Olivia asked.

  “No. Not yet.”

  “Yep, typical male crap,” Olivia added. “I swear, you should have told the world about how he treated you. Why you haven’t told anyone who would listen what an ass he is makes zero sense.”

  “I’ve told you. I have no interest in being in the news, and me telling the world that the good Christian politician Robert Baleau divorced me so he could marry my ex–best friend puts me smack dab in the middle of the news as yet another pathetic wronged-politician’s wife. I’ve already told you, no thanks.”

  Olivia scoffed. “Portia—”

  “No. I am not going there. Listen, I’ve got to run.”

  She couldn’t breathe. She had to get out.

  She pressed end, then threw on one of Evie’s old sweaters, grabbed her purse, and bolted. She didn’t slow down until she came to Columbus Avenue and the same bakery where she’d bought the cake for the Kanes: Cutie’s.

  Before she thought it through, she was inside buying a baker’s box full of every variety of cupcake they sold. She couldn’t have explained the impulse if she had tried. She barely managed to cover the cost from the money she had in her wallet. Then she carried them home, nearly running all the way back, before slamming into her apartment. The minute she launched herself into the kitchen, she tore into the cupcakes like an alcoholic plunging into a binge.

  Maybe thirty minutes later, maybe an hour, the door opened and Ariel walked in, finding Portia at the kitchen counter, half-eaten cupcakes spilling across the scarred linoleum.

  “What are you doing?” Ariel said, gaping.

  “These are terrible!”

  “What do you mean, terrible?”

  “Awful, hideous, dry. I tried one and couldn’t believe it. So then I started testing more of them, and so far they’ve all failed!”

  “You’re testing cupcakes? Are they supposed to answer directly, or are you giving them a multiple-choice exam?”

  “Ha-ha,” Portia said, taking a bite of a bright pink cupcake. She swallowed with a gulp of water. “Gah, these are awful.”