“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, you 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.”

“They can’t be awful.” Ariel picked up the box. “Cutie’s Bakery. These are, like, the most famous cupcakes around.”

“So I’ve heard. Have one.”

“No thanks. I had a bite of that cake you brought from them. It wasn’t even close to as good as the one you made that first night. Hint hint.”

The words hit Portia in the gut, swirling around like plump, juicy blueberries folded into the kind of thick, sweetened batter perfect for licking off a spoon. Abruptly she stood, her mind whirling, when a huge bang sounded outside.

She and Ariel ran up the stairs and out the open door.

Gabriel was already there, two steps down. He wore faded Levi’s and a navy blue T-shirt that stretched across his chest. The sun hit his hair, the brown so dark it was nearly black. He looked great, Portia thought. Really great. No surprise there. What was a surprise was that he was howling with laughter, talking to a guy who was obviously a contractor. His eyes crinkled at the sides when he grinned like that, making him look downright approachable. Who would have guessed the beast had it in him?