Linda Lee - The Glass Kitchen: A Novel of Sisters

Portia forced herself to focus, noticing for the first time that the outer front door had been ripped out. She gasped. “You can’t do that!”

Gabriel turned. “What’s all over your forehead?”

Portia swiped her skin, coming away with frosting. “Don’t think you can distract me with your, your … scowl.”

“My scowl?” He looked amused.

“You cannot rip out my aunt’s front door. I’m going to call someone, the historic society or something. I’m sure it’s listed. You can’t just rip out doors!”

“This is none of your business,” Gabriel said, the laughter disappearing.

“This is my home—of course it’s my business!”

He raised a brow.

“Okay, so it’s both of our homes. You on the top, me on the bottom.”

That got a different kind of raised brow.

“Errr!” Portia grumbled. “That door belongs to both of us!”

Gabriel’s jaw set.

“Well?” she demanded. “I bet we’re something like one of those insane apartment building co-ops they have in Manhattan, you know, giving everyone who lives there equal rights. I have rights to that front door, just as much as you do.”

“The door was rotting. And if you don’t like what I’m doing, you can always leave.”

“Funny. But I can’t. I have nowhere else to go.” Belatedly, she realized that after all her ranting, he just might ask her for half the price of the rotting door.

It flashed through her mind that maybe she should just sell him the apartment and be done with it. She had been scouring the New York Times real estate section, and she knew she could make a small fortune by selling.

Gabriel clearly saw her moment of vulnerability because he suddenly looked like a shark circling a floundering cruise ship tourist. He sensed blood. “Ariel,” he said, “can you give me a second to talk to Ms. Cuthcart?”

Ariel glanced between the two of them, shrugged, and trotted back inside.

Gabriel took two steps up. There was an intent look to his face that … well, Portia had the distinct idea that he was going to reach out and kiss her, never mind the work crew milling down below on the sidewalk.

But at the last second Gabriel’s eyes cleared and he said, “Why are you here?”

Portia blinked—then blinked again, hating the implication that she didn’t belong.

That was the thing. She did belong. Ever since that first morning she woke up in the garden apartment, she had felt as if her whole life had been bringing her to this place. Texas wasn’t home anymore. New York City was.

“I belong here,” she said. Then found herself blurting out, “You don’t like me, do you?”

That threw him. He gave her a look as if to say, “You are such a girl.” And who could blame him?

Aloud, he said, “I don’t even know you.”

Unbidden, the image of the way he had looked at her after peeling her out of the burger suit came to mind. He had wanted to know her that day, at least on some level.

“This is not about liking or not liking you,” he stated firmly.

“Dad!” Miranda marched out the front door. “There isn’t a thing to eat in the whole house! Are you trying to starve us? Huh? Is that what you really want?”

Gabriel took a deep breath. “Give me a second, Miranda. I’ll fix it.”

“Yeah, right. Sure, you will.”

She wheeled back inside.

“Listen,” Gabriel said, dragging his hands through his hair. “You need a job, right? Given the demise of the burger suit, I mean.”

“And?” Portia said carefully.

“The girls need someone to make meals for them. Breakfast and dinner, on school days.”

Portia felt her blood begin to boil. “Are you offering me a job as your cook?”

He eyed her. “I guess I am.”

“Either you are or you aren’t.”

“Fine, yes. I am offering you a job.” He told her an amount he would pay, and her stomach actually rumbled at the thought of all the boxes of cereal, not to mention fabulous food, she could buy with the amount. But then she remembered.

“What is the matter with everyone? How many times do I have to say that I don’t cook? Not anymore!”

Though she wanted to. God help her, she did.

Portia reminded herself of things that were normal. White picket fences. Food that didn’t come in visions. She took a deep, steadying breath.

“Ariel says you do. And you couldn’t be worse than me. Just give it some thought. In the meantime, I suggest you get out of the way before the workmen run you over.”

He left her standing on the steps. When Portia gathered herself and glanced around, she noticed the old man next door. Despite the closed window, the man raised a challenging eyebrow, as if he’d heard every word.

Her great-aunt Evie had followed her dream and moved to New York when it became clear that her future didn’t lie in Willow Creek, Texas.

“The measure of a person isn’t the bumps you hit in the road,” Gram had always said. “It’s how you pick yourself up and move forward.”

She could almost hear Gram asking a question: “Who are you, Portia?”

Every direction she turned, she was hit with images and urges, thoughts and knowing. Then something else hit her, harder than it had before.

If she had been true to who she really was, would Robert have been able to deceive her, as Cordelia had said?

And suddenly she lost the fight. Before she could think better of it, she dialed Cordelia, who answered on the first ring.

“Get me the names of some investment bankers.”

A beat passed before her sister spoke. “What for?”

“We’re going to open The Glass Kitchen in New York.”

PORTIA GROANED over what she had done.

But there was no turning back, and as night fell later that day she managed to nurture a flicker of hope. She was giving in to cooking. She would bake. She would open a Glass Kitchen with her sisters. But she would do both like a normal person.

That was the key. It would be three normal sisters opening a normal restaurant in New York, serving the kind of normal food that was the opposite of the tiny portions so often served in Manhattan. None of that fancy food that was better to look at than to eat.

But Portia knew there was something else she had to do.

Stepping out into the dark garden, she noted the metal fire escape that zigzagged up the back of the town house.

The maze of metal ladders and landings used to be a dangerous wreck, but she’d bet anything that Gabriel would have had it fixed. She had no doubt he was a man who took care of his own. He was a man her grandmother would have respected.

The thought surprised her, left her off-balance.

She glanced up to the higher floors of the town house and found that the third-floor light was on. Back in the day, the room had been her great-aunt’s library. Gabriel Kane must have left it as a library, because through the sheer curtains she could just make out his large shape as he stood in front of the tall windows.

Without thinking, she started climbing the fire escape, just as she’d done as a girl. She didn’t want to go to the front door and ring the newly working bell. She didn’t want to call—not that she had his number. She didn’t want to wait until morning. If she waited a second longer, she would change her mind.

Her handholds were firm as she climbed, the years slipping away until she was just a girl with her sisters in New York for the summer. She had loved climbing the fire escape. Cordelia had not.

“Portia! Get down here,” Cordelia had always demanded, her voice bouncing against the tall buildings surrounding them.

Olivia had always laughed, egging Portia on. “Keep going, Portia!”

But even Olivia had never followed Portia up the narrow ladders and landings. Portia was the only one who scaled the metal stairs like a cat, slipping into one of their bedrooms or Evie’s library. Cordelia and Olivia would fly into the house, then dash upstairs to find Portia already curled up in Evie’s favorite chair with one of their aunt’s magazines.

All these years later, with each handhold and step up the stairs, she came to the third floor once again, but this time Gabriel Kane stood inside.

Gossamer-thin draperies covered the library windows. Portia knocked and nearly fell backward when Gabriel whipped aside the curtains, something dangerous in his face.

“Oh,” she squeaked.

Before she could fall, flee, or figure out how to get back down without killing herself, Gabriel’s face shifted from dangerous to fierce. She felt like kindling in front of a flame. It wasn’t nearly as comforting as a welcome mat, but Portia would take what she could get, given a plunge to the earth made his harsh expression seem appealing.

At least that’s what she thought until he wrenched open the window, grabbed her arms, and pulled her inside.

She wasn’t a big woman, but still. Gabriel lifted her with the ease of a bodybuilder lifting a can of peas. “What the hell are you doing out there?”

He was angry, she realized. Really angry.

“You could have killed yourself on that thing.”

She remembered him giving her that glass of water and making her drink. Now this. The man seemed oddly protective for a guy who clearly wanted nothing to do with her.