Linda Lee - The Glass Kitchen: A Novel of Sisters

Ariel bolted out of the room before Miranda could say another hateful word. She didn’t know how to explain that while Miranda might not be a perfect sister, and their family was massively broken, they were all she had left. It was like a punch in the gut to think that Miranda didn’t care one bit what happened to what was left of their sorry family.

* * *

Ariel waited an hour past the Vesuvius blowup before she tiptoed downstairs. She was starving. Drama did that. If this family stuff didn’t get fixed soon she’d probably get as fat as a beach ball. Whatever, she told herself. Again.

She had pretty much repeated that word over and over in the last hour. Wasn’t there some sort of three-strikes rule? Crawling out onto the fire escape was her first offense. Two more to go before her dad did something like send her off to boarding school.

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.

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 Kitchen 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.