Linda Lee - The Glass Kitchen: A Novel of Sisters

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.

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?”

The bell rang, and Cordelia walked in, dressed in a casual way that wasn’t Cordelia at all.

“Why didn’t you answer my e-mail?” Cordelia said. Then, like Olivia, she took in Portia’s attire. “What’s going on?”

Cordelia glanced back into the living room and saw the table settings. The two older sisters exchanged a wary glance.

“You had to make a meal,” Olivia said, her voice hard.

“I hate this!” Cordelia said.

Olivia scoffed. “How is it possible that you, who pushed Portia back into the knowing, are acting like this is a surprise? You know the weird meals you get with the knowing. It’s not her fault.”