The Glass Kitchen

by Linda Francis Lee

  Portia kept trying to solve whatever was wrong. But that ended when Gram stepped around her and headed for the back door of The Glass Kitchen.

  “Where are you going?”

  Gram didn’t retrieve her handbag or keys. There was nothing Portia could take away to keep her from leaving.

  “Gram, you can’t leave!”

  Gram didn’t listen. She walked out the door, Portia following, pleading, “Gram, where are you going?”

  But what Portia hadn’t expected was that her grandmother would stop abruptly underneath the suddenly stormy Texas sky and raise her hands high. Lightning came down like the crack of God’s hand, quick and reaching, striking Gram.

  Shock, along with electricity, surged through Portia, knocking her off her feet like a rag doll thrown to the dirt by an angry child. Her blouse ripped at the shoulder, blood marking the white material like a brand.

  The rest was a blur—people hurrying to them, the ambulance screaming into the yard. What stood out was that Portia knew she was responsible. If only she hadn’t cooked the meal. If only she had set the table for two instead of one. If only she hadn’t allowed her grandmother to walk out the door. If only she had never had even a glimpse of the knowing.

  But if onlys didn’t change anything. Gram was gone, all because of a meal Portia hadn’t even begun to understand but had prepared.

  Standing in the dirt lot, The Glass Kitchen behind her, Portia promised herself she wouldn’t cook again.

  A month later, she married Robert, then began shaping herself into the perfect Texas politician’s wife, erasing everything she could of herself until she was a blank slate of polite smiles and innocuous conversation. She slammed the lid shut on the knowing.

  And became normal.

  Second Course

  Soup

  Crab and Sweet Corn Chowder

  Two

  THE SOUND OF TRAFFIC woke Portia.

  Minutes ticked by before she realized where she was. New York City, on the Upper West Side, in the garden apartment of Great-aunt Evie’s old town house, three years after her wedding, a month after her divorce from Robert Baleau.

  Portia rolled over, covering her head with the pillow.

  For the last three years, she had closed the door on visions of food until she had practically forgotten her unnerving ability was there. She’d worked hard to be like everyone else.

  To be normal.

  She groaned into the pillow. The only way she could be called normal was if normal meant stupid, not to mention naive. Why hadn’t she realized that her husband didn’t want her anymore? Why hadn’t she figured out that the only real reason he wanted her at all was to make him seem more appealing to voters? More than that, why hadn’t she known he would be so callous in getting rid of her after he’d come home and told her he wanted a divorce?

  Not long after Robert had secured his place in politics, the supposedly good Christian politican developed a wandering eye, or maybe just gave in to it. Naturally, she had been the last to hear the whispers. But what she definitely hadn’t heard until after the divorce papers were set in front of her was that the real reason he needed a divorce was because he had gotten one of his aides pregnant.

  When the surprisingly quick divorce came through, she had fled Texas in a storm of devastation and betrayal, finding herself shipwrecked on the island of Manhattan, with nothing more than the two hastily packed suitcases and her grandmother’s cherished Glass Kitchen cookbooks—thrown in even though she didn’t want them.

  Rolling back over, she tossed the pillow aside. She had arrived in New York City a month ago, but she had been in Great-aunt Evie’s town house only since late last night, using an old key she had kept on her key chain. Before Evie had died, she had divided the town house up into three apartments, two of which she had rented out for income. Upon her death, one apartment had gone to each of the sisters.

  Cordelia and Olivia had sold their floors. Before the divorce, Robert had wanted to sell her floor, too, with the garden out back, but she had never signed the contract. Thank God. While she was having a hard time imagining herself living in New York City, she wasn’t crazy. Staying in Texas, where Robert and his pregnant new wife had already started to rule her world, was an awful thought. Here in New York, she had something of her own. Everything was going as well as could be expected, given that her bank account was nearly as bare as Great-aunt Evie’s kitchen cupboards.

  The early morning air in New York was far cooler than it would have been in Texas, especially in the ancient bathroom, where the windows barely shut out the chilly gusts. Portia braced her hands on the old-fashioned sink, looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were still a deep violet blue, but the circles beneath them hinted at the stress that kept her awake at night. A year ago, she’d had sensibly cut, shoulder-length blond hair—perfect for a Texas politician’s wife—tamed by a blow-dryer, hair spray, and a velvet headband. She scoffed. She’d been a cliché of big hair, sure, but what was she now? An even bigger cliché of the wronged wife kicked out of her own bed by her husband and the ex–best friend whom she herself had convinced Robert to hire as an aide. As her life spiraled out of control, so had her hair, growing and curling as it had when she was a child.

  She turned on the old-fashioned spigot, the pipes clanging before spitting out a gush of water that she splashed on her face. Then she froze when her head filled with images of cake, thick swirls of buttercream frosting between chocolate layers. Her breath caught, her fingers curling around the sink edge. It had been three whole years since she’d been hit by images of food. But she knew the images were real—or would be if she allowed the knowing to take over.

  She shook her head hard. She was normal now. The knowing was in the past. She hadn’t done so much as toast a slice of bread in the last three years.

  But the feeling wouldn’t leave her alone, and with a groan she realized that the knowing was back, as if her move to New York, to this town house, had chiseled away every inch of normalcy she had cobbled together.

  The images swirled through her. She needed to bake. Cake. A layered chocolate cake. With vanilla buttercream frosting.

  The images were as clear as four-color photos from a coffee table book on baking. She could taste the mix of vanilla, butter, and cream whipped into a sugar frosting as if she had spooned it into her mouth. The chocolate smelled so real that a chill of awareness ran along her skin, pooling in her fingertips. She itched to bake.

  But the last thing she needed in her life right now was to contend with something else she couldn’t control.

  She fought harder, but another bit of knowing hit. It wasn’t just baking. She needed to cook, too. A roast.

  She pressed one of her great-aunt’s threadbare white towels to her face, resisting the urge. She had devoted the last three years to being the perfect wife. She had let her grandmother’s Glass Kitchen go, closing the doors for good and selling the property for next to nothing to a developer who only wanted the land, splitting the money with her sisters. Her job had been to be at her husband’s side at any function. Given that she had signed a prenuptial agreement, and with the meager settlement Robert had yet to pay her, she barely had two pennies to rub together. The last thing she needed to do was to waste money preparing a big meal. But the need wouldn’t let go, and with a shudder gasp she gave in completely, the last of her crumbling walls coming down. Flowers, she realized. She needed flowers, too.

  The knowing was rusty, coming at her in fits and starts, much like the water sluicing unevenly out of the faucet. Groaning, Portia dressed in jeans instead of a conservative skirt, and a big sweater instead of a silk blouse. She found flowered Keds in her great-aunt’s closet, which she dusted off to wear rather than sensible heels. She wasn’t Mrs. Robert Baleau anymore. She was Portia Cuthcart again, having taken back her maiden name.

  The goal, her grandmother always said in the few times she actually said anything about the knowing, was to give in to the simple act of doing a
nd have faith that eventually everything would make sense.

  “Great,” Portia muttered.

  Once dressed, she went to her still-packed suitcases. A tiny bead of sweat broke out on her forehead when her fingers brushed against the spine of a Glass Kitchen cookbook. The handmade books had been passed down just as the knowing had, though just as with lessons on the knowing, Gram had never shared the books, either. Portia never knew they existed until after her grandmother’s death.

  Now she cracked the spine on the first of three volumes, her pulse beating in her temples. She recognized Gram’s writing, notes scribbled between the crudely typed lines, new details learned and added, old ingredients scratched out. She turned the pages, her breath high in her chest, short bursts. Each generation of Cuthcart women had written in the margins, filling in newly learned wisdom along with the recipes. But even the recipes held gems of magic.

  For perfectly boiled water, let it jump with enthusiasm, but not so energetically that it becomes exhausted, tiring the food it will boil.

  And:

  Never prepare a meal in anger, for the end result will fill the recipients with bile.

  An hour later, when she came to the end of the volume, Portia jerked up, the book falling to the ground. Enough!

  She scrambled out of the apartment, the cool morning air hitting her like a gasp of relief. With the Keds dangling in her fingers, she just stood there for a second, breathing, in, out, before she finally sat down to pull on the flowered sneakers.

  She had just finished tying the last shoelace when she saw him.

  He was tall, lean, with broad shoulders, dark brown hair. He looked primal, with a firm jaw and hard brow, walking toward her with a fluidity that seemed physically impossible, given his size. He had none of Robert’s pretty-boy good looks, and there didn’t seem to be anything practiced or politically correct about him. From the look of him, she imagined he was one of those New York businessmen she had heard about who traded stocks like third-world countries trade rulers, easily and ruthlessly.

  Of course he wasn’t dressed like a businessman. He wore a black T-shirt, long athletic shorts, and sweat-slicked hair. He had the smooth, tight muscles of someone who was athletic but didn’t spend his days as an athlete. It wasn’t hard to imagine him showering and then heading out of this tree-lined neighborhood on his way to some glass-and-steel office building in the concrete jungle of Midtown Manhattan.

  She knew the minute he saw her, the way his eyes narrowed as if trying to understand something. She felt the same thing, as if she knew him, or should.

  Images of food rushed through her head, surprising her. Fried chicken. Sweet jalapeño mustard. Mashed potatoes. Biscuits. And a pie. Big and sweet, strawberries with whipped cream—so Texan, so opposite this fierce New Yorker.

  Good news or bad? she wondered before she could stop herself.

  “No, no, no,” she whispered. The images of food meant nothing at all. She wanted nothing to do with him, with any guy, at this point in her life. And she definitely didn’t want anything to do with the kind she felt certain wielded power like a club. Robert charmed his way into control, but she knew on sight that this man would take it by force.

  When he reached the steps, he stopped, looking at her with an intensity that felt both assessing and oddly possessive. It might have been an hour, or a second; no smile, no awkwardness, and her breathing settled low. She became acutely aware of herself, and him. Everything about this man pulled her in, which was ridiculous. He could be a serial killer. He could be demented, insane. With a body like that, he probably didn’t eat sugar. A deal killer, for sure.

  His head cocked to the side. “Do I know you?”

  Portia smiled—she was Texan, after all, and had learned manners at a young age, even if it was out of a library book her mother “accidentally” forgot to return—and his expression turned to something deeper, richer like a salted hot fudge.

  “No,” she answered, the word nearly sticking in her throat. “Should you?”

  Desire had caused the storm that left her shipwrecked in Manhattan—the desire her husband felt for another woman. But there had been her own desire, too, the desire for intensity and excitement in her own life, which she had suppressed when she married Robert. Sitting there, she felt that desire stir inside her like the first bubble rising in a pot of caramelizing sugar.

  “I guess not,” he said. “But you seem familiar.” He put his foot on the bottom step, his hand on the railing, bringing him into her space with a confidence likely born of always getting what he wanted. “Do you run in the park?”

  She glanced down at her flowered sneakers and wrinkled her nose.

  “Okay, so I haven’t seen you running,” he said, his voice still rich and creamy but sliding into humor. Peppermint, she thought, the corner of his mouth hitching at one corner.

  Portia laughed outright with the sort of ease she hadn’t felt in months. Somehow this man who looked like he knew his way around darkness had chased hers away. “You don’t approve of my shoes?”

  “Is that what those are?” His lips hitched higher, a curl of his slowly drying hair falling forward and making him look more approachable.

  “What are you, the fashion police?”

  That caught him off guard. “Me? Hardly.”

  Portia stood up, skipped down, and stopped. Two steps still separated them, but given the difference in height, they stood nearly face-to-face. His laughter fled, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her mouth. Her breathing slowed, and everything around her disappeared. She could make out the sparks of cognac in what she had thought were solid brown eyes. His nose was large, but somehow went perfectly with his strong face and jaw. His mouth was full, sensual. No one would call this man pretty, but something about the way his features came together drew her in. She felt a need, an urge to reach out, touch him. Which was crazy.

  A truck turned the corner, hitting a crack in the asphalt with a loud bang, and she blinked. The man straightened.

  Portia glanced around, took in the back side of the Dakota apartment building with its Gothic façade, antiquated moat, and wrought-iron balustrade around the perimeter, as if everything in her world hadn’t shifted at the sight of this man.

  He straightened abruptly, that sense of control settling back around him. “Can I help you with something?”

  “No. No. I was just tying my shoelaces.”

  “Ah, then, fine.”

  He started up the stairs. She went stiff.

  He stopped and raised his hands. “I live here.”

  “You live here? As in, you live in this place? Right here?”

  His brow furrowed. “Yes.”

  This was her upstairs neighbor. More specifically, this was Gabriel Kane, the owner of the rest of the town house, the man she—or rather, Robert—had agreed to sell her apartment to before she refused at the last minute.

  “Then these are your steps. Wow! Great place,” Portia managed inanely.

  Initially, she had sent word that she wasn’t prepared to sell, at least not yet. No contracts had been signed. She had needed time to get her thoughts together. That was a month ago. Then, the minute she made the final decision that she was keeping the property, she had left a message with Gabriel Kane’s lawyer herself, explaining the unexpected changes in her life.

  She had apologized up and down but hadn’t heard back. Granted, she had only left the message the day before, but she had assumed she’d hear right away. She had slipped into the apartment late last night, using the old key in hopes of avoiding Kane for as long as possible.

  She didn’t doubt for a second that the man was furious with her for backing out of the contract after he’d already bought the rest of the building from her sisters. There was no question in her mind that he would try forcing her to sell. Chicken that she was, she was counting on his lawyer to convince him otherwise. Even she knew a deal wasn’t a deal until documents were signed.

  “Have a great day!”

&
nbsp; She practically leaped to the sidewalk, catching sight of an old man who was sitting in the window next door, peering out at her as she dashed toward Columbus Avenue.

  Three

  “SOME THINGS ARE TRUE whether you believe them or not.”

  Gram’s favorite saying. She had repeated it to Portia and her sisters more times than any of the three cared to count.

  The minute Portia turned onto Columbus she fell against the nearest wall. Her knees were weak, her breath coming out in uneven jerks. Whether she wanted to believe it or not, Gabriel Kane had made her think of food. A meal. A meal at odds with everything he appeared to be and made her acutely aware of being a stranger in a strange land.

  Thankfully, once her breathing started to ease, so did images of fried chicken and sweet jalapeño mustard. She remained against the wall for a bit longer as the images faded even more until they were gone, and she pushed away on a ragged breath and spaghetti legs. Seeing the man mixed in with thoughts of a meal was a fluke, she reassured herself. The images of food had nothing to do with the man or her apartment. And she felt certain she was right when her thoughts and tingling fingertips circled back to chocolate cake.

  Next thing she knew, Portia hurried into the Fairway Market on Broadway. The grocery store was unlike anything she had seen in Texas. Bins of fruit and vegetables lined the sidewalk, forming narrow entrances into the market. Inside, the aisles were crowded, no inch of space wasted. In the fresh vegetables and fruit section she was surrounded by piles of romaine and red-leaf lettuce, velvety thick green kale that gave away to fuzzy kiwi and mounds of apples. Standing with her eyes closed, Portia waited a second, trying not to panic. Then, realizing there was no help for it, she gave in to the knowing, not to the fluke meal inspired by Gabriel Kane, but to the chocolate cake and roast that had hit her earlier.

  She started picking out vegetables. Cauliflower that she would top with Gruyère and cheddar cheeses; spinach she would flash fry with garlic and olive oil.

  In the meat department, she asked for a standing rib roast to serve eight. Then she stopped. “No,” she said to the butcher, her eyes half-closed in concentration, “just give me enough for four.”