The Glass Kitchen

by Linda Francis Lee

  Portia made it through the store in record time. Herbs, spices. Eggs, flour. Baking soda. A laundry list of staples. At the last second, she realized she needed to make a chowder. Crab and corn with a dash of cayenne pepper. Hot, spicy.

  Within the hour, she was back at the apartment and had the vegetables cleaned and set aside, the roast ready to go into the old oven that thankfully worked. The chowder done. Now it was time to start the cake.

  The lower cabinet creaked when she pulled it open. Inside, she found an old Dormeyer Mix-Well stand mixer, plus several mixing bowls that had been washed so many times, the once bold red was a splotchy pink. The simple act of sifting flour soothed her, like meeting up with a once-cherished old friend. She closed her eyes as she mixed in the salt and baking powder.

  She had to rinse the scuffed Revere Ware pots and pans before she started melting the Baker’s Chocolate in a makeshift double boiler. Once that was done she moved on to the sugar, butter, and eggs until the rich chocolate layers of cake were baked and cooled. When she finally swirled the last bit of vanilla buttercream into place, Portia stood back with a sense that all was as it should have been. But she still had no sense of why she’d made the meal.

  Good news or bad?

  Frustration flashed though her. But she pushed it aside and focused on placing tall wooden stools around the old kitchen island. Four place settings. Four seats.

  With her sisters living in New York, it stood to reason they would come over. But including Portia, that made only three. Who was the fourth?

  The man upstairs?

  Portia instantly shook the thought away. A completely different meal had sprung into her head when she saw him.

  She glanced at the table. She still needed flowers.

  The small corner market had rows of fresh flowers in white plastic buckets. Standing, the early fall sun on her shoulders, she opened her mind. She assessed the fuchsia roses and violet freesias, vibrant orange and pink gerbera daisies. Willowy white snapdragons.

  It took a second before she realized what she needed. Daisies. Bright yellow daisies.

  Looking down at the bucket of cheerful flowers, Portia felt light-headed. If she had to create a meal to cheer people up, then whatever lay ahead had to be bad.

  Anxiety rose through her like dough rising in a towel-covered bowl. The image of the pulled-pork meal and her grandmother stepping into the lightning flashed through her. She hated the anxiety involved with the knowing and food. She hated not understanding, hated waiting for something bad to happen.

  Portia cursed herself for taking a glimpse inside the Pandora’s box of knowing. For three years she had kept the lid shut. If nothing else, she’d had peace. She needed to keep it that way. End of story.

  She wanted to chuck the roast and cake in the garbage. But at this point, whatever was coming couldn’t be stopped.

  Or could it? Had there been a way she could have stopped her grandmother from being struck down by lightning?

  Portia still didn’t know why the sight of the meal had sent her grandmother out into the lightning. She only knew that if she hadn’t made that meal and set the table for one, Gram never would have gone out into that storm.

  Nothing had changed.

  “No, Gram,” Portia whispered. “Nothing about the Cuthcart knowing is a gift. Not to you. Not to me.”

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed the memory away, pulled out her cell phone, and called Cordelia, then Olivia, to find out if they were okay. Anxiety circled in her stomach, trepidation tapping behind her eyes. She was forced to leave messages.

  She raced through a mental list of what else it could be. Robert?

  Portia felt a shiver of hope, but guilt quickly followed. If something had happened to Robert, the knowing would surely have had her buying champagne.

  Back at the apartment, she put the flowers on the table and started to pace. Finally, hoping for a distraction, she turned on Evie’s ancient television. It was tuned to a news program and still working.

  “The investment firm Atlantica General has confirmed the loss of two billion dollars of investor money. It is being reported that the loss was due to fraudulent trades by the firm’s Low Risk group. If allegations of malfeasance are true, no doubt people will go to jail over this.”

  Portia’s heartbeat flared, slowed, and then flared again. Cordelia’s husband, James, worked for Atlantica General. Worse, James worked in the Low Risk group. Since starting at Atlantica ten years earlier, he had been a rising star, becoming one of the most successful young bankers at the giant.

  She sat down hard, only to jump up again when someone knocked at the door.

  Portia raced over and yanked the door open to find her other sister, Olivia.

  “Did you hear?” Olivia said.

  “About James?”

  “Yes,” her middle sister said without so much as a hello or hug as she walked in the door.

  Back in Texas, Portia knew that the three Cuthcart sisters had been considered three kinds of blondes. Cordelia, the oldest, was pretty with her straightened hair and patrician nose. If Cordelia had been born to resemble a queen, middle-sister Olivia had been born to be the nymph. With her Cupid’s-bow mouth and violet eyes, she lured men in to the rocky shores of her world. Portia knew that while her sisters were queens and nymphs, she was considered cute, the girl next door. There were worse things to be, sure, but just once she would have liked to be the beautiful one or the exotic one.

  Today, Olivia wore olive-colored cargo pants that hung low on her hips, a multicolored yoga top that showed off her beautifully sculpted arms, and some sort of shoe that looked equal parts comfort and fashion. Olivia was the wild child of the family, living in a walk-up apartment on the Lower East Side, a serial dater who had broken more than a few men’s hearts. Why she refused to settle down was a mystery to her sisters, a mystery that Cordelia and Portia had dissected from every angle but still didn’t understand. Though Portia was starting to think that Olivia was just smarter than they were. Than she was, anyway.

  Olivia glanced at the table and raised a brow, but didn’t say anything.

  Portia knew that look. Olivia didn’t particularly care one way or the other about the knowing. As far as she was concerned, it had nothing to do with her. But that didn’t mean she liked it.

  “God, I hope that fourth setting isn’t for James,” Olivia stated, turning from the table. “Though you’d have to think he’s probably surrounded by lawyers. Or cops.”

  Portia shivered.

  Despite the crispness of her words, Portia knew why her sister was there. Long ago their mother had made her daughters promise that no matter where they were or how angry they were at each other at the time, if one of them needed the other, they would be there. No questions asked.

  Which meant Portia knew what would happen next.

  Cordelia sailed into the apartment like a perfectly dressed mother duck, not a hair out of place on her head, her subtle hints of makeup perfectly done, her blue eyes alert, determined as she set her expensive handbag on a chair.

  At thirteen, Cordelia had perfected the jaundiced arrogance of a girl who believed she had all the answers. At thirty-five, Cordelia still felt she had all the answers. Where Olivia had always been considered the passionate sister, the oldest Cuthcart girl never showed any sort of emotion at all.

  “We saw the news,” Portia said. “Is everything okay with James?”

  Cordelia’s always stiff upper lip trembled.

  “Jesus, Cordie,” Olivia stated with all the calm certainty that there was no problem too big to be solved. “Is James getting arrested?”

  “Olivia,” Portia barked, just as Cordelia blurted, “No!”

  Portia sagged. “What a relief.”

  “Not a relief,” Cordelia stated. “He wasn’t a party to the bad deals, but part of the two billion dollars was every penny of our life savings.”

  Cordelia stood there in her cashmere and pearls, her standard uniform for all the char
ity work she did in the city, tears in her eyes.

  Portia wrapped her arms around Cordelia. Olivia just stood there. Portia gave her a look, after which Olivia gave a silent sigh, then came over and joined the hug.

  “I am not crying,” Cordelia stated, even as tears rolled.

  “Of course not,” Portia said.

  “Nope, not you,” Olivia added.

  They stood that way for a few seconds, their hearts beating nearly as one until Portia broke the spell. “Stop stepping on my toes, Olivia.”

  Olivia burst out laughing. “I knew you couldn’t take more than a few seconds of hugging.”

  “I can take hugging, Olivia. You’re the one who can’t take it. That’s why you stepped on my toes.”

  But then they turned back to Cordelia.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Portia said.

  “Absolutely,” Olivia added.

  Cordelia stepped away, smoothed her bob, straightened her blouse, and drew a deep breath. “I love you guys,” she whispered, and quickly cleared her throat. “It really is okay. But I’m stressed and I can’t show it in front of James.”

  If Olivia was like a decadent chocolate-covered strawberry, and Portia a pineapple-and-spice hummingbird cupcake, then Cordelia was peanut brittle, still sweet, though with something more substantial added by way of peanuts, but unbendable.

  “James says it’ll be fine. So it will be.” She raised her chin. “I’m sure it’s not every cent of our life’s savings. I’m overreacting, which is childish.” Tears welled once more; Cordelia drew a deep breath and shook them away. “I just needed to let it out, then see that it isn’t so dire. I couldn’t do that at home.”

  Portia shot Olivia a quick glance, but she didn’t say what she was thinking—that Cordelia always put a good face on a bad situation.

  Cordelia caught sight of the food in the little kitchen, then turned and stared at the wooden stools around the island, the plates, the flowers. But when Olivia caught Cordelia’s eye and raised a brow, Cordelia looked away. Portia had asked her oldest sister once why she hated the knowing so much that she generally pretended it didn’t exist. Cordelia had dismissed the question out of hand. But Portia still wondered.

  The three of them pulled up around the makeshift table and served each other plates piled high with Portia’s feast. No one mentioned the unspoken question hanging in the air. Who was the last seat for? Instead, Portia and Olivia caught up on every bit of Texas gossip until Cordelia was able to breathe again, quickly turning back into the oldest sister.

  “It’s time to talk. I’m not the only one with problems,” Cordelia said, breaking in. “You’ve moved in here, Portia. But have you figured out how you’re going to support yourself?”

  Olivia shook her head and sat back. “Sheez, Cordie, give her a break. She’s barely divorced.”

  “Barely doesn’t have any influence on a bank balance.”

  “She’s right, Olivia. But I’m working on it.”

  “Really?” Cordelia got one of her know-it-all looks. “What are you thinking about doing?”

  “Okay, so I don’t know yet, Cord. But something will come to me.”

  “Let’s make a list of possibilities.”

  Olivia groaned. “You and your lists.”

  Portia agreed. More than that, she knew this wasn’t headed anywhere good. “Maybe later.”

  “There’s no time like the present,” Cordelia stated, her cheer exaggerated and fake.

  If Portia hadn’t known that her sister mainly wanted to distract herself from her own problems, she would have fought harder. As it was, she didn’t know how to say no when her sister said, “Let’s brainstorm.”

  “Cordelia—”

  “It’ll be fun!” Even more fake. “Just us girls, letting dreams run wild.”

  Olivia all but rolled her eyes. “You know she’s not letting this go.”

  “Fine. I could be an assistant,” Portia stated.

  “Assistant to whom?”

  Only Cordelia, and grammar zealots, would use whom in a casual conversation. Portia considered. “To an executive.”

  “You don’t type.” This from Olivia.

  Portia glared at her one supporter. “Fine.” She glanced back at Cordelia. “Then maybe I could be an editor.”

  “As if they don’t type? Besides, an editor of what?”

  Portia shot Cordelia a look. “Books.”

  “You barely graduated from high school—”

  “I graduated!”

  “But the only class you liked was Home Economics. I can’t believe any school still offers those classes. Definitely don’t tell anyone in New York about it.”

  “Why not?”

  Cordelia didn’t bother to answer. “I know what you could do. If anyone asks, tell them you went to cooking school. They teach cooking in Home Ec, right? They’ll eat that up. New Yorkers are all about food.” Cordelia hesitated, then said, “You know that.”

  Portia eyed her. “I don’t cook.”

  Her sisters glanced at the meal in front of them.

  “This was an aberration,” she said. “I do not cook. Not anymore. You know that.”

  Cordelia and Olivia exchanged a glance.

  Portia knew they were going to say something, something she wouldn’t want to discuss. “Stop. Really. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get a job. First thing tomorrow I’ll start working on my résumé.”

  Finally Cordelia stood. “I take it the bathroom in this place works?”

  “No, but there’s a Porta-Potty in the garden.”

  Cordelia’s eyes went wide.

  “Just joking.”

  This time, everyone laughed, even Cordelia, the tension in the room easing.

  Cordelia headed out of the kitchen, and Olivia cupped her hands around a mug of hot mint tea laced with honey. Portia started to clear the table. But when she reached for the unused place setting, she heard Cordelia in the tiny foyer.

  “Who are you?” the oldest sister was asking.

  Portia glanced out of the kitchen and saw a young girl, eleven, maybe twelve, standing just inside the front door. Her curly light brown hair puffed like a cloud around creamy white skin, making her big brown eyes look even bigger. Freckles stood out on her nose, perfect and contained, like crayon dots drawn by a child. While the dots were meticulous, the girl was not. She wore a navy blue sweater over a white blouse that was mostly untucked from a navy blue plaid skirt. Her headband was askew, one kneesock up, the other down, spilling into black flats, finishing off what was clearly one of the private school uniforms that children wore in Manhattan.

  “I’m Ariel, from upstairs.” She looked around. “I heard all the noise. The door was open.” Her pursed mouth dared them to contradict her. “Are you squatters or something?”

  Olivia laughed out loud.

  “No,” Portia said. “We’re not squatters. I live here.”

  The girl studied them, as if trying to get her head around anyone living in this run-down apartment. “But you weren’t here yesterday.”

  “I moved in last night.”

  Cordelia scowled. “I still can’t believe you moved here. You should have kept staying with me.”

  When Portia first arrived in New York, she had gone straight to Cordelia, not sure what to do about the apartment. But as with so many things with Portia, she had woken up yesterday morning knowing what she had to do. Next thing she knew, she made the call to the lawyer, then moved in here.

  “And the rest of you are, what … friends?” the girl asked.

  “Sisters.”

  “You must be Gabriel Kane’s child,” Cordelia said.

  “You know my dad?”

  “Olivia and I sold our apartments to your father.”

  The girl wasn’t paying attention. She eyed the food.

  Cordelia shifted into mother mode. “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving. The new housekeeper-slash-cook made dinner, but it was really weird, like scary weird, and s
eriously, who wants to eat scary food?”

  “Have a seat.” Cordelia retrieved a plate as if it were her own home and loaded it with food. Just before she set it down at the extra place setting, she froze.

  Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth pinched. Portia hated the battle she sensed going on in her sister. But she didn’t repeat Gram’s words.

  “Some things are true whether you believe them or not.”

  “Sit,” Cordelia finally said, setting down the plate. “Eat, before it gets cold.”

  Four

  THEY SAT BACK DOWN on the stools while Ariel gobbled up her food and Portia, Cordelia, and Olivia stared at her.

  “What?” Ariel said, glancing up through a curtain of wispy bangs, the fork halting halfway to her mouth. “You’ve never seen a girl eat before?”

  Cordelia smiled in the condescendingly maternal way she had perfected by age ten. “Perhaps we’ve never seen a young girl eat so fast.”

  Ariel shrugged, unbothered by the implied reprimand. “Like I said, I’m starved.”

  Cordelia started to speak, but Portia cut her off. “Let her eat in peace, Cord.”

  Olivia laughed. “Yes, eat. Though tell us,” she added, studying the girl, “who all lives in your apartment?”

  Ariel looked confused. “Who all? What kind of word is that?”

  “It’s a Texas thing,” Portia clarified. “You know, like y’all for you all.”

  “I don’t get it. Who adds all to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Olivia interjected, waving the words away. “I just wondered who lives with you upstairs.”

  Olivia said the words casually, but Portia knew better. She knew her sister. Olivia was always interested in the possibility of a new man.

  “Just me, my dad, and Miranda.”

  Olivia scowled. “Miranda?”

  “My sister.”

  “Oh, really.” Olivia’s smile returned, slow, delicious. “So, your dad’s single?”

  “Olivia,” Portia and Cordelia both snapped.

  Cordelia no doubt said that because Olivia was being rude. Portia wanted to think she did it for the same reason, but the truth was that at the mention of the man upstairs, she felt, well, possessive. The thought of Olivia’s lack of inhibition and beautifully sculpted body in relation to Gabriel Kane didn’t sit well—which was ridiculous, since Portia was barely divorced and certainly not interested in Gabriel herself. But there it was.