The Glass Kitchen (24 page)

Portia stiffened. “What?”

Olivia walked in next. “What do you mean your life is over? What’s wrong now?”

Cordelia looked her sisters in the eye, seeming to come to a decision. “You mean what’s wrong besides lying to people and telling them that Portia works with Gabriel Kane in order to get meetings?”

Portia’s head snapped back. “You really did it?” She had hoped there would be some explanation, some misunderstanding.

Cordelia pressed her eyes closed, then sighed. “Yes, I did it. I started out doing it the right way when I first tried to get appointments with investors. But I never got past the receptionists. Then I sort of casually mentioned that you knew Gabriel Kane, which morphed into you worked for Gabriel Kane, which morphed even more into you worked
with
Gabriel Kane.” She cringed. “That had people lining up to take a meeting with you.” Her face was red with strained emotion. “I shouldn’t have done it, I know. But with all this mess with James, I felt desperate. It was like getting the appointments was proof that I could make something happen in my life.”

Portia came over and took the bag away, setting it down. Olivia joined them.

“Hey, sweetie,” Olivia said, wrapping her arms around Cordelia. “It’s okay. It will all work out. Things always do. Just like it will all work out with James.”

“But it won’t. It turns out there’s an e-mail trail a mile long.”

Olivia couldn’t seem to help herself when she snorted. “Who, in this day and age, leaves an e-mail trail?”

“Obviously my husband.” Cordelia drew a shaky breath, and when she spoke, her voice cracked. “Me. Dirt poor. Again.”

Portia took her sister by the shoulders. “Not a single one of us wants to go back to our trailer-park roots. But whatever happens, I know you’ll get through this. Daddy taught us to be fighters. And I just realized that not one of us has been fighting for ourselves. Not really. Not well enough. We’ve been hanging in the wind, at the mercy of what comes our way. Daddy would hate that.”

She saw the shift in Cordelia’s eyes; she even saw it come into Olivia’s eyes, as if the mention of their father brought his strength into the room.

“You’ve been dealt a bad hand, Cord,” Portia continued. “But it’s time you started taking control in the right way. You’ve got to pull your head out of the sand, start fixing your life.”

Cordelia pressed her eyes closed. “But how?”

“I don’t know,” Portia said honestly. “But we’ll figure something out, just like we figured out how to open a version of The Glass Kitchen without money, and it’s working.”

She prayed she wasn’t lying.

“Now,” she said, stepping away with a decisive nod, “we are going to drink to that.” She retrieved three glasses and poured lemonade into each.

Portia and her sisters raised their glasses. “To Earl Cuthcart,” she said.

“May his daughters do him proud,” Olivia continued.

Cordelia drew a deep breath. “To taking charge … and responsibility.”

The three of them clinked, then drank, and more of what Portia thought of as her father’s strength swirled through the room like a warm Texas breeze.

Just then, someone knocked. A second later, Gabriel walked in.

As always, everything about him spoke of a man who took his power for granted. Portia watched as he surveyed the scene.

Cordelia didn’t bother with so much as a hello. Her chin rose, the glass still in her hand. “I’ve been using your name to get appointments for us with investors. I’m sorry. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway.”

Olivia gave a snort of surprised laughter. “Way to jump into it, Cord.”

Gabriel’s expression grew scary. Portia held her breath. But at the same time, she couldn’t have been prouder of Cordelia.

“Gabriel,” Portia started to say as he strode over to them with a slow, predatory gait. This was a man who crushed people, happily, for less than using his name without his consent.

Portia’s heart all but stopped when he halted in front of Cordelia. Portia scuttled closer to her sister protectively as Gabriel looked at Cordelia hard.

“I appreciate your honesty,” he said finally, surprising Portia. “I appreciate you telling me face-to-face. There are more than a few men who don’t have it in them to do the same.”

Cordelia’s squared shoulders started to round, relief putting out the fire.

“Hey,” Gabriel said, this time softly. “Things have a way of working out like they should.” Surprisingly, a smile eased his face.

The smile he gave her sister made Portia’s knees weak with gratitude. And when he turned to look at her, she nearly threw her arms around his shoulders. As if he understood, one side of his mouth crooked up in a smile as he took her glass, drinking a long, slow pull.

Somehow the gesture felt intimate, as if they had kissed rather than shared a glass, and Portia blushed.

Thankfully, Cordelia was too caught up in being let off the hook to notice.

Flustered, Portia swiped the glass back. “Would you like me to get you some lemonade?”

“No need.” He took hers again, turning back to Cordelia as he leaned against the counter. “If there’s anything I can do to help, I will.”

If Cordelia had been anyone else, and Gabriel a less formidable man, Portia was sure her sister would have flung her arms around him. Instead, Cordelia steadied her trembling lip and said, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Gabriel nodded, took one last pull on Portia’s lemonade, then handed it back. “I have a meeting and won’t be here for dinner. It’ll just be the girls.” He focused on her. “I won’t be home until late.”

Up went Olivia’s radar and eyebrow, and Portia felt another blush coming on. But still, Cordelia was too caught up in anything but her own misery as Gabriel said his good-byes and was out the door.

Portia was doing a little shaking of her own as she began cooking. Olivia started to say something, but Portia jerked her head in Cordelia’s direction. Olivia relented and got on the computer. Cordelia managed to find a smile and chat up the customers who trickled steadily through the door.

But just as Portia finished the regular items on their menu and was about to start on the apple cake, she froze, having to brace her hands on the counter.

“Portia? What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t answer. Her head spun; her heart pounded. The knowing was getting stronger. It had never felt like this before. It had never
demanded.
“I need figs,” she said, her eyes closed, the words labored. “And chocolate. And chili.”

“What?”

When Portia opened her eyes, she saw that Cordelia’s face radiated concern.

“I need it. Now.”

They left the place a mess, and she and Cordelia dashed to the store, leaving Olivia to man the counter.

“I spoke too soon about the knowing. I hate this part of it,” Cordelia muttered as they flew through the small Pioneer market just a block from the town house. “The sudden bursts? The way everything used to come to a standstill, our lives, everything on hold while Gram went off on a cooking tangent? That was when we were little. Later, she’d have you doing the cooking.” Cordelia grabbed a packet of chili powder and tossed it into their basket with more force than necessary.

“You’re the one who pushed me to get back into this. Do you think I like being at the mercy of a bunch of figs, for pity’s sake?”

Cordelia gave a shout of wry laughter.

They made it through the market in record time, returning to the apartment just as the timer went off for a small potato casserole. Cordelia’s phone buzzed with a call from James, so she had to go. Olivia took off for the yoga class she was now teaching regularly, and Portia dove back into the kitchen as if the very thing she had been running from for the last three years could save her.

After twenty minutes, her nerves started to calm. Not a single customer found their way to the front door to disrupt her. After forty minutes, her breathing had slowed. And after another hour, she was lost in the rhythm, following the knowing as if it were steps to a dance she’d learned as a child.

She brought port wine, sugar, and chili powder to a boil and let the mix simmer until she had a fragrant syrup. At the last minute, she added cinnamon. Setting it aside, she melted bittersweet chocolate, stirring until the mixture was smooth.

With every stir of the wooden spoon, images danced in Portia’s head. Of happiness, of love, of forbidden fruit that promised sex. She thought of Gabriel’s chest as he reared over her at night, his gaze locked with hers, and felt a shiver that went down her fingers and made the spoon shake.

For some reason, she didn’t dip the figs whole, but decided to chop them into bite-sized morsels, then dipped the pieces in the chocolate and set them on a waxed paper–covered baking sheet to cool.

When that was done, she realized she had plenty of the chocolate-chili-cinnamon concoction left over—along with a bag of unsalted peanuts. Refusing to question it, she dipped the peanuts and set those out, too.

That afternoon, after the candies were cooled and wrapped in cellophane bags, she escaped the apartment and perched on the front steps outside. The day had gotten surprisingly cold.

The old man next door, whom Portia had only seen sitting in the window, emerged from a cab. He looked dapper in an ancient but immaculately kept sports jacket with equally ancient pants, perfectly polished cordovan loafers, and steel-wool gray hair.

“Hello,” Portia called out.

The man nodded, walked toward the curb in front of his town house, his posture severely stooped. When he got to the curb he took a step toward it, but his cane stuck on a crack in the sidewalk.

Portia dashed over and offered a hand.

The man gave Portia a wry little smile and took her hand. Together they managed the steps one at a time. Halfway up, the man had to stop to catch his breath. “It’s awful getting old,” he told Portia. “Just in case you’re wondering.”

“It’s not for sissies,” Portia answered. “That’s what my grandmother always said.”

The old man snorted. “Not for sissies, indeed. It’s this blasted chest cold I can’t get rid of that makes me so weak. Congestion, I suppose.”

“Really? You have congestion?”

He peered at her. “You don’t have to look pleased about it.”

“No, no! Not pleased that you’re congested. It’s just that this morning I made chocolate-and-cinnamon-chili-coated peanuts. The cinnamon and chili are perfect for cold congestion, the peanuts provide protein for strength, and the chocolate, well, chocolate gets your endorphins going so you’ll feel better.” She laughed, delighted and relieved. The demanding sense of needing to make the candies hadn’t meant anything bad was going to happen. “Can I give you some for your cold?”

“That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Chocolate peanuts for colds.”

“Chocolate
cinnamon-chili
peanuts! Just try some. They certainly aren’t going to make you feel worse.”

Before she could say anything else, another man came down the stairs to meet them. He was equally old, dressed equally well, but was more mobile. Where the man on Portia’s arm had wiry gray hair, this man had dyed his red. His skin was smoother, his carriage erect.

“Well, look what we have here—the woman from next door.” He stopped in front of her, beaming. “Even prettier up close.”

Portia smiled back, charmed.

“I’m Marcus, my dear. And while this old grump bucket probably hasn’t mentioned a word about it, he’s Stanley.”

“Hi, Marcus. I’m—”

“Portia, from next door. We know. Stanley has been giving me regular reports on his sightings.”

Of course she’d seen him at the window, but … “You’ve been watching me?”

“
I
haven’t,” Marcus said. “But Stanley here has done little else.” He smiled wickedly and leaned forward. “Very
Rear Window,
don’t you think? And, rest assured, you’ve provided more entertainment than we’ve had around this place in ages.”

The whole thing was a little weird, but Stanley’s complete lack of guilt and Marcus’s smiling charm made it difficult to do anything but laugh a little herself. “But how do you know my name?”

Marcus hooked his arm through Portia’s free elbow. “Didn’t you know that the postman knows everything? And he’s about the only company we get these days.”

Stanley coughed.

“The peanuts!” Portia said. “I have to get them.”

“I’m not eating anything you make. How do I know they aren’t poisoned?”

“Ha! Do you think I’d get you all this way into your apartment only to poison you?”

“Portia, love, go get whatever it is you’re talking about,” Marcus said. “We could use some new nuts around here.”

Portia laughed, dashed out of the men’s apartment and into hers. Grabbing two bags of peanuts, she wheeled back next door, flipping the O
PEN
sign to C
LOSED
. When she returned, Marcus was helping Stanley back into his favorite spot by the window with a caring devotion.

Embarrassed to be walking in on such a sweet scene, Portia set the bags down quietly and started to leave.

“We knew your great-aunt,” Stanley said, his eyes still closed, his head back.

“You knew Evie?”

“She bought her town house around the same time Marcus and I bought ours. And let me tell you, this wasn’t considered a good neighborhood back then. We didn’t spend time together, really. She was an actress,” he said, tone at once disdainful and amused. “I was a Broadway producer, and Marcus here was an agent. Actresses always tried to befriend us, and we learned to keep our distance.”

He sat up a bit straighter and opened his eyes. “Evie was different. She didn’t want any favors from anyone. Swore she would make it on her own, and she did. Even after she found success, we didn’t socialize, but we watched out for each other. How could we not, all of us living in these giant town houses? Just me and Marcus, and Evie by herself. Plus, there was the Texas thing. I was born in Texas to a Southern mother who loved to cook. Evie’s sister loved to cook—well, you must know that if you’re her niece.” Stanley gave Portia that wry little smile of his. “I remember you, too,” he continued, “along with the rest of Evie’s wild Texas nieces. Running up and down the fire escape at all hours. I was sure one of you was going to fall to your death.”