The Glass Kitchen (18 page)

“The clouds. What do you see?” she asked.

He stared at her. “I see a woman who is tilting at windmills.”

Her eyes narrowed, thoughts of kissing and sex gone. “What does that mean?”

“Not a fan of Don Quixote?”

“Stop showing off and explain.”

His shout of laughter seemed to surprise him. “‘Showing off.’ You are priceless.”

She scowled.

“Fine, Don Quixote went around—”

“With Sancho Panza, trying to rekindle chivalry. Got that, but really don’t know how it applies to me.”

“So you know more than you’re letting on.”

“And you don’t do the same thing?”

She made out his smile in the dark.

“Don Quixote kept fighting battles that he couldn’t win.”

She sucked in her breath.

“As when he tried to battle windmills that he thought were giants that could be beaten.”

“I take it in your oh-so-
not
subtle way you’re telling me I’m fighting a losing battle,” she said.

“You sound like Ariel.”

“You should sound more like Ariel.”

He shook his head, but he still smiled.

“Just so we’re clear, which battle am I losing?” she asked.

“The Glass Kitchen.”

Portia bristled. “The Glass Kitchen is not a losing battle.” It couldn’t be.

“The way you’re going about it certainly is.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re not asking enough questions.”

“I ask plenty of questions.”

She forced herself not to cringe at the memory of her disastrous investor lunch.

“What questions should I be asking?” she asked, her tone completely even.

“According to Henry Ravel, you didn’t ask him anything other than where did he prefer to meet. Midtown or Upper West Side.”

“Ack! How do you know about Henry Ravel?”

Henry Ravel had been at her second ill-fated investor meeting. The second meeting that had ended abruptly when he learned she wasn’t associated with Gabriel Kane, at least in terms of investing.

“He called me.”

“About what?” Though she was afraid she knew.

“Somehow he got the impression that you’re working with me.”

Portia groaned. “Sorry about that. He’s the second person my sister has done that to. But Cordelia’s out of sorts, and I haven’t found a good time to scream at her.”

“I’m not worried about the calls,” he said. “But here’s the thing: Even if I thought you should open a Glass Kitchen—which I don’t—you’re going about it all wrong. As I said, you’re not asking enough questions.”

Portia looked up at the sky. The clouds were riding high and fast, like horsemen chasing across the sky. As much as she knew she should jump all over his advice, she just didn’t want it. “Okay, you want questions, how about this: If you can’t see or hear a tree fall in the forest, has it really fallen?”

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, and before she knew what was happening, he reached over and dragged her into his arms, her legs sliding between his as they lay together on his chaise.

“Oh,” Portia whispered, their mouths only inches apart.

“Yes, oh,” he whispered.

Her heart beat hard. She wanted to feel his lips on hers again. She wanted him to wrap her in his arms and make her feel all the things that she hadn’t felt in years, if ever.

But just when he ran his hands up into her hair, she couldn’t help herself. “I do have one important question. Why have you erased all traces of the girls’ mother … your wife?”

They were so close that she could just make out the way his pupils contracted, the only sign of anger.

He didn’t respond. He just looked at her. After a long second, he put her aside as if she didn’t weigh anything at all and got up. He didn’t help her to her feet. He didn’t wait for her as he headed for the door.

“See,” she called after him. “No one likes the important questions. Not even you.”

He didn’t respond, and the door shut closed firmly behind him.

Seventeen

“W
HAT’S WRONG?”

Portia found Ariel at the table, head on forearms, a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter by her side, a knife sticking out of the peanut butter like a metal pole planted in a pot. “Ariel?”

The girl stirred and groaned. “What’s going on?”

“You tell me,” Portia said, pulling out a chair next to Ariel and sitting down.

It was four in the afternoon. She planned to make breaded veal cutlets, mashed potatoes, and green beans, then leave it for the Kanes to eat. Between the cupcakes and the cooking, not to mention the trip up to the roof with Gabriel, Portia felt she was getting pulled into this family despite her best efforts to resist them.

With a silent sigh, she pressed the back of her hand to Ariel’s forehead to see if she had a fever.

“What’s going on?” Ariel repeated groggily, then winced at the sight of the peanut butter. “Oh, yeah. I was hungry. But I never got around to making the sandwich.”

“Didn’t you eat lunch at school?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“The lunch room is not the best environment for eating.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Ariel rolled her head and looked at her. “It means that it’s not a five-star restaurant, okay?”

Portia studied her for a second. “Not feeling well?”

But Ariel wasn’t hot. She didn’t sound sick either. She sounded more dismayed than ill.

Stop getting involved with this family,
Portia warned herself.
Remain detached. You are the cook. The
maid,
as Miranda said.

“So, do you want to talk about whatever’s bothering you?” she asked instead, cursing herself even as the words came out of her mouth.

Ariel eyed her for a second and then shook her head. “Nothing to talk about.”

Portia debated, then shrugged. “Okay, then I’ll get started on dinner.”

She could feel Ariel’s eyes on her back.

“Portia?” she said after a few minutes.

“Yes?”

“Did you mean it when you said that if you want answers, you need to dig, even if it makes you uncomfortable?”

Had she said that?

“You totally said that,” Ariel said, yet again reading her mind.

“We were talking about your report.”

“That’s what I’m doing. Trying to write a good report.”

Portia stopped working for a second and thought about it. “Yeah, I guess I meant it. We all have to dig sometimes. We all have to ask questions. Even if we don’t really want to hear the answers.”

Ariel grabbed the peanut butter, pushed up, and headed for the door. “Thanks.”

Portia eyed her. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ariel answered. “Really.”

An hour later, dinner prepared, Portia thought she heard the outer front door open and close. But she didn’t hear the bell ring.

A few minutes after that, she heard a door again. This time, the bell rang.

Curious, she made her way to the foyer and opened the front door. In the vestibule she found Anthony Kane and her sister.

“Olivia?”

“There you are.” Her sister smiled that particular brand of smile she had, like a single-malt scotch mixed with honey, both sophisticated and sultry sweet. Her long curly hair was loose, her long-sleeved white T-shirt tucked into jeans, a gossamer scarf twisted artfully around her neck. Of all the sisters, Olivia was the most comfortable in her own skin, throwing clothes together with an easy flair that made other women try to emulate her. On Olivia, the clothes made her look like a muse in an artist’s painting. And no doubt Olivia had served as an artist’s muse. Clothed, unclothed. Olivia had never been shy.

“I went downstairs, but no one was home,” Olivia said. “Lucky me, when I was leaving,” she added, her Texas accent stronger than usual, “I ran into this gorgeous man.”

Portia rolled her eyes. Anthony laughed appreciatively.

“Nothing better than a female who speaks her mind,” he said to Olivia.

The outer door opened and Gabriel walked in. He stopped at the sight of Anthony.

The four of them stood in the entry foyer of the Kanes’ house as Gabriel curtly acknowledged Olivia, glanced at Portia, and then gave his brother a particularly forbidding smile. “You’re here,” he said.

His younger brother put out his hands, palms held up. “In the flesh,” he said, his smile wide and charming. “You said you’d have a check for me. Of course I’d be here.”

Gabriel’s jaw ticked. More than ever, he looked the part of the beast. “My study. Now. We’ll discuss.”

“Discuss? I know what that means.” He took Olivia’s arm instead of following. “Maybe you should take a second to think about just what there is to discuss, Gabriel. In the meantime, I think this is as good a time as any to get to know Portia’s beautiful sister.”

“Anthony,” Gabriel stated.

“Just give me a few minutes, big brother. I have no plans for the rest of the night.” He looked at Olivia. “At least not yet.”

Olivia laughed and let him guide her out the door.

Portia glanced at Gabriel. He gave her a hard look.

“Hey, he’s your brother,” she said.

“And she’s your sister.” He turned on his heel and headed for his study.

A few minutes later, Portia found Anthony and Olivia sitting at her kitchen table downstairs, each of them with a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade.

“I came by to make sure we are still on for tonight,” Olivia said. “The Bandana Ball, remember?”

Portia grimaced.

“Portia.” Olivia eyed her. “Tell me you didn’t forget.”

“What’s a ‘bandana ball’?” Anthony asked.

“It’s the best party in all of Manhattan,” Olivia said. “Every year Texans in New York put on a huge gala event to raise money for Texas charities. This year is a push for Texas literacy. And every year Portia and her—” She cursed. “Well, Portia came to town to join us. This year she’s already here.” She sliced Portia a look. “Here and going.”

“Do you dress up in ballgowns made of bandanas?” Anthony asked with a laugh.

“Actually, no. You dress up in Western wear. Boots, hats, jewels. We bought four tickets, but Cordelia is … well, a bit out of sorts these days, which means we have two extra.” Olivia turned to Portia. “You can’t back out on me, too.”

“I’m sure you have plenty of friends to take.”

“No way. You’re going with me if I have to dress you myself and drag you to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.”

“I’ll go.” Anthony said.

Olivia gave him the once-over. “Perfect.” She paused. “In fact, I have an idea. I think we need to get your brother to come as well. How can Portia say no if her
boss
is going?”

“He’s not my boss.”

Olivia gave her a look. “Do you work for him?”

“Sort of.”

“How do you
sort of
work for someone?”

The
boss
chose that moment to walk in, without so much as a knock.

“If there is anyone who can
sort of
work for someone, Olivia, it’s your sister.”

Olivia laughed appreciatively. Portia scowled. But it was Anthony whose expression shifted the most when Gabriel turned to him.

“I’m running out of patience, Anthony. I have the papers ready upstairs,” Gabriel said.

Olivia interrupted without an apparent thought for the tension that crackled through the room. “Come to the Bandana Ball with us, Gabriel Kane.” She turned to Anthony. “Convince him to join us. Two Kane guys, two Cuthcart girls.”

“Olivia,” Portia snapped. “Stop.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Anthony said. “We’ll go together. Dance up a storm.” He glanced at the clock. “Gotta go if I’m going to have time to pretty up! I’ll sign tomorrow, Gabriel.”

Olivia grabbed Portia’s hands and leaned close. “And don’t you dare wear something boring.”

*   *   *

“I can’t believe I got talked into this,” Gabriel stated.

Portia sat at a table underneath the vaulted ceiling of the Mandarin’s ballroom on Columbus Circle, looking out over Central Park, hardly believing she was there either. But Olivia had pointed out that by not going, she was letting her ex-husband take away something else from her that she loved.

Country-western music filled the hall, the strings and crooning at odds with the elegance of the modern hotel. Bales of hay and old-fashioned wagon wheels decorated a room full of men dressed in tux jackets, bow ties, jeans, and cowboy boots. The women wore diamonds the size of Texas, denim skirts of varying lengths, and stiletto heels straight off the runways of Paris.

Texas women might like their hair styled and their diamonds big, but you wouldn’t find a single self-respecting Texas female in a pair of cowboy boots.

Gabriel looked as if someone had picked him up and landed him on the moon.

“Having a touch of culture shock?” she asked.

He gave her a wry look.

He wore a black suit and a silver-gray tie. Hot, yes. Texas Bandana Ball? No.

She glanced out at the dance floor. Anthony and Olivia were already there, laughing, having fun. Gabriel hadn’t moved since they had arrived.

“Hey, I know,” she said, her tone needling, “why don’t we do something no one would expect us to do and, say, dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

“That’s how the whole
unexpected
thing works—doing something you wouldn’t normally do.”

“I’ve already exceeded my quota of the unexpected for the night.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m here.”

She laughed at that. “Fine, don’t dance. But could you go sit someplace else then?”

“What?”

“Someone else might ask me to dance,” she explained, “but not if you’re sitting here with me. And as long as I’m here, I plan to dance.”

“I’m not leaving you at this table alone.”

She wrinkled her nose. “It’s hardly a dangerous street corner in the Bronx. And I’m hardly alone. We’re surrounded with hundreds of people. Oh! There’s a guy I know. I bet he’ll dance with me.”

She jumped up, but she hadn’t gotten a step away when a woman came toward the man and led him onto the dance floor. When she glanced back, Gabriel looked exasperated but amused, too.

“If you’d worn running shoes, you could have gotten there faster.”