The Glass Kitchen (30 page)

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.”

“Look at me!” Cordelia exclaimed, gesturing to her clothes. “Based on that table, this is a dinner for more than just the three of us. I look like a bag lady.” She glared at Portia. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“You should have known,” Olivia said. “The e-mail said ‘Dear Friends and Family.’ When was the last time Portia had us over for dinner with that kind of an invitation?
I
should have known.”

Portia’s smile flatlined, her heart leaping into her throat.

The bell rang again and Ariel burst in. “Miranda can’t come. She got Dad to let her stay with a friend.”

More bad news. Miranda was supposed to be there.

Ariel didn’t look any happier than Portia felt. But before Portia could ask about Miranda, the smell of burning potatoes hit her.

“Oh, no!”

She was barely aware that Helen Kane and Anthony were at the door before she dashed into the kitchen. She couldn’t think of anything right then, other than saving the meal.

Thirty-one

A
RIEL SLIPPED OUT
of Portia’s living room, escaping the suddenly crowded apartment, the smell of weird, burned potatoes stinging her nose. She snuck out the back door, then up three brick steps leading to the town house’s garden. She curled up in an oversized sweater she’d found up on the storage floor, one that must have been her dad’s. She tucked herself out of sight, huddling against the growing cold, her thick wool, multicolored socks with toes shoved into a wild pair of boots that she had been certain Portia would love. Except Portia had been too worried about her cooking to notice.

She tucked her chin against her knees. She was starting to feel as if she was really losing it. Sure, she had beaten back the Shrink’s questions and not spilled her guts. But it didn’t mean she’d stopped
thinking
. In fact, she couldn’t stop thinking, and all her thoughts were weird. Like why was her sister being so awful.

“Miranda,” she said to the empty garden, “why can’t you just give Dad a break?”

Like that would work. Miranda would just slam the bedroom door in her face.

Plus, she didn’t even feel like talking to Miranda, because she felt a little guilty about reading her journal. Which she was now mostly doing to learn anything she could about her family. The problem with that was that every time she dug Miranda’s diary out from underneath the mattress, she found out that her sister was getting deeper and deeper into trouble. Miranda was determined to be friends with the popular kids, and that meant doing whatever the creep Dustin wanted her to do. But it wasn’t as if Ariel could
do
anything with that information. She wasn’t a snitch. She wasn’t a spy.

But, seriously, how was it possible Miranda could be so stupid?

Voices coming from inside Portia’s apartment caught her attention.

“Mother, just tell Gabriel to give me the money!”

“What, so you can leave?”

Ariel peeked back in through the door and saw her uncle and grandmother standing not two feet inside the living room. No one else was in sight. The sisters had have been in the kitchen. Ugh. The last person Ariel wanted to talk to was her uncle, but still, her grandmother’s question made her curious. Uncle Anthony wanted to leave? Already?

“You’ve been gone for over a year, Anthony. Why can’t you stay and get a job here in the city?”

“I don’t need my mother or brother to take care of me, or make decisions for me. I’m a grown man!”

“Then act like one!”

Ariel couldn’t see Uncle Anthony’s face because his back was to her, but he must have been really mad, because suddenly Nana was hanging on his arm in a massively pathetic way.

“I’m sorry, Anthony. I didn’t mean it. I just wish you wouldn’t stay away so long.”

Nana made a sad weepy sound that almost—almost—made Ariel feel sorry for her, except the woman was so completely awful to Dad and not to Anthony. It wasn’t fair.

“I feel that the only reason you come back is to get money from Gabriel.”

“He owes me!”

Nana sighed. “Fine. Then sign his papers and he’ll pay you.”

“A pittance. No thanks. I’m not leaving until he pays up, big-time. And not until he hands this apartment over to me. That was the deal. The money and the apartment. It was supposed to be mine! I saw the papers, for God’s sake. He’s already bought the damned place. All he has to do is sign it over to me!”

“Keep your voice down! You promised to stay quiet until he got it worked out with Portia.”

Ariel frowned. The apartment was supposed to be Anthony’s?

“What are you talking about?”

But it wasn’t Nana or Uncle Anthony who spoke this time. Ariel practically fell into the apartment as she swung her head toward the kitchen. Portia stood there, frozen, holding a smoking pan of burned chicken with two oven mitts, her brow furrowed as she looked back and forth between Nana and Anthony.

“What are you talking about?” Portia repeated. “The apartment is mine, not Gabriel’s, and certainly not yours, Anthony.”

Only then did Ariel notice that Portia wasn’t the only person who had shown up unexpectedly in the living room. Her dad stood just inside the front door, looking totally like he was going to kill someone.

Thirty-two

T
HE MEAL
was ruined.

The chicken had burned; the mashed potatoes were a sea of soupy lumps; the biscuits were charred rocks of hardened dough.

Portia held the pan of burned chicken and tried to understand what Anthony was saying. She took in the fury on Gabriel’s face and the guilty delight on his brother’s as they both looked at her.

“That’s right, Portia,” Anthony said, swiveling his head to smile at his older brother. “When Gabriel bought the apartment, he promised it to me.”

“Damn it, Anthony,” Gabriel bit out.

Portia blinked as she tried to make sense of it. She looked at Gabriel. “But the apartment isn’t yours. I didn’t go through with the sale.”

Gabriel dragged a hand through his hair, and suddenly the pieces came together like a Rubik’s Cube settling into place.

Her mouth fell open. “That’s impossible! I never signed the documents.”

He stared at her, and she could see the way he willed things to be different. “The papers were signed, Portia. And notarized.”

Her knees went weak, recognizing the truth. Suddenly, a lot of things made sense. Gabriel demanding to know what she was doing in the apartment. All the times he had started to say something, only to cut himself off.

Robert must have gone through with the sale by forging her signature.

Portia felt sick, angry, and betrayed. What’s more, with each piece of the puzzle that fell into place, this meal made more and more sense.

Burned chicken for betrayal by Robert, who had not only sold the only thing she owned, but had also kept the money.

Soupy potatoes for a relationship with Gabriel that had no true bond.

Coleslaw she had mixed with dressing that went bad for a Glass Kitchen in New York, a sour idea from the start.

Rock-hard rolls for a stubborn woman who had repeatedly refused to make a meal that would have led her much earlier to a greater truth—the reality that when she had seen Gabriel, and the shimmering images of fried chicken and sweet jalapeño mustard had come to her, it had foretold disaster between her and Gabriel Kane.

“Welcome to my world, babe,” Anthony said with a laugh. “My brother does what he wants, when he wants, regardless of how many people he hurts in the process.”

“Fuck,” Gabriel ground out.

“Is that why you let her stay here, big brother? So you could fuck her?”

Portia’s head jerked up just in time to see Gabriel fly across the room. Anthony’s eyes went wide.

“Gabriel, no!” their mother shouted.

Gabriel ignored her, jerking Anthony up and throwing him against the wall. “Damn you!” he roared.

Anthony lunged back at Gabriel, screaming. But he was no match for the bigger man. Gabriel had him pinned to the wall in a moment. “You leave Portia out of this.”

“What in the world is going on here?”

Portia jerked around. A man she had never seen before stood at the open front door.

The newcomer’s face was wrinkled with distaste. “I’m a New York City inspector conducting an unannounced property visit. Our office was notified that someone is illegally running a retail establishment out of a ground-floor residential building.” He glanced around. “Based on the sign in the window and the posted hours, I’d say the report is correct.” His mouth twisted. “A restaurant and, what, a fight club?”

The inspector walked straight in and began snapping photos—of The Glass Kitchen sign, the daily menu. He also snapped the shocked faces and Anthony’s bloody nose. He had an unobstructed view straight into the kitchen, the pots and pans lined up on the counter like shipwrecks on a worn linoleum sea.

“I can explain,” Portia said hurriedly, stumbling over to the table and dropping the pan of chicken down.

“Don’t bother. Save your explanations for zoning court.”

Thirty-three

A
RIEL SAT ON
the edge of her bed, shoes hooked over the side bedrail, her feet jiggling as she tried her hardest to calm down. After the disaster downstairs, she had flown to her room to get away. She hadn’t left since.

Things were getting worse. Anthony and Dad fighting. Some inspector guy showing up. Portia getting in trouble.

But the worst was seeing the look on Portia’s face when she learned that she didn’t own her apartment. Talk about surprise. Ariel had been as surprised as Portia. How come none of them had known? And why hadn’t her dad said something sooner?

Just then there was a strange noise outside her bedroom door. Miranda giggled, tiptoeing down the hallway toward her own bedroom, even though she was supposed to be spending the night with a friend. Ariel started to confront her, but then she heard someone else laugh, the sound deeper, and she knew it was a boy.