The Glass Kitchen

by Linda Francis Lee

  “I say it’s a pain in the ass,” Gabriel muttered.

  Portia smiled at him. “There’s more to raising girls than protecting them. You need to figure out how to have fun with them. Let them see that you can have fun. Make them feel at ease so they’ll open up to you.”

  Gabriel’s jaw set. “I know how to have fun.”

  “Really?” she challenged.

  “Really.”

  “Prove it.”

  He glanced at her. “I don’t have to prove anything.”

  “Maybe that’s true in business. But with your daughters? Do you really believe you don’t have to prove anything, especially when you admit that you weren’t a big part of their life before their mother passed away?”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  The noise of New York felt distant, as if just the two of them existed in this city of millions.

  “Make something up,” she suggested.

  “What?” The word came out as a snap.

  “I don’t mean lie. I’m talking about simple kid things. Like looking up in the sky and finding shapes in clouds.”

  “I am not a child.”

  “No, you’re a dad who’s trying to connect with two daughters. You need to remember what it’s like to be young, Gabriel.”

  He grumbled something, and then said, “There are no clouds.”

  “You can’t see them because of the streetlight. But I bet if we go up on the roof,” she said, her tone teasing and singsong, “we could see some.”

  “It’s night.”

  “There’s a full moon.”

  “We are not going up to the roof.”

  She ignored his glower, then headed for the front door. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  “Ms. Cuthcart—”

  “Don’t go all ‘Ms. Cuthcart’ on me. I’ve wanted to see the roof again ever since I got here.”

  She stood in the vestibule, waiting expectantly at his front door, his hard gaze locking with hers. She caught her lower lip in her teeth, trying to look sweet and innocent.

  “That would work better if I didn’t know you’re only sweet around me when it suits you.”

  She gave a surprised burst of laughter. “Touché.”

  After a second, he relented and put his key in the lock. Before he could change his mind, she slipped inside and started tiptoeing up the stairs.

  Amazingly, Gabriel followed, floor after floor, quiet so the girls wouldn’t hear them. When they came to the doorway that led to the roof, Gabriel reached out and opened it for her.

  The minute she stepped outside, Portia smelled the cool evening air. She felt like the clock had been turned back, Gram still alive, Great-aunt Evie still here, the summers filled with promise of a very different kind of adventure. Portia had loved New York when she was younger, but in a way that was so different from what she felt for Texas, with its giant blue sky and easygoing charm, like sweet tea over ice on a hot day. In New York, nothing was easy; everything was dense, nothing fluffy about it, like bagels slathered with thick cream cheese.

  Of course, Gabriel had renovated the space. Latticework provided privacy from the town house next door, a cabana-like structure creating a private space. The long swathes of roofing had been covered with a wooden deck. A table perfect for rooftop picnics stood to one side, with two chaise lounges perched at the far end.

  The sky was a dark blue, almost black, the buildings like silhouettes. Only a hint of clouds could be seen.

  “It’s too dark,” Gabriel stated, then turned back as if either this space, or the night sky, or maybe Portia, made him feel too much.

  “Not so fast.” Without thinking, she grabbed his hand.

  He glanced down, and Portia felt the shock of his skin on hers. He didn’t tug away when he dragged his gaze back to hers, but the expression on his face was unfathomable. “Are you intimidated by anything?” he asked softly.

  Portia let go and walked away from him, with the same overwhelming awareness that he made her feel sliding through her like a warm sip of brandy. “Of course I am,” she called back.

  “Like what?

  The future. A life derailed. Twice. Not understanding what I did wrong, or what I could have done different to make things turn out right.

  But she didn’t say any of that.

  “Hmmm, like what?” She studied the wide black sky. “Like sports metaphors, navigating the Thirty-fourth Street subway station—I mean, seriously, how many subway lines do they have down there?—and SquareBob SpongePants. Or is it SpongeBob SquarePants? Whatever, I don’t get him or his underwater bikini world.”

  She heard what sounded like a reluctant snort of laughter as she went over to one of the chaise lounges that sat side by side at the edge of the roof. After a second, she said, “Up here I feel completely alone, despite all the windows, the lights burning. Or maybe it’s because I know that even if someone does see me, here, in New York, no one cares. It’s freeing.” She lay down and looked up at the sky. Finally she looked over at him.

  “Come on, Gabriel. The girls are asleep. They’ll never know you were up here instead down in front of your computer, slogging away like a efficient hamster on a wheel.”

  She was almost certain he muttered a few curse words and that he would storm back downstairs. Instead, he stood there for a second before he strode across the roof, those broad hands of his shoved in his pants pockets. After a moment more, he lay down on the chaise next to hers, so close that they nearly touched.

  “What do you see?” she asked finally.

  When he didn’t answer, she rolled her head to glance over at him. He was looking at her, and this time his eyes held unmistakable heat.

  The night air drifted between them, something charged. She told herself that she hadn’t had sex in well over a year and that of course a guy like Gabriel with all his barely contained control would make her think of just that. Sex. It made sense that he intrigued her despite the fact that she knew nothing good could come out of getting involved with her neighbor. Besides, he had kissed her. Sue her, she wanted another taste. Which, despite all her bravado about him not intimidating her, was about as sane as thinking it was safe to pet a cuddly-looking grizzly bear.

  “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

  “WHAT’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 fre
sh-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.”