The Glass Kitchen

by Linda Francis Lee

  Ariel wrote it down so she wouldn’t forget it. Something seemed wrong, but she couldn’t place what. She gave her parents’ names again. “That’s definitely the date for them, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Ida clearly wasn’t one to waste words. “Is that all you want?” she said. “It’s 3:15. We close at 3:45.”

  “Really?” That seemed really early to close an office. But then Ariel realized she had to get home before anyone found out she was gone. And she still had to figure out the subway route. She slapped her notebook shut. “I mean, no problem.”

  But outside, her heart raced. Spotting a policeman, she raced over to him. “Where is the subway? Ah, sir.”

  The guy gave her a crooked smile and pointed. “At that brown building, take a right. The subway is a few blocks up on Canal Street.”

  She followed his directions. Sure enough, when she came to Canal Street she saw the station. But it was for the N and R trains. She had never even heard of the N or R train.

  Fear started to creep up, the kind of fear Ariel rarely allowed herself to feel. “You are not a panicker, Ariel,” she muttered.

  Shaking herself, she found one of the posted subway maps. The spider’s web of multicolored lines wasn’t for the faint of heart, but Ariel wasn’t faint of heart, she reminded herself.

  With her remaining three dollars, she purchased a single-ride MetroCard and made it to the uptown platform just as a train arrived. She hopped on. The bell rang, the doors slid shut, and Ariel offered up another prayer that this train would get her somewhere close to the Upper West Side.

  “Excuse me,” she said to a lady standing next to her.

  The woman narrowed her eyes at her.

  “Does this go to Seventy-second Street on the Upper West Side?”

  The woman hesitated, and in the silence, another woman answered. “No, sweetie, it doesn’t. You’ll need to get off at Thirty-fourth and change to a B. Or, if you need a 1, 2, or 3, you’ll have to go to Forty-Second and change there.”

  Ariel’s head spun with a plethora of numbers and an alphabet soup of letters. She concentrated with every ounce of her ability as they came into each station. Prince. Eighth Street. Fourteenth Street. Stop after stop, the train getting more and more crowded, making it harder and harder to see station signs. Finally Ariel caught a glimpse of a sign when they pulled into the Thirty-fourth Street station. She squirmed out, relieved, only to find that she didn’t have a clue what to do next.

  “Excuse me, I’m looking for the B train.”

  She made it to a B just as it arrived in the station. On board, her heart pounded at stop after stop until she recognized Seventy-second Street.

  When she came up onto street level across from Central Park, she was only a block from home. Ariel had never been so glad to see the horse-drawn carriages and masses of people taking photos of the building where some singer named John Lennon had been shot. And when she blew into her house, falling back against the closed door with a gasp, she nearly broke down in tears.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  Her head jerked up. Miranda stood at the top of the stairs, scowling.

  Ariel blinked furiously. She had no idea what to say. She had been fixated on the maze of subway tunnels and platforms, and hadn’t yet thought about the information she had found: Their mom and dad’s wedding was on June 27, 1998.

  Miranda was born on November 19, 1998. Five months after their parents were married.

  Twenty

  AT FIVE, Portia bolted upstairs to make dinner. From the sunroom, she was surprised when she heard Gabriel’s and Anthony’s heated voices. She hadn’t seen or talked to Gabriel since he’d slipped out of her bedroom that morning. She felt her body in a way that she hadn’t in years, if ever. He had allowed her no modesty. He had taken what he wanted. But, if she was completely fair, he had given as well. Her body shuddered and sighed at the thought. “Bad, bad, bad,” she muttered to herself.

  There was no denying that the whole fried chicken–meal thing had thrown her.

  The other issue that threw her was that Robert had called three times during the day, but without leaving much by way of messages. Then her lawyer had called, saying that her ex was contesting the small amount he was supposed to pay her.

  Her stomach twisted at the thought. She had to breathe through her nose to try to stay calm, releasing her breath slowly into the quiet kitchen. She didn’t have the money to fight him. Very soon, even with the money she was making from working for Gabriel, she wasn’t going to be able to survive in New York.

  For the first time she was having to admit to herself that she might have to sell the garden apartment. No question the clock was ticking on her dream of building a new life in the city.

  She left lasagna and garlic bread warming in the oven and a salad in the refrigerator and tiptoed out of the house. Once she was outside, the beads of panic didn’t lessen. Nothing was going as planned in New York. She felt as if she was trying to start over, transform her life, remake herself in quicksand. The harder she tried to get free, the deeper she sank. Trying to cook without embracing the knowing wasn’t working; it popped up constantly without warning. Trying not to fall for Gabriel? Also not working. Creating a viable way to support herself and help her sisters? Going the way of women wearing hats.

  With no answer in sight, she began to walk. Traffic was heavy on Central Park West before she crossed into the park, veering onto the bridle path. Trees overarched like a canopy of green, runners passing her, generally in pairs, followed by two mounted policemen on giant horses. Portia walked fast, trying to outpace her thoughts. But even when she came to the Reservoir, she couldn’t slow her brain.

  She headed out of the park, then turned south. She walked forever, hooking over to Broadway and the crush of tiny shops.

  It was right outside of the Sabon bath shop that it hit her, the scent of luscious soaps drifting out into the street. Inside, the space was filled with soap and lotions, bath washes and candles. Her senses were filled, surrounded. Teased.

  In an instant, after hours of walking and trying to stay out of her brain, a glimmer of an answer came to her like disparate ingredients coming together to make an unexpectedly perfect whole.

  She couldn’t get home fast enough. Banging into the apartment, Portia went straight to the cabinet where she had stored the Glass Kitchen cookbooks. She pulled out volumes one and two, skimming through the first. Then she took up the second book, leaving the third volume where it was stored. Holding the second in her arms, close to her chest, she drew a deep breath.

  The answer was here, she realized, in this cookbook. She just had to find it.

  She cracked open the old spine and started flipping through the pages, taking notes. Once she had five pages of hurried scribbles, she condensed things down into one single shopping list. Then she began to turn the vision into reality, and a week later, a week of barely managing to avoid Gabriel with an odd assortment of excuses and meal preparation at even odder times, Portia was ready. She had finally put into place exactly what she needed to prove that a Glass Kitchen would work in New York City.

  Fourth Course

  Palate Cleanser

  Blood Orange Ice

  Twenty-one

  “WHAT IS GOING ON here?”

  Gabriel stood in the doorway of her apartment, dark tension carved into his features, and for a heartbeat Portia forgot all about what she was doing. She just stared at the man.

  He wore a simple black T-shirt that showed off his chest and arms, his dark hair raked back. He looked rugged and sexy, and memories of his hands and mouth on her body made every inch of her thrum to life.

  Bad, bad, bad, she reminded herself.

  His dark gaze narrowed.

  “We’ve created a version of The Glass Kitchen,” she hurriedly explained, giving him a sunny smile.

  Olivia and Cordelia came out of the kitchen to stand behind her. Cordelia glanced from Portia to Gabriel, then back. “Po
rtia, didn’t you clear this with him?”

  Cordelia still wasn’t herself, her husband’s problem growing deeper. Portia and Olivia did everything they could to keep her mind occupied, and Portia still hadn’t had the heart to question Cordelia about implying to people that somehow Gabriel was involved with The Glass Kitchen.

  “Actually, it’s more a venture where I’m cooking the food of The Glass Kitchen, and people can come to try it.”

  After reading the second Glass Kitchen cookbook, she had taken its advice to heart. Losing herself in the words, she had put them into action.

  For a meal to work truly, it must be an experience. From the moment a guest arrives in The Glass Kitchen to the moment they set their napkin down, they must be enchanted. More importantly, the giver of food must believe that they have the power to enchant. No person, whether she is a scientist or a cook, can find success if she doesn’t first believe that she holds power in her hands—not to use over people, but to use for the good of another. Food, especially, is about giving. A cook must find a way to make the recipient a believer, for what is a person who sits down to a beautiful meal but someone who wants to believe?

  As she read the words, Portia had finally set aside her own misgivings and opened herself up to what might come. It had been then that solutions appeared. Her sisters had shown up without her having to ask, the three of them working day after day in a way that gave each hope that a Glass Kitchen really could happen. For a week they had pulled down Aunt Evie’s dark draperies, replacing them with a cheerful gingham Cordelia found in the huge sale bins in the Garment District. Olivia filled the space with flowers. The sisters had bought white paper bags and pink baker boxes, then sat around the kitchen island drinking wine, laughing, and hand-decorating them.

  Once the apartment was ready, Portia had begun to plan out what foods they would showcase in this little glimpse into a Glass Kitchen world. Her sisters couldn’t help her with this part. Portia had let go, and dishes had come to her, all of which she wrote down and prepared to make. Then, at eight that morning, she got to work. Olivia and Cordelia served as sous-chefs; they started by making a decadent beef bourguignon. Olivia and Cordelia washed and chopped as Portia browned layer after layer of beef, bacon, carrots, and onion, folding in the beef stock and wine, then putting it in to slow bake as they dove into the remaining dishes. They opened all the windows and ran four swiveling fans Portia had bought and found that pushed the scent of the baking and cooking out onto the sidewalk. Then they had put up a fairly discreet sign in the window, hand-painted by Olivia: THE GLASS KITCHEN.

  Portia had gotten the idea while walking down Broadway and passing the French soap store. Scents had spilled into the street from the shop—lavender and primrose, musk and sandalwood—luring passersby inside. Portia had realized that the best way to get investors interested was to show them a version of The Glass Kitchen. The food. The aromas. She had realized, standing there on Broadway, that she needed to create a mini version of her grandmother’s restaurant to lure people in. This way, they’d have no monthly rent as they would if they tried to lease out space somewhere else. No extra utility bills. It was perfect. Standing there now with her sisters flanking her, she explained as much to Gabriel. “Ta-da!” she finished. “What do you think?”

  Gabriel’s jaw hung slack for a second before he snapped it shut. “You can’t open a restaurant here.”

  “But that’s the thing! It’s not a restaurant.”

  “Definitely not a restaurant,” Olivia confirmed, then raised a brow at Gabriel’s pointed glower.

  “It’s just an example of a restaurant,” Portia hurried on. “At best, it’s more like counter service to go!”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  She gulped and persevered. “We’re showcasing the fabulous food we’ll be making at the real Glass Kitchen when we open it somewhere else. This way, people can get a taste, get the feel of what our café will be like, get excited.”

  She spread her arms wide to encompass the old pine table they had painted robin’s egg blue, lightly sanding it in places so the white primer showed through. She had pulled out Aunt Evie’s moss green platters and bowls, filling enough of them with everything from cheesy quiches to creamy chocolate pies, butterscotch cupcakes to the beef bourguignon to cover every inch of counter space. The place smelled heavenly.

  “Admit it, you’re drooling.”

  “You can’t open anything here. Not a restaurant. Not even an example of a restaurant.” Each word enunciated.

  “Says who?”

  “Says the zoning laws,” he bit out.

  Portia felt his exacting gaze all the way down to her bones, and not in a good way. She ignored it. All they were doing was giving people a taste of her food. Granted, they would be charging for those tastes. But they weren’t doing anything close to opening a real retail establishment.

  “Olivia and I will let you two talk,” Cordelia said, gathering her bag.

  “Seriously?” Oliva protested. “This is just getting interesting.”

  Gabriel turned to Olivia with an expression that made her shrug; then she strolled out the front door after Cordelia.

  Portia swallowed as Gabriel stepped closer. Then she squared her shoulders. “Has anyone pointed out how moody you are? One minute you’re all—” She searched for the right word.

  “I’m all what?” The words were deep, sensual, but still exacting.

  “One minute you’re, well, nice. Then the next you go all Sybil on me and out comes the big bad beast.”

  The words flew out, yet again, before she thought them through, and emotion shot through Gabriel’s eyes. But a second later that implacable façade was back in place.

  “This is just an experiment, Gabriel,” she hurried on. “We’re going to show investors how much people love my grandmother’s food. That’s it.”

  Portia felt a flash of panic. She had spent the rest of her meager savings pulling it together. “This is just temporary, and only a way to show investors how great our food is,” she pointed out.

  “You can’t run a restaurant out of my home!”

  “My home. And it’s not a restaurant!”

  His gaze slammed into hers, then took a deep breath, dragging his hands through his hair.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Now what?” he snapped.

  Footsteps clattered down the steps before Cordelia and Olivia dragged a woman inside.

  “Our first customer!”

  “Seriously?” Portia squeaked. “I mean, yay!”

  “Ah, well,” the woman looked a little frightened by the sisters’ enthusiastic welcome. “I was just walking by, smelled the heavenly aroma, and noticed your sign tucked in the window. I thought … well, I thought this was a restaurant, not a home.”

  “Actually, it’s just three sisters cooking!” Portia emphasized for Gabriel. “Cooking and baking very real food! Think of it as a kid’s lemonade stand. Come in!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re from Texas, which might mean crazy, but definitely not dangerous. Just look at all the wonderful things we have.”

  Hesitantly, the woman came farther inside—though one glare from Gabriel made her stop dead in her tracks.

  “Don’t mind him,” Portia said. “He’s not as ornery as he looks.”

  The woman saw the fragrant dishes on the counter, and every bit of hesitation evaporated. “This is wonderful!” she said, walking straight past Gabriel. “Quiche? And pie? Is this a tart?”

  Portia explained the dishes while Cordelia offered samples. By the time the woman headed out, she was loaded with food Olivia had wrapped up. At the door, the woman stopped and shook her head. “I just have to tell you, you saved me.”

  “What do you mean?” Portia asked cautiously.

  “I’m having a book party for a friend tonight, and the caterer canceled. Last minute, said she had an emergency and no backup plan. I had no idea what I was going to do. I turned dow
n Seventy-third by accident.” She beamed at all three of them. “At least I thought it was an accident.”

  The woman left in a rustle of white bags and pink boxes. Cordelia and Olivia started talking. When Portia turned, Gabriel was still there. Their eyes met and held. Despite herself, a slow pulse of heat went through her body. He was like the darkest, richest hot chocolate she could have imagined. She remembered the way he had stared at her, hard, his jaw ticking, then the ruthless control that seemed to shatter when she had reached up on tiptoes and kissed him. Barely a kiss, tentative, before he crushed her to him with a groan.

  A breath sighed out of her at the memory, and his gaze drifted to her mouth. But then the buzzer rang again, making her blink, and he seemed to remember that they weren’t alone.

  “This isn’t over,” he said, his voice curt.

  He left before she could respond. She drew a breath, pushed worry from her mind, before all three sisters squealed in delight and danced it out in the seconds before their next customer arrived.

  * * *

  For the next two days, Portia cooked and baked like a dervish while Cordelia sold The Glass Kitchen’s fare to a growing line of people who had heard about their amazing food. She still cooked breakfast and supper upstairs as well, though there were no more cheeky conversations in the kitchen with her employer. Actually, she didn’t see Gabriel at all, as if he stayed away intentionally.

  But after the third day of sales, with every minute of her last three days filled to overflowing, she was lying in her bed, still damp from a shower, completely exhausted, when there was a knock on the garden door. She opened it to find Gabriel. Surprised, she glanced from him to the fire escape.

  He stood there and looked at her, just looked, his jaw working, his eyes narrowed in frustration. “Even with strangers traipsing in and out, I can’t stay away from you.”