The Glass Kitchen (3 page)

“Great,” Portia muttered.

Once dressed, she went to her still-packed suitcases. A tiny bead of sweat broke out on her forehead when her fingers brushed against the spine of a Glass Kitchen cookbook. The handmade books had been passed down just as the knowing had, though just as with lessons on the knowing, Gram had never shared the books, either. Portia never knew they existed until after her grandmother’s death.

Now she cracked the spine on the first of three volumes, her pulse beating in her temples. She recognized Gram’s writing, notes scribbled between the crudely typed lines, new details learned and added, old ingredients scratched out. She turned the pages, her breath high in her chest, short bursts. Each generation of Cuthcart women had written in the margins, filling in newly learned wisdom along with the recipes. But even the recipes held gems of magic.

For perfectly boiled water, let it jump with enthusiasm, but not so energetically that it becomes exhausted, tiring the food it will boil.

And:

Never prepare a meal in anger, for the end result will fill the recipients with bile.

An hour later, when she came to the end of the volume, Portia jerked up, the book falling to the ground. Enough!

She scrambled out of the apartment, the cool morning air hitting her like a gasp of relief. With the Keds dangling in her fingers, she just stood there for a second, breathing, in, out, before she finally sat down to pull on the flowered sneakers.

She had just finished tying the last shoelace when she saw him.

He was tall, lean, with broad shoulders, dark brown hair. He looked primal, with a firm jaw and hard brow, walking toward her with a fluidity that seemed physically impossible, given his size. He had none of Robert’s pretty-boy good looks, and there didn’t seem to be anything practiced or politically correct about him. From the look of him, she imagined he was one of those New York businessmen she had heard about who traded stocks like third-world countries trade rulers, easily and ruthlessly.

Of course he wasn’t dressed like a businessman. He wore a black T-shirt, long athletic shorts, and sweat-slicked hair. He had the smooth, tight muscles of someone who was athletic but didn’t spend his days as an athlete. It wasn’t hard to imagine him showering and then heading out of this tree-lined neighborhood on his way to some glass-and-steel office building in the concrete jungle of Midtown Manhattan.

She knew the minute he saw her, the way his eyes narrowed as if trying to understand something. She felt the same thing, as if she knew him, or should.

Images of food rushed through her head, surprising her. Fried chicken. Sweet jalapeño mustard. Mashed potatoes. Biscuits. And a pie. Big and sweet, strawberries with whipped cream—so Texan, so opposite this fierce New Yorker.

Good news or bad?
she wondered before she could stop herself.

“No, no, no,” she whispered. The images of food meant nothing at all. She wanted nothing to do with him, with any guy, at this point in her life. And she definitely didn’t want anything to do with the kind she felt certain wielded power like a club. Robert charmed his way into control, but she knew on sight that this man would take it by force.

When he reached the steps, he stopped, looking at her with an intensity that felt both assessing and oddly possessive. It might have been an hour, or a second; no smile, no awkwardness, and her breathing settled low. She became acutely aware of herself, and him. Everything about this man pulled her in, which was ridiculous. He could be a serial killer. He could be demented, insane. With a body like that, he probably didn’t eat sugar. A deal killer, for sure.

His head cocked to the side. “Do I know you?”

Portia smiled—she was Texan, after all, and had learned manners at a young age, even if it was out of a library book her mother “accidentally” forgot to return—and his expression turned to something deeper, richer like a salted hot fudge.

“No,” she answered, the word nearly sticking in her throat. “Should you?”

Desire had caused the storm that left her shipwrecked in Manhattan—the desire her husband felt for another woman. But there had been her own desire, too, the desire for intensity and excitement in her own life, which she had suppressed when she married Robert. Sitting there, she felt that desire stir inside her like the first bubble rising in a pot of caramelizing sugar.

“I guess not,” he said. “But you seem familiar.” He put his foot on the bottom step, his hand on the railing, bringing him into her space with a confidence likely born of always getting what he wanted. “Do you run in the park?”

She glanced down at her flowered sneakers and wrinkled her nose.

“Okay, so I haven’t seen you running,” he said, his voice still rich and creamy but sliding into humor. Peppermint, she thought, the corner of his mouth hitching at one corner.

Portia laughed outright with the sort of ease she hadn’t felt in months. Somehow this man who looked like he knew his way around darkness had chased hers away. “You don’t approve of my shoes?”

“Is that what those are?” His lips hitched higher, a curl of his slowly drying hair falling forward and making him look more approachable.

“What are you, the fashion police?”

That caught him off guard. “Me? Hardly.”

Portia stood up, skipped down, and stopped. Two steps still separated them, but given the difference in height, they stood nearly face-to-face. His laughter fled, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her mouth. Her breathing slowed, and everything around her disappeared. She could make out the sparks of cognac in what she had thought were solid brown eyes. His nose was large, but somehow went perfectly with his strong face and jaw. His mouth was full, sensual. No one would call this man pretty, but something about the way his features came together drew her in. She felt a need, an urge to reach out, touch him. Which was crazy.

A truck turned the corner, hitting a crack in the asphalt with a loud bang, and she blinked. The man straightened.

Portia glanced around, took in the back side of the Dakota apartment building with its Gothic façade, antiquated moat, and wrought-iron balustrade around the perimeter, as if everything in her world hadn’t shifted at the sight of this man.

He straightened abruptly, that sense of control settling back around him. “Can I help you with something?”

“No. No. I was just tying my shoelaces.”

“Ah, then, fine.”

He started up the stairs. She went stiff.

He stopped and raised his hands. “I live here.”

“You live here? As in, you live in this place? Right here?”

His brow furrowed. “Yes.”

This was her upstairs neighbor. More specifically, this was Gabriel Kane, the owner of the rest of the town house, the man she—or rather, Robert—had agreed to sell her apartment to before she refused at the last minute.

“Then these are your steps. Wow! Great place,” Portia managed inanely.

Initially, she had sent word that she wasn’t prepared to sell, at least not yet. No contracts had been signed. She had needed time to get her thoughts together. That was a month ago. Then, the minute she made the final decision that she was keeping the property, she had left a message with Gabriel Kane’s lawyer herself, explaining the unexpected changes in her life.

She had apologized up and down but hadn’t heard back. Granted, she had only left the message the day before, but she had assumed she’d hear right away. She had slipped into the apartment late last night, using the old key in hopes of avoiding Kane for as long as possible.

She didn’t doubt for a second that the man was furious with her for backing out of the contract after he’d already bought the rest of the building from her sisters. There was no question in her mind that he would try forcing her to sell. Chicken that she was, she was counting on his lawyer to convince him otherwise. Even she knew a deal wasn’t a deal until documents were signed.

“Have a great day!”

She practically leaped to the sidewalk, catching sight of an old man who was sitting in the window next door, peering out at her as she dashed toward Columbus Avenue.

Three

“S
OME THINGS ARE TRUE
whether you believe them or not.”

Gram’s favorite saying. She had repeated it to Portia and her sisters more times than any of the three cared to count.

The minute Portia turned onto Columbus she fell against the nearest wall. Her knees were weak, her breath coming out in uneven jerks. Whether she wanted to believe it or not, Gabriel Kane had made her think of food. A meal. A meal at odds with everything he appeared to be and made her acutely aware of being a stranger in a strange land.

Thankfully, once her breathing started to ease, so did images of fried chicken and sweet jalapeño mustard. She remained against the wall for a bit longer as the images faded even more until they were gone, and she pushed away on a ragged breath and spaghetti legs. Seeing the man mixed in with thoughts of a meal was a fluke, she reassured herself. The images of food had nothing to do with the man or her apartment. And she felt certain she was right when her thoughts and tingling fingertips circled back to chocolate cake.

Next thing she knew, Portia hurried into the Fairway Market on Broadway. The grocery store was unlike anything she had seen in Texas. Bins of fruit and vegetables lined the sidewalk, forming narrow entrances into the market. Inside, the aisles were crowded, no inch of space wasted. In the fresh vegetables and fruit section she was surrounded by piles of romaine and red-leaf lettuce, velvety thick green kale that gave away to fuzzy kiwi and mounds of apples. Standing with her eyes closed, Portia waited a second, trying not to panic. Then, realizing there was no help for it, she gave in to the knowing, not to the fluke meal inspired by Gabriel Kane, but to the chocolate cake and roast that had hit her earlier.

She started picking out vegetables. Cauliflower that she would top with Gruyère and cheddar cheeses; spinach she would flash fry with garlic and olive oil.

In the meat department, she asked for a standing rib roast to serve eight. Then she stopped. “No,” she said to the butcher, her eyes half-closed in concentration, “just give me enough for four.”

Portia made it through the store in record time. Herbs, spices. Eggs, flour. Baking soda. A laundry list of staples. At the last second, she realized she needed to make a chowder. Crab and corn with a dash of cayenne pepper. Hot, spicy.

Within the hour, she was back at the apartment and had the vegetables cleaned and set aside, the roast ready to go into the old oven that thankfully worked. The chowder done. Now it was time to start the cake.

The lower cabinet creaked when she pulled it open. Inside, she found an old Dormeyer Mix-Well stand mixer, plus several mixing bowls that had been washed so many times, the once bold red was a splotchy pink. The simple act of sifting flour soothed her, like meeting up with a once-cherished old friend. She closed her eyes as she mixed in the salt and baking powder.

She had to rinse the scuffed Revere Ware pots and pans before she started melting the Baker’s Chocolate in a makeshift double boiler. Once that was done she moved on to the sugar, butter, and eggs until the rich chocolate layers of cake were baked and cooled. When she finally swirled the last bit of vanilla buttercream into place, Portia stood back with a sense that all was as it should have been. But she still had no sense of why she’d made the meal.

Good news or bad?

Frustration flashed though her. But she pushed it aside and focused on placing tall wooden stools around the old kitchen island. Four place settings. Four seats.

With her sisters living in New York, it stood to reason they would come over. But including Portia, that made only three. Who was the fourth?

The man upstairs?

Portia instantly shook the thought away. A completely different meal had sprung into her head when she saw him.

She glanced at the table. She still needed flowers.

The small corner market had rows of fresh flowers in white plastic buckets. Standing, the early fall sun on her shoulders, she opened her mind. She assessed the fuchsia roses and violet freesias, vibrant orange and pink gerbera daisies. Willowy white snapdragons.

It took a second before she realized what she needed. Daisies. Bright yellow daisies.

Looking down at the bucket of cheerful flowers, Portia felt light-headed. If she had to create a meal to cheer people up, then whatever lay ahead had to be bad.

Anxiety rose through her like dough rising in a towel-covered bowl. The image of the pulled-pork meal and her grandmother stepping into the lightning flashed through her. She hated the anxiety involved with the knowing and food. She hated not understanding, hated waiting for something bad to happen.

Portia cursed herself for taking a glimpse inside the Pandora’s box of knowing. For three years she had kept the lid shut. If nothing else, she’d had peace. She needed to keep it that way. End of story.

She wanted to chuck the roast and cake in the garbage. But at this point, whatever was coming couldn’t be stopped.

Or could it? Had there been a way she could have stopped her grandmother from being struck down by lightning?

Portia still didn’t know why the sight of the meal had sent her grandmother out into the lightning. She only knew that if she hadn’t made that meal and set the table for one, Gram never would have gone out into that storm.

Nothing had changed.

“No, Gram,” Portia whispered. “Nothing about the Cuthcart knowing is a gift. Not to you. Not to me.”

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the memory away, pulled out her cell phone, and called Cordelia, then Olivia, to find out if they were okay. Anxiety circled in her stomach, trepidation tapping behind her eyes. She was forced to leave messages.

She raced through a mental list of what else it could be. Robert?

Portia felt a shiver of hope, but guilt quickly followed. If something had happened to Robert, the knowing would surely have had her buying champagne.