The Glass Kitchen (40 page)

“Portia, hi,”
the recording announced.
“It’s Miranda. Miranda Kane.”

As if Portia could forget.

“I just thought you should know that Dad is using the kitchen. As in, he’s cooking. I talked to Ariel about it, but she’s being totally weird. She might have said something about how you, as a self-respecting adult, should be, like, trying to save me and her from Dad’s cooking. Or something. All I know is that we are starving over here.”

Portia heard the sound of Miranda unwrapping a piece of candy, as if her world was moving on and she needed to disconnect but didn’t know how to break the tenuous connection. The thought tugged at Portia.

“I’m totally not into missing anyone, but Ariel misses you. I can tell. Whatever. I just thought you should know.”

Portia didn’t call back. What could she say? The girls had lost so much, and she felt guilty to be part of it. But calling them only prolonged the inevitable. She wouldn’t ever be a part of their lives.

The next day she worked all day. The Glass Kitchen was packed. She should have felt joy, but by closing time, she felt a strange sensation, like she was getting sick. Worse, all she could think about was food. More specifically, Gabriel’s Meal kept circling back into her head, like some cruel reminder of what she could never have.

The kitchen staff had already left, and Olivia and Cordelia had departed early, though not before Olivia had shaken her by the shoulders.

“Portia, you know I love you, but you have to stop moping around.”

Portia could hardly argue, so she just gave her a lopsided smile.

“Yes, you do,” Cordelia had added, gathering her things. “And may I point out that while the store is crowded, it’s crowded with
widows,
Portia.”

“What?”

Olivia bustled close. “You didn’t notice? It’s not just widows. There was that poor woman whose son just died after a heart operation.”

Portia did remember—how could she not, when the woman had burst into tears at the sight of the cupcakes with little trains on them that she had made. They had both cried before the woman took away six cupcakes so her family could celebrate her little boy’s favorite treat.

“What are you saying?” Portia asked carefully.

“It’s like all your buckets of sadness are bringing lines of mourners to The Glass Kitchen,” Cordelia explained. “It’s not bad, Portia. Lord knows, you’re making them feel better. But I kind of miss a smile now and then, you know?”

Her sisters left her standing there speechless, until she finally turned around and started cleaning an already clean counter. A week’s worth of customers started marching through her head—the eighty-year-old man with the exhausted eyes, the two women whose mother had just passed away …

“Crap,” she said when she realized her sisters were mostly right. But the customers had all been grieving for someone they had lost. There was that man whose wife left him with a devastated five-year-old son, and that teenager who …

She snapped to attention when the bell rang and the door opened.

“We’re not open—”

As she spoke, she turned and froze. Her hair was wild from a day of cooking and baking, and now cleaning. She looked awful and she knew it.

“Gabriel.” She hated the breathy sound of her voice, the way her heart kicked up.

Of course he was still beautiful in that way she loved. Hard, craggy. Strong, as if with him she would always be safe. That was what had drawn her to him, right from the beginning. A beast would never let anyone hurt her.

Until he had.

“We’re closed.”

“Good,” he said.

He made the point by turning over the little sign tacked to the door with yarn. “Now you really are closed.”

“Which means you should be on the outside of the door. Not inside.”

He flipped the lock.

Portia watched him, her eyes narrowing. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What I should have done weeks ago.”

He had that way of seeming to catalog each part of her, as if reassuring himself that she was fine, that no harm had come to her in the weeks they had been apart. Portia stayed behind the counter, telling herself that she was above bolting for the side exit. She would deal with him as the adult she was.

“Gabriel,” she said as he walked toward her, stopping on the opposite side of the narrow counter. “I really don’t want to have another argument. Please.”

“I messed up, Portia.”

He’d already told her that, but this time, there was no anger in the words, only a commitment to truth.

“You said I didn’t believe in you, that I didn’t want you to be who you really are. I am going to prove that you’re wrong. I do believe in you. I love you, Portia. I love you for every streak of frosting on your face.…” He bent over the gaily painted counter tiles and reached out to wipe her cheek, his thumb coming away with frosting. She was mortified until he licked the buttercream away, and her pulse leaped.

“I love you for each of the times you pushed me to see some truth I didn’t want to face. For loving me just as I am. For taking care of my girls. For helping me save both of them.”

His hand slid back into her hair and he leaned closer, his mouth hovering over hers. “I am going to prove to you that I listen. I am going to prove that I love you in that madly, deeply, let-you-eat-crackers-in-my-bed, shouting-Stella-from-the-courtyard sort of way.”

Tears burned at the proof he had listened, at least to that.

“I love you for who you are. But I can’t prove it to you here. Come to the town house, then I will prove it.”

She managed to dash away the threat of tears. “You can’t come in here and ask me to go to your house at the snap of your fingers.” She raised her chin. “We are no longer friends with benefits, Gabriel. I’m sorry.”

His features cemented, but not with anger. “We were never friends with benefits, Portia.”

“Oh, that’s right. We were fu—”

“Enough.”

He said the word quietly, but with a strength that resonated through the café. “I love you, and the only thing that’s
crazy
is if you think I’m going to let the best thing that ever happened to me walk out of my life.”

He bent to her again and his hands ran down her arms. “Come home with me. Let me prove how much you mean to me.”

When she started to resist, he shrugged. With one swift movement he lifted her over the counter as if she weighed nothing, putting her on her feet before him.

She shrieked with the surprise of it. At the same time, visions of the meal, Gabriel’s Meal, danced through her head, taunting her.

“I can’t,” she breathed.

“Wrong answer,” he told her, and actually smiled.

He bent down and had her over his shoulder before she realized what was happening.

“Put me down!”

“Sorry. Can’t. If you won’t walk on your own, I’ll have to carry you.”

“You can’t carry me to your house like this,” she snapped, bracing herself against his back and flailing her legs, trying to get down. “You’ll get arrested!”

“If a cop stops me, I’ll tell them what you’ve put me through and they’ll drag you to the house for me.”

“Ha-ha. If I tell them what you’ve put me through, they’d arrest
you and
throw away the key.”

“Portia. I’m serious. One way or another, you’re coming with me.”

She made all sorts of outraged noises, but his grip only tightened, like a vise around her legs, and she realized she wasn’t going to win this one.

“Are you going to walk?” he asked. “Or do I carry you?”

“Has anyone ever told you cavemen aren’t attractive?”

“As a matter of fact, Ariel says pretty much the same thing all the time.”

Instantly, she softened, her body easing on his shoulder. “How is she?”

“Missing you.”

“Playing the guilt card?”

“Just telling the truth. Now, can I put you down so you can get your bag or whatever else you need? Or am I going to carry you home?”

He barely gave her a minute to get her coat and handbag.

“Front door’s already locked,” he said. “We’ll go out the side door.”

She glowered at him, but he remained unfazed, and all too soon they were walking up Columbus Avenue. He took her hand. She yanked it away, only to have him take it again.

“The caveman thing. Unattractive. Remember?”

He just laughed, pulled her hand up to his mouth, and kissed it. She hated that it felt good.

When they arrived on Seventy-third Street, the lights in the town house reminded her of how much she loved the place, standing tall like a wedding cake stacked up into the night sky, snow beginning to accumulate like icing on the window panes and eves.

Gabriel pulled her around to face him, his hand slipping into her hair and tugging her head back so he could see her eyes. “This is your home, Portia. You belong here. With me. With us.”

She thought he was going to kiss her, but at the last minute, he pulled back. “First things first,” he whispered.

They took the steps to the outer vestibule. She was surprised when he led her down to the garden apartment instead of straight inside to his apartment. The smell of fresh paint hit her first. Then she noticed the refinished hardwood floor on the stairs, the quaint welcome mat outside the open front door. Then she heard the sound of people.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, her hand flying to her hair.

“You’ll see.”

“I’m a wreck!” she moaned, hanging back.

“Am I going to have to put you over my shoulder again?”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He went for her, but she scampered back up a step. “Bossy.”

“Stubborn.”

It took a second for her mind to register all the people inside. Ariel, Miranda. Cordelia and Olivia. Even Stanley and Marcus.

Abruptly, the others became aware of her.

“Portia!”

She blinked, trying to take it in. Her friends and family were standing in the garden apartment … which had been completely redone.

“Don’t you love it?” Ariel cried, flinging herself forward and winding her arms around Portia’s waist. “Dad did it all himself.”

Miranda nodded. “With his own hands.”

Ariel stepped back. “Same thing, Mir.”

“It’s beautiful,” Portia said, awed.

“It’s your dream,” Ariel explained, hands on her hips, looking bossy and worried, at the same time. “Not all perfect and professional like those people did upstairs. Dad took everything out, did it just like you wanted, then brought all the old junk back in, fixed up, cleaned up.”

“Just as you described,” Gabriel said, his voice deep with emotion. “I listened, Portia.”

He had, that time they had lain together after making love, talking about her vision for the apartment.

“Oh, Gabriel, I don’t know what to say.”

Gabriel stepped forward and took her hands. “Portia, this is your home. The people here, we are your family. And in this town house, you have cooked or baked or done something for each person here. So I asked everyone to make something for you to show their thanks.”

It was then that she noticed the table, set with the pitted silverware and mismatched dishes.

Stanley straightened, after placing a dish on the table. He took one look at her and grimaced. “Good Lord, woman, is that frosting in your hair?”

“Mind your manners, old man.” This from Marcus, who was making room on the table for a platter.

“I can’t tell you the last time I did anything in a kitchen,” Stanley said, jutting out his chin. “But I did, for you. Because you’re a dear,” he added. “So I decided that I would make the one recipe I know. Sweet jalapeño mustard.”

A jolt went through Portia.

“Can you believe it?” Marcus said. “A New Yorker who makes anything with jalapeños?”

“As you well know, I was born and raised in Texas. I might be old, but I still remember my mother’s sweet jalapeño mustard.”

Marcus wrapped a lanky arm around his partner’s stooped shoulders. “Yes, once upon a time you were a good ol’ boy from south of the Mason-Dixon Line. I made my fried chicken for you, Portia, to go with my beloved’s mustard.”

A chill ran down her spine.

“Miranda and I made biscuits!” Ariel cheered.

Portia couldn’t move. She felt Olivia looking at her for a long beat, her brow furrowing. Then Olivia laughed and came forward, taking her hands, pulling her close, pressing her forehead to Portia’s. “Some things are true whether you believe them or not,” Olivia whispered just for her.

Portia’s breath let out in a rush; then she threw her arms around her sister.

She then pivoted to face Gabriel. “But how did you know?”

His brow furrowed. “Know what?”

“The meal. You—this is the meal. It’s
your
meal.”

“What are you talking about? I just asked everyone to bring something for you, something they could make, something that meant something to them.”

Portia swept her gaze over the table. The slaw was there, the buttery mashed potatoes. Each item from Gabriel’s Meal sat on the table, just as she had seen it in her mind—this menu, in this garden apartment that she had loved since she was a child.

She didn’t realize Gabriel had gone to the kitchen until she turned and found him reappearing. Before she could say anything, he held out a dish. “Strawberry pie—”

“With fresh whipped cream,” Portia breathed.

“I made it,” he said. “Can’t swear to how good it is, but I know you love strawberries, and the girls say it’s the only thing I’ve made in a month that was half edible.”

“I can’t believe it,” Portia whispered. “
You
were the ones who were supposed to make the meal. Not me. That’s why mine didn’t work.”

She looked at each person in turn, and then finally at Gabriel. “This is the meal that came to me when I first saw you on the steps. The meal I tried to make, but ruined.”

She didn’t wait another second. She ran to Gabriel, throwing her arms around him. “We’re meant to be.”

He tipped her head back. “It’s the meal, the food, that’s what convinced you?”

“Yes.” Portia hesitated, holding her breath. “Do you understand?”

He looked into her eyes, really looked. Then he smiled. “What I understand is that the rest of my life will be filled with food, food that answers questions that haven’t been asked yet, food that you know we need before we know why.” He lowered his voice. “You’re mine, Portia, and have been since the day I found you on the steps in your flowered shoes.”