The Glass Kitchen: A Novel of Sisters

Two

THE SOUND OF TRAFFIC woke Portia.

Minutes ticked by before she realized where she was. New York City, on the Upper West Side, in the garden apartment of Great-aunt Evie’s old town house, three years after her wedding, a month after her divorce from Robert Baleau.

Portia rolled over, covering her head with the pillow.

For the last three years, she had closed the door on visions of food until she had practically forgotten her unnerving ability was there. She’d worked hard to be like everyone else.

To be normal.

She groaned into the pillow. The only way she could be called normal was if normal meant stupid, not to mention naive. Why hadn’t she realized that her husband didn’t want her anymore? Why hadn’t she figured out that the only real reason he wanted her at all was to make him seem more appealing to voters? More than that, why hadn’t she known he would be so callous in getting rid of her after he’d come home and told her he wanted a divorce?

Not long after Robert had secured his place in politics, the supposedly good Christian politican developed a wandering eye, or maybe just gave in to it. Naturally, she had been the last to hear the whispers. But what she definitely hadn’t heard until after the divorce papers were set in front of her was that the real reason he needed a divorce was because he had gotten one of his aides pregnant.

When the surprisingly quick divorce came through, she had fled Texas in a storm of devastation and betrayal, finding herself shipwrecked on the island of Manhattan, with nothing more than the two hastily packed suitcases and her grandmother’s cherished Glass Kitchen cookbooks—thrown in even though she didn’t want them.

Rolling back over, she tossed the pillow aside. She had arrived in New York City a month ago, but she had been in Great-aunt Evie’s town house only since late last night, using an old key she had kept on her key chain. Before Evie had died, she had divided the town house up into three apartments, two of which she had rented out for income. Upon her death, one apartment had gone to each of the sisters.

Cordelia and Olivia had sold their floors. Before the divorce, Robert had wanted to sell her floor, too, with the garden out back, but she had never signed the contract. Thank God. While she was having a hard time imagining herself living in New York City, she wasn’t crazy. Staying in Texas, where Robert and his pregnant new wife had already started to rule her world, was an awful thought. Here in New York, she had something of her own. Everything was going as well as could be expected, given that her bank account was nearly as bare as Great-aunt Evie’s kitchen cupboards.

The early morning air in New York was far cooler than it would have been in Texas, especially in the ancient bathroom, where the windows barely shut out the chilly gusts. Portia braced her hands on the old-fashioned sink, looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were still a deep violet blue, but the circles beneath them hinted at the stress that kept her awake at night. A year ago, she’d had sensibly cut, shoulder-length blond hair—perfect for a Texas politician’s wife—tamed by a blow-dryer, hair spray, and a velvet headband. She scoffed. She’d been a cliché of big hair, sure, but what was she now? An even bigger cliché of the wronged wife kicked out of her own bed by her husband and the ex–best friend whom she herself had convinced Robert to hire as an aide. As her life spiraled out of control, so had her hair, growing and curling as it had when she was a child.

She turned on the old-fashioned spigot, the pipes clanging before spitting out a gush of water that she splashed on her face. Then she froze when her head filled with images of cake, thick swirls of buttercream frosting between chocolate layers. Her breath caught, her fingers curling around the sink edge. It had been three whole years since she’d been hit by images of food. But she knew the images were real—or would be if she allowed the knowing to take over.

She shook her head hard. She was normal now. The knowing was in the past. She hadn’t done so much as toast a slice of bread in the last three years.

But the feeling wouldn’t leave her alone, and with a groan she realized that the knowing was back, as if her move to New York, to this town house, had chiseled away every inch of normalcy she had cobbled together.

The images swirled through her. She needed to bake. Cake. A layered chocolate cake. With vanilla buttercream frosting.

The images were as clear as four-color photos from a coffee table book on baking. She could taste the mix of vanilla, butter, and cream whipped into a sugar frosting as if she had spooned it into her mouth. The chocolate smelled so real that a chill of awareness ran along her skin, pooling in her fingertips. She itched to bake.

But the last thing she needed in her life right now was to contend with something else she couldn’t control.

She fought harder, but another bit of knowing hit. It wasn’t just baking. She needed to cook, too. A roast.

She pressed one of her great-aunt’s threadbare white towels to her face, resisting the urge. She had devoted the last three years to being the perfect wife. She had let her grandmother’s Glass Kitchen go, closing the doors for good and selling the property for next to nothing to a developer who only wanted the land, splitting the money with her sisters. Her job had been to be at her husband’s side at any function. Given that she had signed a prenuptial agreement, and with the meager settlement Robert had yet to pay her, she barely had two pennies to rub together. The last thing she needed to do was to waste money preparing a big meal. But the need wouldn’t let go, and with a shudder gasp she gave in completely, the last of her crumbling walls coming down. Flowers, she realized. She needed flowers, too.

The knowing was rusty, coming at her in fits and starts, much like the water sluicing unevenly out of the faucet. Groaning, Portia dressed in jeans instead of a conservative skirt, and a big sweater instead of a silk blouse. She found flowered Keds in her great-aunt’s closet, which she dusted off to wear rather than sensible heels. She wasn’t Mrs. Robert Baleau anymore. She was Portia Cuthcart again, having taken back her maiden name.

The goal, her grandmother always said in the few times she actually said anything about the knowing, was to give in to the simple act of doing and have faith that eventually everything would make sense.

“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

“SOME 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.

Back at the apartment, she put the flowers on the table and started to pace. Finally, hoping for a distraction, she turned on Evie’s ancient television. It was tuned to a news program and still working.

“The investment firm Atlantica General has confirmed the loss of two billion dollars of investor money. It is being reported that the loss was due to fraudulent trades by the firm’s Low Risk group. If allegations of malfeasance are true, no doubt people will go to jail over this.”

Portia’s heartbeat flared, slowed, and then flared again. Cordelia’s husband, James, worked for Atlantica General. Worse, James worked in the Low Risk group. Since starting at Atlantica ten years earlier, he had been a rising star, becoming one of the most successful young bankers at the giant.

She sat down hard, only to jump up again when someone knocked at the door.

Portia raced over and yanked the door open to find her other sister, Olivia.

“Did you hear?” Olivia said.

“About James?”

“Yes,” her middle sister said without so much as a hello or hug as she walked in the door.

Back in Texas, Portia knew that the three Cuthcart sisters had been considered three kinds of blondes. Cordelia, the oldest, was pretty with her straightened hair and patrician nose. If Cordelia had been born to resemble a queen, middle-sister Olivia had been born to be the nymph. With her Cupid’s-bow mouth and violet eyes, she lured men in to the rocky shores of her world. Portia knew that while her sisters were queens and nymphs, she was considered cute, the girl next door. There were worse things to be, sure, but just once she would have liked to be the beautiful one or the exotic one.

Today, Olivia wore olive-colored cargo pants that hung low on her hips, a multicolored yoga top that showed off her beautifully sculpted arms, and some sort of shoe that looked equal parts comfort and fashion. Olivia was the wild child of the family, living in a walk-up apartment on the Lower East Side, a serial dater who had broken more than a few men’s hearts. Why she refused to settle down was a mystery to her sisters, a mystery that Cordelia and Portia had dissected from every angle but still didn’t understand. Though Portia was starting to think that Olivia was just smarter than they were. Than she was, anyway.

Olivia glanced at the table and raised a brow, but didn’t say anything.

Portia knew that look. Olivia didn’t particularly care one way or the other about the knowing. As far as she was concerned, it had nothing to do with her. But that didn’t mean she liked it.

“God, I hope that fourth setting isn’t for James,” Olivia stated, turning from the table. “Though you’d have to think he’s probably surrounded by lawyers. Or cops.”

Portia shivered.

Despite the crispness of her words, Portia knew why her sister was there. Long ago their mother had made her daughters promise that no matter where they were or how angry they were at each other at the time, if one of them needed the other, they would be there. No questions asked.

Which meant Portia knew what would happen next.

Cordelia sailed into the apartment like a perfectly dressed mother duck, not a hair out of place on her head, her subtle hints of makeup perfectly done, her blue eyes alert, determined as she set her expensive handbag on a chair.

At thirteen, Cordelia had perfected the jaundiced arrogance of a girl who believed she had all the answers. At thirty-five, Cordelia still felt she had all the answers. Where Olivia had always been considered the passionate sister, the oldest Cuthcart girl never showed any sort of emotion at all.

“We saw the news,” Portia said. “Is everything okay with James?”

Cordelia’s always stiff upper lip trembled.

“Jesus, Cordie,” Olivia stated with all the calm certainty that there was no problem too big to be solved. “Is James getting arrested?”

“Olivia,” Portia barked, just as Cordelia blurted, “No!”

Portia sagged. “What a relief.”

“Not a relief,” Cordelia stated. “He wasn’t a party to the bad deals, but part of the two billion dollars was every penny of our life savings.”

Cordelia stood there in her cashmere and pearls, her standard uniform for all the charity work she did in the city, tears in her eyes.

Portia wrapped her arms around Cordelia. Olivia just stood there. Portia gave her a look, after which Olivia gave a silent sigh, then came over and joined the hug.

“I am not crying,” Cordelia stated, even as tears rolled.

“Of course not,” Portia said.

“Nope, not you,” Olivia added.

They stood that way for a few seconds, their hearts beating nearly as one until Portia broke the spell. “Stop stepping on my toes, Olivia.”

Olivia burst out laughing. “I knew you couldn’t take more than a few seconds of hugging.”

“I can take hugging, Olivia. You’re the one who can’t take it. That’s why you stepped on my toes.”

But then they turned back to Cordelia.

“You’re going to be okay,” Portia said.

“Absolutely,” Olivia added.

Cordelia stepped away, smoothed her bob, straightened her blouse, and drew a deep breath. “I love you guys,” she whispered, and quickly cleared her throat. “It really is okay. But I’m stressed and I can’t show it in front of James.”

If Olivia was like a decadent chocolate-covered strawberry, and Portia a pineapple-and-spice hummingbird cupcake, then Cordelia was peanut brittle, still sweet, though with something more substantial added by way of peanuts, but unbendable.

“James says it’ll be fine. So it will be.” She raised her chin. “I’m sure it’s not every cent of our life’s savings. I’m overreacting, which is childish.” Tears welled once more; Cordelia drew a deep breath and shook them away. “I just needed to let it out, then see that it isn’t so dire. I couldn’t do that at home.”

Portia shot Olivia a quick glance, but she didn’t say what she was thinking—that Cordelia always put a good face on a bad situation.

Cordelia caught sight of the food in the little kitchen, then turned and stared at the wooden stools around the island, the plates, the flowers. But when Olivia caught Cordelia’s eye and raised a brow, Cordelia looked away. Portia had asked her oldest sister once why she hated the knowing so much that she generally pretended it didn’t exist. Cordelia had dismissed the question out of hand. But Portia still wondered.

The three of them pulled up around the makeshift table and served each other plates piled high with Portia’s feast. No one mentioned the unspoken question hanging in the air. Who was the last seat for? Instead, Portia and Olivia caught up on every bit of Texas gossip until Cordelia was able to breathe again, quickly turning back into the oldest sister.

“It’s time to talk. I’m not the only one with problems,” Cordelia said, breaking in. “You’ve moved in here, Portia. But have you figured out how you’re going to support yourself?”

Olivia shook her head and sat back. “Sheez, Cordie, give her a break. She’s barely divorced.”

“Barely doesn’t have any influence on a bank balance.”

“She’s right, Olivia. But I’m working on it.”

“Really?” Cordelia got one of her know-it-all looks. “What are you thinking about doing?”

“Okay, so I don’t know yet, Cord. But something will come to me.”

“Let’s make a list of possibilities.”

Olivia groaned. “You and your lists.”

Portia agreed. More than that, she knew this wasn’t headed anywhere good. “Maybe later.”

“There’s no time like the present,” Cordelia stated, her cheer exaggerated and fake.

If Portia hadn’t known that her sister mainly wanted to distract herself from her own problems, she would have fought harder. As it was, she didn’t know how to say no when her sister said, “Let’s brainstorm.”

“Cordelia—”

“It’ll be fun!” Even more fake. “Just us girls, letting dreams run wild.”

Olivia all but rolled her eyes. “You know she’s not letting this go.”

“Fine. I could be an assistant,” Portia stated.

“Assistant to whom?”

Only Cordelia, and grammar zealots, would use whom in a casual conversation. Portia considered. “To an executive.”

“You don’t type.” This from Olivia.

Portia glared at her one supporter. “Fine.” She glanced back at Cordelia. “Then maybe I could be an editor.”

“As if they don’t type? Besides, an editor of what?”

Portia shot Cordelia a look. “Books.”

“You barely graduated from high school—”

“I graduated!”

“But the only class you liked was Home Economics. I can’t believe any school still offers those classes. Definitely don’t tell anyone in New York about it.”

“Why not?”

Cordelia didn’t bother to answer. “I know what you could do. If anyone asks, tell them you went to cooking school. They teach cooking in Home Ec, right? They’ll eat that up. New Yorkers are all about food.” Cordelia hesitated, then said, “You know that.”

Portia eyed her. “I don’t cook.”

Her sisters glanced at the meal in front of them.

“This was an aberration,” she said. “I do not cook. Not anymore. You know that.”

Cordelia and Olivia exchanged a glance.

Portia knew they were going to say something, something she wouldn’t want to discuss. “Stop. Really. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get a job. First thing tomorrow I’ll start working on my résumé.”

Finally Cordelia stood. “I take it the bathroom in this place works?”

“No, but there’s a Porta-Potty in the garden.”

Cordelia’s eyes went wide.

“Just joking.”

This time, everyone laughed, even Cordelia, the tension in the room easing.

Cordelia headed out of the kitchen, and Olivia cupped her hands around a mug of hot mint tea laced with honey. Portia started to clear the table. But when she reached for the unused place setting, she heard Cordelia in the tiny foyer.

“Who are you?” the oldest sister was asking.

Portia glanced out of the kitchen and saw a young girl, eleven, maybe twelve, standing just inside the front door. Her curly light brown hair puffed like a cloud around creamy white skin, making her big brown eyes look even bigger. Freckles stood out on her nose, perfect and contained, like crayon dots drawn by a child. While the dots were meticulous, the girl was not. She wore a navy blue sweater over a white blouse that was mostly untucked from a navy blue plaid skirt. Her headband was askew, one kneesock up, the other down, spilling into black flats, finishing off what was clearly one of the private school uniforms that children wore in Manhattan.

“I’m Ariel, from upstairs.” She looked around. “I heard all the noise. The door was open.” Her pursed mouth dared them to contradict her. “Are you squatters or something?”

Olivia laughed out loud.

“No,” Portia said. “We’re not squatters. I live here.”

The girl studied them, as if trying to get her head around anyone living in this run-down apartment. “But you weren’t here yesterday.”

“I moved in last night.”

Cordelia scowled. “I still can’t believe you moved here. You should have kept staying with me.”

When Portia first arrived in New York, she had gone straight to Cordelia, not sure what to do about the apartment. But as with so many things with Portia, she had woken up yesterday morning knowing what she had to do. Next thing she knew, she made the call to the lawyer, then moved in here.

“And the rest of you are, what … friends?” the girl asked.

“Sisters.”

“You must be Gabriel Kane’s child,” Cordelia said.

“You know my dad?”

“Olivia and I sold our apartments to your father.”

The girl wasn’t paying attention. She eyed the food.

Cordelia shifted into mother mode. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving. The new housekeeper-slash-cook made dinner, but it was really weird, like scary weird, and seriously, who wants to eat scary food?”

“Have a seat.” Cordelia retrieved a plate as if it were her own home and loaded it with food. Just before she set it down at the extra place setting, she froze.

Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth pinched. Portia hated the battle she sensed going on in her sister. But she didn’t repeat Gram’s words.

“Some things are true whether you believe them or not.”

“Sit,” Cordelia finally said, setting down the plate. “Eat, before it gets cold.”

Four

THEY SAT BACK DOWN on the stools while Ariel gobbled up her food and Portia, Cordelia, and Olivia stared at her.

“What?” Ariel said, glancing up through a curtain of wispy bangs, the fork halting halfway to her mouth. “You’ve never seen a girl eat before?”

Cordelia smiled in the condescendingly maternal way she had perfected by age ten. “Perhaps we’ve never seen a young girl eat so fast.”

Ariel shrugged, unbothered by the implied reprimand. “Like I said, I’m starved.”

Cordelia started to speak, but Portia cut her off. “Let her eat in peace, Cord.”

Olivia laughed. “Yes, eat. Though tell us,” she added, studying the girl, “who all lives in your apartment?”

Ariel looked confused. “Who all? What kind of word is that?”

“It’s a Texas thing,” Portia clarified. “You know, like y’all for you all.”

“I don’t get it. Who adds all to you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Olivia interjected, waving the words away. “I just wondered who lives with you upstairs.”

Olivia said the words casually, but Portia knew better. She knew her sister. Olivia was always interested in the possibility of a new man.

“Just me, my dad, and Miranda.”

Olivia scowled. “Miranda?”

“My sister.”

“Oh, really.” Olivia’s smile returned, slow, delicious. “So, your dad’s single?”

“Olivia,” Portia and Cordelia both snapped.

Cordelia no doubt said that because Olivia was being rude. Portia wanted to think she did it for the same reason, but the truth was that at the mention of the man upstairs, she felt, well, possessive. The thought of Olivia’s lack of inhibition and beautifully sculpted body in relation to Gabriel Kane didn’t sit well—which was ridiculous, since Portia was barely divorced and certainly not interested in Gabriel herself. But there it was.

“What?” Olivia asked, her tone defensive. “What did I say?”

Cordelia sighed. “One, it’s inappropriate to ask a man’s child if he’s single.”

“And two,” Portia picked up the thread, “you only like guys who are…” She hesitated, glanced at Ariel, and then leaned closer. “T-A-K-E-N.”

Ariel narrowed her eyes.

Olivia scoffed. “Now who is being inappropriate in front of the K-I-D?”

“Hello,” Ariel said. “I can S-P-E-L-L.”

Olivia pushed more food in front of her. “Keep eating.” She turned back to her sisters. “I do not like guys who are taken.”

Portia and Cordelia rolled their eyes.

“I don’t,” Olivia persisted, reaching up to twist her mass of curls into a loose knot on her head. When she let go, her hair fell in a tumble around her shoulders. “Martin wasn’t taken. Neither was Daniel. And what about George?”

“True. But let’s see. Martin, you broke up with because he had a cat.”

“Sue me. I’m a dog person.”

“Well then, Daniel should have been perfect for you: He had a dog,” Cordelia said. “I can’t remember why you broke up with him, just that you did via text message.”

“Does anyone under the age of fifty use the word via?” Olivia shot back. “How old are you really?”

“You know very well I am”—she glanced at Ariel—“twenty-eight.”

“Not!” Olivia and Portia laughed. “Thirty-five if you’re a day!”

“Don’t change the subject,” Cordelia snipped. “We’re not finished. You mentioned George.”

Olivia shrugged and looked away.

Cordelia tsked. “Poor George. He would have been better off with a text. He only found out about your change of heart when he came home to your all’s apartment and saw you’d thrown his clothes out the window.”

Ariel gaped, fork forgotten in her hand.

“He deserved it,” Olivia stated with calm certainty. “Besides, the apartment was a fifth-floor walk-up. I wasn’t going to spend hours walking up and down those stairs taking everything down to the street. That’s a rite of passage. Every woman should throw a guy’s clothes out a window once in her life.”

Cordelia scoffed. “A rite of passage is a sorority hazing or a bat mitzvah.”

“Maybe for you, Miss Marry-the-first-guy-you-date.”

“I dated!”

Portia groaned. “Please stop.”

Olivia and Cordelia ignored her.

“You only dated one other guy, Cordelia, and that didn’t turn out so well.”

“What happened?” Ariel asked.

Without Portia noticing, the girl had dumped everything out of her backpack and had retrieved a notebook. She sat now, poised with pen in hand over an empty page, like a reporter, or overeager detective. Next to her plate, a smorgasbord of paraphernalia littered the table. Several pens of assorted colors, a calculator covered in E = mc2 stickers, a wild-haired rendering of Einstein painted in fluorescent-green nail polish on an inhaler, a half-eaten KitKat bar, a mini-bottle of antibacterial gel, and multicolored knit socks with separate coverings for each toe, like gloves for feet. Portia loved the socks.

“What happened to the only other guy you dated?” Ariel persisted, ready to write.

“Nothing,” the three sisters said in unison, which brought them back together, the energy between them shifting.

Olivia touched Cordelia’s hand. That was the way with Olivia. Wild and carefree, blazing through anything bad with a bold fearlessness, but underneath a caring that Portia sometimes thought her sister worked hard to hide.

“Dating practically only one guy has served you well,” Olivia said. “You and James are great together, and you’ll survive whatever is going on now.”

Cordelia gave her a determined smile. “Thank you, sweetie.”

They shared a comfortable moment, Portia just barely realizing that Ariel studied them like a scientist scrutinizing a foreign species.

Olivia didn’t seem to notice at all, lost in her own thoughts, until she wrinkled her nose, then leaned closer. Portia could see the sparkle in her eyes that she knew meant trouble.

“So it goes without saying that you and James are perfect, yada yada,” Olivia said with another wave of her hand. “But let’s just pretend. If you had dated anyone else before you left Texas, who would it have been? Brody, right? You were madly in love with Brody. You would have slept with—”

“Olivia!” Portia barked, nodding toward Ariel. “Inappropriate. On so many levels.”

Olivia just shrugged innocently, though she didn’t look innocent at all, and squeezed Cordelia’s hand.

Ariel shook her head and rose, wandering out of the kitchen, surprising them when music suddenly blared. “Oops,” she called out from the living room. “Sorry.”

“It’s Evie’s old radio,” Olivia said.

The three of them pushed up from the stools and walked through the arch that led to the rest of the apartment. “Remember how Evie would turn it on and make us dance with her?” Portia said.

“Yeah, and not to classical music.”

“Swing.”

“And rock.”

“Punk!” Olivia cried out with a laugh.

Portia couldn’t help herself: She twirled the dial, and the minute an old eighties punk song came on, she started dancing. “Come on! Let’s dance!”

The others stared at her. But then Portia pulled Olivia in. Once Olivia got going, they turned to Cordelia.

“Oh, no. I’m too old for this.”

“You’re never too old for dancing. Besides, just a minute ago you swore you were twenty-eight.”

Portia dragged her onto the floor, and she felt her sister’s stress start melting away. All three of them danced and flailed. They turned in hops and sweeps toward Ariel, who looked half-wistful, half-disdainful, and they extended their hands.

“No way. I don’t know how to dance.”

“Knowing how doesn’t matter,” Olivia bellowed.

Then suddenly Ariel was in their midst, gyrating and waving her arms, shouting out random words from the chorus.

“Dance, baby!”

At the end of the number, Olivia swirled the dial, then smiled. “I love this one.” She turned it up louder, then sang along to a crooning Brad Paisley ballad. She hooked her arm through Cordelia’s, and Portia saw their older sister shake her head, but she smiled. And soon they all were singing. Even Ariel got into the act. Until the music snapped off mid-verse.

“What’s going on here?”

Portia nearly tripped at the sight of Gabriel Kane.

He appeared every bit as powerful as he had earlier in the day, though now there was no trace of a smile. If possible, everything dark about his eyes grew darker as he took her in, his gaze sliding over her in a heated sear. She could have sworn he seemed confused, as if he couldn’t reconcile the woman on the steps with the woman standing in the apartment.

“Dad!” Ariel laughed. If she was aware of the darkness, she didn’t show it. “Come dance it out with us!”

Dad didn’t look amused.

“Ariel, go upstairs.”

Ariel’s smile turned to a gape. “What did I do?”

“Upstairs.”

“Dad!”

“Up. Stairs.”

Portia watched Ariel march to the kitchen, stuff all her belongings back into her backpack, then sulk off. Cordelia, she noticed, quickly smoothed her already smooth hair, looking surprisingly uncomfortable. Olivia, on the other hand, definitely wasn’t put off by Gabriel’s tone. She looked him up and down. “Hi, I’m Olivia,” she said, stepping closer.

Portia felt an instant flash of irritation.

“Good God, Olivia,” Cordelia groaned, walking forward and extending her hand. “I’m Cordelia Callahan. Olivia and I sold you our portions of the town house.”

“Gabriel Kane.” He shook her hand.

He nodded briefly to Olivia, polite, but that was all, before turning back to Portia. She felt that same sense of vertigo she had experienced on the front steps, the world reeling a bit at the sight of him.

“This is our sister Portia,” Cordelia put in.

Gabriel didn’t look away from Portia. “We met. This morning.”

Cordelia gaped for one silent second before saying, “You’ve met?”

Olivia only considered her.

“Sort of,” Portia conceded.

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t realized she was the woman who—”

The words broke off, and Portia filled in the gap: “who backed out of selling me the apartment.”

He brow creased, his voice growing hard. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were earlier?”

She grimaced and shrugged; the best answer she could come up with without having to admit she had hoped to avoid him like a girl in grade school.

His frown deepened, but Cordelia stepped forward, wearing a determinedly cheerful Texas welcome. “Would you like something to eat, Mr. Kane? Portia made more than enough food.”

He glanced back into the kitchen, looking at the four used place settings. Then he turned to Portia. “You fed my daughter?”

“I hope that’s okay,” she said, forcing a smile. “She was hungry. As Cordelia said, we had plenty. I can make you a plate, too.” Please say no, she prayed.

He looked like he wanted to say something, though something that had nothing to do with food. But after what looked like a frustrated second, he shook his head. “No, but thank you. And thank you for feeding Ariel.” He started to leave, then turned back. “We need to discuss the apartment.”

Portia smiled big. “Of course! We’ll discuss tomorrow.”

Though she knew she would do everything in her power to avoid him like the plague. The last thing she wanted was to discuss anything with Gabriel Kane.

Five

ARIEL KANE WAS ALMOST entirely certain she was disappearing.

Using every millimeter of her massively smart brain, she was trying to figure out if it was even possible for a person to disappear. So far she hadn’t come up with any sort of quantifiable answer despite the fact that she wrote everything she could down in her journal. Anything that seemed important, she took notes on. The only thing that was definite, however, was that she was definitely starving, even though barely an hour ago the ladies downstairs had shoveled heaping piles of really good food onto her plate. But not even the roast or cake made her feel less hungry.

Hungry or not, Ariel had liked sitting there while they gabbed away. Portia, the one who seemed to live there, with her sandy blond hair and giant blue eyes, was pretty but tired looking, like a favorite doll who had been played with too much. Then there was Olivia, the middle sister, Ariel had learned, the same kind of pretty as Portia, those blue-blue eyes and long curly hair, only wilder, alive, like if you touched her you’d feel a zap. And last, Cordelia, the only one who seemed like an adult, again with the blue-blue eyes and really blond hair, only hers was straight, perfect, not one thing about her out of place. Ariel had seen tons of women like that, mothers of other girls, both in New Jersey and now here in New York.

Whatever. There had been something nice about the way the sisters yakked away, like everything in the world was normal, a world where people didn’t disappear. Ariel liked that best. Then they started dancing, which was really embarrassing because they were so bad.

At first she had felt bad seeing the three sisters dancing together, leaving her out. Then they had turned to her, pulling her into their circle. They didn’t even notice that her dancing was as bad as theirs. Even worse, maybe. Her throat swelled like a big baby’s just thinking about it. Only then her dad had shown up and ruined it.

He was pretty good at that, given that he had pretty much ruined her life. If things were different, she’d be back in her old room in New Jersey instead of sitting on the fourth floor of this town house. Her dad just up and moved them here six months ago, never bothering to ask if she wanted a new room, or a new bed, or even a new life.

The only good news was that she knew for a fact that her dad hadn’t sold their old house. It still had all their old furniture in it. With any luck, he’d give up this New York City nonsense and move them back where they belonged.

She pulled out her journal and started to write, this time because she was supposed to. More specifically, the Shrink her dad had hired said she had to write out her feelings about her mom.

Ariel hated this kind of journal writing. It made her think about Mom, which made her feel like a bee buzzing in a jar, banging around trying to get out. Sure, her mom had died. And sure, she could hardly breathe whenever she thought about it. But Ariel was not some below-average preteen who needed help, which was exactly what she had told her dad. He had carted her and her sister, Miranda, off to an idiot therapist anyway. So she mainly used her journal to write down her observations about the world.

During her first visit with the Shrink, Ariel had sat in the guy’s office on a creepy black leather sofa. When he started by asking her how she was feeling, she refused to give in to the tears that burned in her throat, and responded by asking him what self-respecting medical professional had black leather anything, especially in his office. He had looked at her, didn’t bother to answer, and scribbled something on his notepad.

After that, she had simply said “No Comment” to everything else he asked, interjecting observations about the weather every once in a while to shake things up, until finally the guy realized she wasn’t going to start talking away all of a sudden. He said fine. Since she wouldn’t talk to him, she should write down her feelings in a journal.

Next thing she knew, her dad had gone out and bought her a pink diary with a miniature key. Hello, she was almost thirteen, not eight. When she mentioned this, directly after asking her dad if he’d like to join her for a cocktail before dinner—which he either didn’t hear or intentionally ignored—he brought home a fancy journal with a leather cover. Like she was some sort of self-help freak. Again, nearly thirteen. Not thirty.

On the bright side, it did give her an idea for a title for her journal. Musings of a Freak. Intelligent, a little off-center. In a word, her. Ariel Kane.

So, anyway, she was supposed to write down her feelings. Truthfully, if she managed to get beyond the sick feeling that she constantly had about her mom, what she felt was cramped. Her dad, who never used to be at home when her mom was alive, suddenly went all I’m going to be the perfect father on them, pulling up stakes in Montclair, New Jersey, moving Ariel and her sister to the Upper West Side, into a town house that was like a hundred years old.

Since they’d moved here, all her dad did was work on the place (or should she say, boss other people around while they worked on the place), sit at the big desk in the downstairs office, reading The Financial Times, studying computer screens—basically making sure his empire stayed, well, empirick—and meddle in her life. Correction: ruin her life.

But the fact was, there was something about her dad that made people do what he told them. When he walked into a room, people quieted. When he asked a question, people embarrassed themselves trying to come up with the answer. He wasn’t handsome, not like her uncle Anthony, whom everyone said was totally beautiful. But still, her dad didn’t have to say much to have people jumping through hoops to do his bidding. At least that was the case with everyone but her older sister, Miranda.

Miranda was sixteen and had been forced to leave her boyfriend behind when they moved into the city. Ariel had seen the guy once only even back in New Jersey, since Miranda did a really great job of keeping him out of their dad’s sight. Dad would combust if he found out Miranda had a boyfriend. While Ariel couldn’t say the guy was anything to write home about, clearly Miranda thought he was, since now she spent most of her time slamming doors and throwing herself across her bed, going on and on about how unfair life was.

No question Dad needed more to do with his time.

For a while after Mom died, all three of them had walked around like zombies in a movie. For six months they had barely put one foot in front of the other. Then, out of nowhere, just as the school year ended and summer was starting, Dad came home and told them it was time to move on.

Move on?

Like people could do that?

Though really, moving to New York had made it possible to turn the whole dead-mom thing into a secret. Ariel had learned the hard way that people completely freaked if they heard.

So, in June they had moved into the city. In July, she and her sister had started with the Shrink. In September, she and Miranda had started new schools. Now it was nearly October and there was no sign that her dad was going to stop being in charge of all of their day-to-day stuff. She had pretty much given up on him going back to his old ways of distractedly asking them how their day was while reading the newspaper.

Previous scenario before everything went to hell in a handbasket went something like this.…

Father Reading The Wall Street Journal: “How was your day, Ariel?”

Extremely Intelligent and Witty Daughter: “Great, just finished watching a bunch of porn online and I need ten dollars for lunch.”

FRWSJ: “Ten dollars for what?” Said while turning page.

EIAWD: “Lunch.”

FRWSJ: “Fine.”

Conversations like that were totally things of the past (she didn’t think it appropriate to put in writing her dad’s new, not-improved-as-far-as-she-was-concerned reaction to the most recent time she had used her Internet porn wit), and Ariel figured she had no choice but to take matters into her own hands and find her father a distraction.

Since Gabriel Kane was nothing if not a poster boy for perfect behavior, he couldn’t be tempted with the normal things like partying, poker nights, strippers, or even taking massively smart classes in the quest to be the next Renaissance man. Never mind. Ariel had put together a plan, one that would produce something / someone to take his mind off her and Miranda. She had tried to run the idea by her sister, but Miranda just rolled her eyes, announced that the Stupid Shrink should give refunds, and left Ariel standing alone on the stairs.

Seriously, if it weren’t for her snooping, Ariel wouldn’t know anything at all about what Miranda was up to. Thank goodness the Shrink had made Miranda write in a journal, too. And Miranda wasn’t as good at hiding hers as Ariel was.

It was after reading Miranda’s latest lovesick entry about the left-behind boyfriend and wanting to get back at dad “for ruining my life!!!” that Ariel decided to find a new woman to keep their dad busy. Not a wife. No way would he ever marry again. He totally loved her mom. But a nice lady, someone to date, was the best Ariel had come up with.

Granted, for the last few months, Dad had dated plenty, but he hadn’t met anyone who held his attention for more than a nanosecond. And it was going to take more than a nanosecond to get him out of their hair.

In her original plan, she had considered taking out an online dating ad.

Wanted: Girlfriend

Nice man seeks really nice lady. There’s a kid involved (a little lanky, but cute in her own extremely intelligent way), though she won’t be any trouble, and I swear you’ll like her. Interested parties call: 212-555-0654.

Perfect wording, like a commercial for a made-for-TV movie, and that was bound to interest somebody. She figured there was zero reason to mention Miranda. At this point, a full-fledged high school–variety teenager would probably be a deal breaker for any sane woman.

But in the end, she couldn’t go through with it. If she spent her lunch money on an ad, one, it would take more than a few lunches’ worth to afford it; and two, what was she going to eat in the meantime? Contrary to popular belief, not all newly pubescent girls had dreams of anorexia. Beyond that, how did you screen out all the skanks, gold diggers, and weirdos when you ran an ad to the masses?

Of course, now there was Portia, from downstairs. She was interesting, if you could overlook the awful apartment. Was it possible to like living in a place with cracked windows and uneven floors? And what was up with the sink? Big and deep, with the pipes showing underneath. Ariel could have sworn she had seen pictures in her social studies book of places like that from New York City in the Dark Ages.

Not a big plus, but the lady seemed to be available, and she didn’t have that gold digger look in her eye. No self-respecting gold digger would get anywhere near that run-down apartment.

But she was kind of cool, even though she was a horrible dancer. Her hair was a nice sort of curly, which Ariel liked. And boy, could she cook. Didn’t they say that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach?

Whatever, Ariel had to get this taken care of.

Miranda’s journal entries were getting weirder. She had gone from just drawing big teardrops all over a blank page to writing Life Sucks! And now she had moved on to I Hate Dad. No exclamation mark. Strangely, an exclamation mark would have made Ariel feel better about it. An exclamation mark meant emotion. Miranda’s journal didn’t seem to have an ounce of emotion in it anymore.

Ariel knew from experience that the clock was ticking before her sister did something stupid.

She wasn’t sure how she would hold on if another bad thing happened.

She was done with bad things. Seriously done.

Now she just needed the universe to listen to her.

Six

IF ANYONE HAD TOLD Portia a year ago that the only job she could get in New York City would be as a “hamburger,” she would have laughed and rolled her eyes. Not that she was much of an eye roller. But really? A hamburger? Could anyone with half a brain believe that a woman as smart as her could go from highly regarded Texas political wife to, well, hamburger?

But after two weeks of unsuccessful job hunting, that was exactly what she had done. Or rather, what she had become.

“Shoo!” Portia hissed, waddling down West Seventy-third Street as fast as the hamburger suit allowed, attempting to outpace the pack of little dogs that had escaped their dog walker.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thrown her heart into looking for a job. She had. She’d made calls and sent out résumés, but not a single person had been willing to so much as interview her. Sure, two weeks wasn’t that long in the scheme of things, but her bank account told a different tale. She needed money, sooner rather than later. Robert still hadn’t deposited the settlement in her account, and her savings were evaporating like a reservoir in the middle of a Texas dry spell.

As a result, she had jumped for joy when she received the e-mail from Angus Industries offering her a job in public relations. In hindsight, she should have wondered why they offered her employment without so much as an interview or a phone call. It turned out that Food Industries PR for Angus Industries hadn’t entailed any actual public relations work. Instead, when Portia arrived at the address provided, only a block away from her apartment, she found herself at Burger Boy, where she was handed a rubber hamburger suit and told to direct the public to the fast-food hellhole.

When Portia realized what the job entailed, she wanted to say no. A thousand different ways she should say no flashed through her mind. But her pride had to balance the staggering expense of living in New York. Was it possible that a two-dollar box of cereal in Texas cost five dollars in NYC?

End result?

She had pulled on the burger suit, though no sooner had the manager zipped her up than Portia thought it smelled strange. Mr. Burger Boy had assured her she was imagining things. But as she stood on Columbus Avenue trying to entice passersby with discount coupons, the unseasonably hot fall day beating down on her, the suit began to waft the aroma of charcoal-grilled burgers. Not long after that, the dogs that had been sitting clustered around their dog walker as he talked on his cell phone made a break for it and came after her, leashes flying in the wind, like buzzards sensing fresh kill.

The manager emerged from Burger Boy just long enough to threaten her miserable life if she let one of those dogs take a chunk out of his costume. She had tried to wiggle out of the suit, but the zipper was stuck. When the manager disappeared back inside the shop, she had fled.

Now she waddled down the long block toward home, going as fast as she could. Her hair had gotten loose, curls falling all over her face.

One thing was for sure: This was all her ex-husband’s fault. Well, her husband and her ex-friend Sissy LePlante. Portia swung along as fast as she could, her mind full of revenge fantasies—all of them involving skewering, grilling, or butchering. Hamburger related.

She was only two town houses away from her apartment when she realized that one dog was still following her. “Damnation!” she yelped, swatting at the pesky Jack Russell terrier leaping at her side, vibrating with excitement as he tried to get a piece of one of the two faux meat patties circling her waist. The only thing that kept the terrier from true success was that it kept getting tangled in its trailing leash.

Her husband thought she was a pushover? Right. Portia swung around and met the dog’s eye. “Go home!” she thundered.

He squeaked, tucked his leg between his legs, and tore off.

“Ha!” she chirped, swinging back around.

Straight ahead, she could see the thick green trees of Central Park at the end of the long tunnel formed by apartment buildings. Pedestrians, locals and tourists alike, got out of her way. No one, not even the hard-core New Yorkers who had given her nothing but grief since she’d moved to town, were going to mess with Portia Cuthcart in a burger suit, a murderous light in her eyes.

Finally, she made it to the town house. All she had to do was get inside her apartment, find a knife, and cut the burger right off her body before she suffocated or melted.

She barreled up the front steps and through the thankfully, if surprisingly, open front door into the building’s small vestibule. Momentum and velocity squeezed her through the opening, the sound of thick rubber against the door seal like a beach ball being rubbed to a squeal.

But if bad things come in threes—one, the burger suit, two, the dogs—then number three had to be the cherry on top … or the garnish on the burger. The very neighbor she had been working to avoid was in the vestibule, now crowded into a corner, his daughter on the opposite side.

Even plastered against the wall, Gabriel Kane made awareness slide along her skin.

“Oh, hello, Ariel,” she stated, her smile forced. “Mr. Kane.” What wouldn’t she have given to be dressed in a fabulous little dress rather than ten pounds of rubber.

“This is a surprise,” he replied, not looking one bit happy. “Though it explains where you’ve been every time I’ve stopped by to meet with you.”

Awareness, indeed. Sheez. How many times did she have to remind herself that he was an arrogant New Yorker who wanted something from her, though not anything that had to do with shivers of awareness. “That’s me. A regular busy beaver.”

His eyes widened fractionally. It didn’t take a genius to guess he wasn’t a man used to people snapping at him. But after a second, a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You mean, a busy burger.”

Portia glared at him. “Ha-ha.”

His reluctant half smile ticked up a notch. Heat rushed through her, the kind of heat that had nothing to do with the layers of the thick rubber suit, which just made her all the angrier.

The man wasn’t good looking in any classical sense, and never mind his broad shoulders, dark hair, and darker eyes. His features were rough-hewn in contrast to the quality of the suit he wore.

Portia hated his perfect suit.

On the other hand … that imperfect face? Lust. Even wrapped in a hamburger suit, she couldn’t miss the flash of non-rubber-induced heat rushing down her body. Yep, pure lust.

I’m attracted to men who are kind and quietly intelligent, she told herself. Men who had sandy blond hair and light blue eyes, who held doors for ladies, and made liberal use of words like please and thank you.

The type of men who were stupid enough to run off with their wife’s best friend.

“Do you work for Five Guys?” Ariel asked. “That’s my favorite. If I was going to be a burger, I’d totally work for them.”

Gabriel raised one of those dark brows. “How is it in the competitive world of burgers?”

The book about courtesy her mother stole from the library was hard to set aside, even north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Portia drew a deep breath, fought for a polite smile, and said, “I was hired as a … representative of Burger Boy, not Five Guys. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get out of your way.”

But when she tried to move to the smaller door leading down to her apartment, she realized she wasn’t going to fit. Momentum had gotten her through the wider door. Nothing short of a good hard shove was going to get her through the other one.

Gabriel’s raised brow raised a little bit more.

Damn, damn, damn.

“Need some help?” he asked.

What Portia would have given to be able to say “No need to bother your little ol’ self,” flip her hair, and sashay off. But just as she had never been much of an eye roller, she had never been good at hair flipping or sashaying either. That was Olivia’s department.

“Bless your heart. Maybe a tiny push,” she conceded.

“‘Bless your heart’?”

“Just give me a push,” she practically growled at him.

It took more than a tiny push to get her levered down the stairs without pitching headfirst like an overlarge bowling ball. While Gabriel angled her down the steps, Ariel called out if he started to make a move that would have her tumbling. But then they came to a grinding halt with Portia only halfway down the steps.

“We’re stuck,” Gabriel ground out.

“Hold on!” Ariel said, shoving her shoulder into the burger suit and flailing around underneath, trying to get a better look. “Found it! The lettuce is caught on the banister.”

It wasn’t bad enough that her husband had come home and announced out of the blue that he was divorcing her. Or that her former friend Sissy was now living in the house Portia had worked so hard to make a home. No, she had to get stuck in a burger suit and be manhandled down a stairwell by the kind of man who made her want to forget she was a lady. She really was going to kill her ex-husband, right along with the Burger Boy manager.

Gabriel and Ariel managed to get Portia to her apartment door, but then she came to a halt again. She stood on her toes, trying to see over the burger suit, then didn’t bother to swallow back a curse. Not even a good Texas woman should have to live through this humiliation.

“A problem?” Gabriel asked, his tone utterly even. But he was grinning. She could just imagine him having a wonderful time telling all his sophisticated New York friends about the hamburger who lived downstairs. Though it hit her with surprising certainty that this wasn’t a man who told tales out of school. In fact, she felt equally certain he was a man who didn’t surround himself with friends at all, or even confidants.

Never having imagined she’d be wearing a burger suit, she had forgotten all about how she planned to get back inside. “Thankfully, I keep a key under the mat.”

His grin flatlined and his brows slammed together. “You keep a key under the mat? In New York City?”

Portia’s eyes narrowed. She’d had it. With him. With life. With this whole damned employment disaster. “Last I heard, burgers don’t carry handbags.”

Ariel gave a snort of laughter, which earned her a glare as well. “Go upstairs,” he snapped.

“What did I do this time?”

“Upstairs.”

It took a second, but Ariel stamped her way back up the stairs into the vestibule, then slammed the door to their apartment.

When Gabriel finally got Portia through her door, she waddled with determination over to the kitchen and managed to pluck the sharpest knife out of the drawer. With the grace of a sumo wrestler, she lifted the blade high like a samurai on the verge of seppuku. But before Portia could plunge the knife deep into the rubber bun, Gabriel was on her, grabbing her wrist and twisting it so that the knife skittered across the cracked linoleum floor. “Are you insane?” he demanded.

Her mouth fell open, then closed, then open again as if mimicking the very pedestrians who had gaped at her when she barreled down the sidewalk, a pack of yapping minidogs behind her.

“I’m not trying to kill myself, you, you … you!”

Quick comebacks had never been her strong suit.

“I am not trying to hurt myself,” she said, enunciating each syllable. “The zipper’s stuck. I have to cut myself out of this thing.”

Gabriel fell back a step, and started to say something.

“No more sarcastic comments or weird assumptions,” she snapped icily. “Just get me the knife.” She wasn’t feeling icy, though. Gabriel’s eyes had changed. He wasn’t looking at her waist—or her lack of one, given the suit—he was looking at her mouth.

Portia’s heart sped up.

He didn’t retrieve the knife. He turned her around, his hands impersonal. But when he jerked the zipper, it wouldn’t budge. “Bend over and hold on,” he said, pointing to the counter.

Portia turned slightly to look at him over her shoulder and glowered.

“Please?” he added as an afterthought.

Murder, she decided, was too good for Robert after putting her in this situation.

With a low growl, she shook her hair back, trying to get her curls out of her face again. Then she bent over.

But nothing happened.

She tried to glance behind her again. “The zipper? You? Working it?” She gave a scoffing laugh.

“You know, Ms. Cuthcart,” Gabriel said, surprising her because suddenly he was so close his lips nearly touched her ear. “Once I get you out of this contraption, if I ever lean you over anything again, you won’t be laughing.”

Even in this damned burger suit a pulse of awareness shot between them that could have set all that rubber on fire.

Portia swallowed, then forced herself to roll her eyes, not that he could see. It was that or beg him to throw her over whatever he pleased the minute he managed to get her burger-free.

“Men always think that women never laugh at their technique,” she managed. “I can assure you that you’re all wrong.”

She felt him stiffen, and then he burst out laughing. “God, you’re a piece of work.”

Before she could come up with a fitting response, Gabriel gave a good hard yank and the zipper came free.

The ceiling fan whirled above, and as soon as the burger fell open into two parts, she drew in a ragged breath, turning around. “Oh, my Lord, that feels good,” she breathed.

She tugged at the suit, but he had to help before her arms popped out. Her little white tank top was damp with sweat and clung to every curve she had.

Glancing up, she saw his eyes had darkened again, as if he wanted to peel the rest of the burger right off of her. And not in a helpful Boy Scout kind of way.

Portia had been divorced only a little over a month, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had sex. Not that her ex-husband suffered a similar fate. He’d had plenty of sex, with Sissy. The only person not having sex in her marriage was her.

Everything around them evaporated. The sounds of traffic. The thoughts of outrageously expensive groceries she couldn’t afford. Even her ex-husband and ex–best friend’s betrayal seemed distant.

Gabriel reached out, but he dropped his hand just before touching her. “What kind of a woman goes around in a burger suit?” he asked, his tone quiet.

She told herself to step away, but couldn’t. “The kind who’s looking for gainful employment.”

“So you’ll stoop to anything tossed your way?”

She stiffened, the mood sharp again. “No, not just anything. I turned down the position of Hot Dog, complete with an ‘Eat Me’ sign.”

His features hardened before suddenly he shook his head and the side of his mouth quirked up. “You’re impossible.” He reached for her again. “Come on, let’s get you out of this.”

“I can do it.”

He stepped back and raised a brow.

She struggled with the rubber before he pushed her hands aside, gently this time. She looked at him for a second, the air around them charged; then she gave in. As he started tugging the suit away, his gaze held hers, until finally he focused. In seconds he had sprung her free.

Thankfully, she was wearing some of Evie’s old leggings. She wilted back against the counter, his eyes traveling down her body and then back up to her face.

“You need water,” he said finally.

“I’m fine.”

He went to the cabinet anyway, found a glass, and filled it from the tap. “Drink.”

She felt too exhausted to do anything. “I’m fine, really.”

“Portia.” Just that, his tone warning.

She didn’t know if it was the way he said her name or the way his voice settled deep in his chest, but suddenly she felt emotional. Suddenly everything was too much. She took the water and sipped.

“All of it,” he stated, but softly.

The words ran along her senses, and he didn’t take his eyes off her until she did as she was told. As soon as she was done, he took the glass from her hands, his fingers brushing against hers, and put it on the counter. Then he looked at her as if searching for something, just as he had that first day she saw him when she was sitting on the front steps. After a second, not seeming to find the answer, or maybe just not liking the one he found, he reached out and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “You should eat something, then take a cool shower.”

He stood close, and with her back against the counter, there was nowhere for her to go. She realized she wanted to sink into this man, and probably would have. There were moments in life, she had heard about, when a person finds where they are meant to be. She had thought that was the case with the knowing. Then again with Robert. And both times the feeling had been proven wrong. But there was something about this man, in this place, that made her feel like a parched traveler stumbling out of the desert and finding a cool sea.

“Who are you really?” she asked without thinking.

But just then his cell phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen.

“I’ve got to take this.” He ran his gaze over her, yet again assessing. “Then we need to talk.”

He retucked that same errant curl behind her ear that had sprung free again, and smiled, seeming amused, then headed for the door.

“You with the talking,” she managed, a bit of her old self returning. “Next you’ll be asking to do facials and braid my hair.”

He gave a surprised laugh before he shook his head and kept going.

“Just so you know, there’s nothing to talk about!” she called after him. “Especially not the apartment. The only thing I’m prepared to sell is this burger suit, but it’s seen better days.”

His rumbling laughter was shut off by the closing door.

Seven

ARIEL’S SOCIAL STUDIES teacher droned on.

Mr. Wickman was old—ancient, really. Probably forty. He was tall, thin as a rail, and had one eye that drooped. The kids called him Wink. Ariel hated that, hated how mean the kids could be. But she hated Mr. Wickman’s assignment even more.

A report on ancestry.

Ariel got it. No sense belaboring a topic that had been massively boring the first time around. The last thing she wanted to do, on top of writing in a journal, was poke around in her family history. Yeah, right, she could see that.

Hey, Dad, tell me about Mom and her family.

When pigs flew, maybe.

A better topic was Portia downstairs. Ariel still laughed every time she thought of her barreling into the building dressed as a hamburger and practically squeezing the life out of them. Even more amazing, it was the first time Ariel had seen her dad smile in, like, forever. Granted, he swallowed it back before it took hold. But she’d seen it.

Whatever. It was a good sign. The only way to tell for sure if Portia could distract Dad was to have her over for dinner. Ariel had read on the Internet that you could tell a lot about a person by the way they ate. Did they throw salt over their shoulder if they spilled something? Did they chew with their mouth open? Did they tuck their napkin under their chin instead of putting them in their lap?

She was pretty sure Portia would pass the test, because she was smart and funny. Plus there was the whole she can cook thing. If she invited Portia to dinner and asked her to bring a cake, even if the dinner turned out to be a train wreck, they’d at least get a dessert out of the deal.

The only problem was that Ariel knew if she mentioned dinner to her dad, he’d never say yes. So really, why ask? On top of that, she had to do something, and fast. That morning she’d found a new guy’s name written all over Miranda’s journal.

Dustin

Dustin Ferris

Mrs. Dustin Ferris

Miranda was kind of young to be thinking Mrs. Anything. Hadn’t she heard about being a feminist, breaking glass ceilings, and keeping her own name? But it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Miranda liked some new guy named Dustin. Which explained why her mood was getting better. Though if their dad found out about it, things would get a whole lot worse.

That was an even better reason to haul Portia upstairs and make her join them for dinner. Miss Potentially Bonkers Burger couldn’t be worse than another Family Night of Miranda ignoring Dad, and Dad pointedly not ignoring Miranda.

Ariel bolted out of class feeling better despite the fact that she had to find a way to dig around in her family tree without anyone in her family knowing. She had a plan to distract her dad.

As soon as Ariel got home, she wrote out the invitation.

Dear Portia,

You are totally invited to dinner.

Tomorrow night with the Kane Family.

7 P.M.

Don’t be late.

Your upstairs neighbor,

Ariel Kane

P.S. Feel free to bring a cake.

Eight

PORTIA STOPPED DEAD with the urge to bake a cake.

The need hit her hard and strong, surprising her. She hadn’t woken to, or felt a single stab of knowing since she’d made the meal that first day in the apartment. But the image of that same chocolate cake she had woken to that day circled through her, making it difficult to breathe.

“Control, Portia,” she whispered. “You’re in control of your life now. Not Robert. And certainly not the knowing.”

Despite the hamburger debacle, not to mention her dwindling bank account, she felt freer than she had in years. For the first time ever, she was living her own life. For the first time, she wasn’t at the mercy of things she couldn’t control. The money situation had to be solved, sure, but that didn’t negate the fact that she felt alive.

Her walks through the streets of New York amazed her that she lived here. She didn’t care that she made solemn-faced neighbors scurry away from her wide Texas smiles. “I am here!” she wanted to shout. She was making a new and fabulous life! Or would! Hope made her buoyant.

She had managed to avoid Gabriel for another two days, but obviously it wasn’t going to last. Based on his repeated comments about the conversation they needed to have, she figured the man’s lawyer hadn’t given a good enough explanation as to why she had backed out of the sale.

But she should have known that no explanation left on an answering machine would be good enough. Gabriel Kane wasn’t the sort of man who ever gave up. If he wanted something, he would take it. She had figured that out the day she saw him from the front steps.

Just as with the other aspects of her life, she had to take control of this, too, and make it clear why she couldn’t sell. So when the dinner invitation slid under her door, she decided it was time to address the situation head-on.

She reread the invitation, then felt a surge of surprised worry when she noticed the mention of cake. But she pushed that aside, too.

Instead, she focused on what she had been meaning to do since she had slipped through the front door. Clean.

Before fleeing to New York, she hadn’t seen the apartment in years. During the first month she had been in Manhattan, she had stayed with Cordelia in her fancy Central Park West duplex apartment and had been too consumed with loss to give any thought to what she would do next or where she would live long-term. But after that month of staying with her sister, she had been hit with the certainty that she couldn’t stay with Cordelia and her husband any longer. With that thought she knew exactly where she would go. Great-aunt Evie’s garden apartment.

Standing in the apartment now, Portia took in the dark draperies and grime. The apartment flowed back to French doors that opened onto the garden, which sat a few steps up in the rear. The kitchen was rustic, with a cast-iron stove, a sink, an ancient refrigerator, and an old stone fireplace that Portia couldn’t imagine had been used in years, if not decades. The slate floor in the entry and the hardwood throughout the rest of the apartment were murky and scuffed, uneven in places. The bathroom was dingy, but had a beautiful antique ball-and-claw tub. Portia felt sure there was potential.

She unearthed cleaning supplies from the kitchen cabinet and got to work. She pulled every stick of furniture out into the back garden. She rolled up all the rugs and dragged them out, too. Once the apartment was empty, she tied a scarf over her nose and took down the dusty curtains she planned to wash. She swept down the exposed-brick walls and hardwood floors, and even found a hand broom to tackle the fireplace.

When she finished and looked around, sweat rolling down her back and streaking her face, nothing looked any cleaner than when she had started.

So she started over, this time with hot water, Clorox, rags, and a mop. She scrubbed everything in sight until her hands were raw and red. By the end of the day, she was covered in grime and soot, her hair a tangle. But when she drifted off to sleep, the apartment was clean, and she had a deep sense that for whatever reason, she had come home.

The next morning, she woke with a groan. Every bone in her body ached. But when she glanced around and saw what she had accomplished, excitement drummed through her. She also thought of the dinner invitation. Though she shouldn’t have been, she was excited about that, too.

She gave a thought to giving in and making the cake herself, then pushed it away. She hurried out to purchase the least-expensive dessert she could find. Once she had that taken care of, she resorted to her great-aunt’s closet again. She found a fabulous pair of long, flowing, gray flannel, pinstriped pants with wide cuffs by Yves Saint Laurent, and a simple cotton blouse made in Paris as well. Then at five minutes before seven that evening, Portia headed upstairs with the cake.

Inside the vestibule, next to the front door, a series of work permits had been posted. Portia hadn’t been in New York City long, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that her neighbor was in the process of renovating the rest of the town house.

Out of habit, she knocked. In all the years she and her sisters had spent summers with Aunt Evie, the doorbell had never worked. When no one answered, she knocked again, this time more loudly. Eventually Ariel peeked out the curtain over the side window. “What are you doing just standing there?” Ariel asked, pulling open the door.

“I knocked.”

“Haven’t you heard of a doorbell?”

The girl looked at Portia like she was crazy, popping out and pressing the button like a game show hostess demonstrating how to spin the wheel. Bells sounded, a sign that the new owner wasn’t content with broken stuff.

Portia felt an odd feeling of displacement at the thought, as if the work permits and new doorbell meant her old life was really gone. Which was ridiculous. Her husband divorcing her had put that particular pony to bed, not a stranger remodeling her great-aunt’s former home.

“My great-aunt used to live here,” Portia said, distracted. “Back then, the doorbell was broken.”

“Seriously? Someone you know used to live here?”

“Yes, my great-aunt,” Portia repeated, walking farther into the town house.

The structure was the same, but nothing else. The entire inside had been gutted and refurbished. The old Victorian wallpaper was gone, stripped, the walls redone with a bright white textured plaster. Portia shouldn’t have missed the water stains shaped like butterflies and dragons, but she did.

The carpet had been pulled up, the wood underneath refinished and covered with Oriental rugs. Expensive art hung above expensive furniture. Everything was perfectly done, and in the back of Portia’s head she knew it was beautiful. But that was way back in her head, pushed aside by the fact that the work she had done in her own apartment suddenly felt inadequate compared to this. Glumly, she noted that one of the man’s rugs could no doubt have paid for an entire year’s worth of property taxes that Portia now had to figure out how to pay.

“Where’s your aunt now?” Ariel asked.

“She died. A few years back.” The words came out more abruptly than Portia intended. She thought for a second that Ariel flinched, but then the girl rolled her eyes.

“Was she old?”

“Yes, but very lively and dear. She left the building to my sisters and me. My sisters sold the upper floors to your dad.”

“So that’s why you’re in the basement. I take it she didn’t like you as much as the others.”

Portia laughed. “She left me the garden apartment, not a basement. She knew I love gardens.”

“My mom’s dead,” Ariel said. “Like your aunt. But my mom wasn’t old.” She turned away as if she hadn’t said anything all that important.

It took Portia a second to absorb the words. Was that why she felt a connection to Ariel when she barely knew her? Did girls who had lost mothers have a hidden bond?

“That looks like a store-bought cake,” Ariel said, shifting gears before Portia could respond.

“It is.”

“You were supposed to bring one of those amazing cakes you make yourself.”

Ariel gaped. “You did both the other night.”

“Sorry. That was then. This is now.”

Ariel’s shoulders slumped. But then she drew an exaggerated breath. She shrugged. “I can only do so much.”

Portia followed the girl toward the back of the house. Unless there had been major structural changes, Portia knew they were coming to the sunroom, her favorite part of the house.

But it wasn’t the room that she saw. It was Gabriel.

“Damn it, Dan, that isn’t acceptable,” he said into a cell phone. “I’ve told you, I’m not going to relent. Make them pay.”

He stood with his back to them, looking out the tall windows, phone pressed to his ear. Everything about him felt barely controlled, hardly contained. Without warning, he turned and saw her.

The dark of his eyes grew intense as his gaze met hers before it slowly drifted over her.

“You remember our neighbor, Daddy,” Ariel said, sweet as pie, emphasis on the word Daddy.

Portia hadn’t seen him since the burger incident three days ago, and he seemed to take her in, assessing to determine if she was fine.

She scowled at the memory of the incident, which made him raise a brow, his lips quirking.

A voice squawked anxiously from the phone he was holding. “I’m here,” he said smoothly, seeming reluctant to turn away. But eventually he did, concentrating on the call.

Ariel leaned close. “I use the whole Daddy thing to soften him up. For some reason, he likes it. Go figure.” She cocked her head. “Come on. Let’s put that store-bought cake in the kitchen.”

Portia followed Ariel through a swinging door and into the kitchen. The heat of the oven hit her along with the bright yellow and white walls, white trim and crown molding. The kitchen had been redone as well, but instead of making it into something different, it had become a newer version of its old self. She had to concede she loved it.

An older woman stood at the wide granite counter, making a salad. She didn’t say hello or glance up.

“Come on,” Ariel said, taking the cake and setting it on the counter, then herding Portia through another swinging door into the dining room. “That’s Gerta, and she hates being interrupted. Dad hasn’t had very good luck finding housekeepers. We should wait in here.”

But before Portia could do anything like question, sit, or bolt for the front door, Gabriel walked into the room. Heat filled her like milk and honey coming to a slow boil. Truth to tell, she felt nervous, what with her promising herself to deal head-on with this man regarding the apartment, and nervous was bad.

He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, arms crossed on his chest. “So,” he said.

“So?” she countered.

“What’s with the outfit?”

She looked him up and down. “People don’t really call clothes outfits anymore, at least not guys.” She considered him for a moment. “Take that, combined with the whole obsession-with-talking thing, and I have to ask: Is your favorite color pink? Have you ever worn tight jeans and cuffed them at the hem with loafers and no socks? No, wait; have you ever worn man clogs?”

His lips twitched. “Hardly. Never. And no. But you, on the other hand, look like you just stepped out of Saturday Night Fever.”

“I was going more for Annie Hall. Same year. Smarter movie.”

Ariel looked traumatized, as if she couldn’t imagine how or where this type of conversation was coming from. Portia shook the sarcasm free. She drummed up a good, if strained, Texas smile. And Ariel grew visibly relieved. Gabriel just looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“What’s going on?” An older, more put-together version of Ariel walked in. She had to be the older daughter Ariel had mentioned.

Unlike her younger sister, this one’s light brown hair was long and straight, and she had grown into her eyes and mouth. She wore a lime green T-shirt tucked into a short, fitted denim skirt that flared around her thighs, and multicolored tennis shoes with a wedged heel. “Nana’s here,” she said. She looked Portia up and down. “Who are you?”

“She’s our new neighbor,” Ariel supplied dejectedly.

Miranda gave her a once-over, then shrugged. “Cool clothes.”

Portia shot Gabriel a triumphant smile.

Footsteps resounded from behind Miranda’s shoulder. “Where is everyone?”

A woman of about sixty-five walked into the kitchen. Beautiful and elegantly put together, she seemed like a woman who was used to commanding attention. “There you are. Miranda, I saw you walk by without opening the door, which was astonishingly rude. I had to use my key. Gabriel, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t let these girls run roughshod over you.”

“As if that were possible,” Miranda muttered.

The woman shot a pointed look at Gabriel, but a clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen interrupted.

The woman started to say something, but then she saw Portia. “Oh, I didn’t realize we had company.” As if she weren’t a guest. “I’m Helen Kane. Gabriel’s mother.”

“Hi, I’m Portia Cuthcart. I live downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Yet another person who gave Portia a once-over. “I thought the apartment was empty,” Helen continued. “Have you lived there long?”

“No, not long. My great-aunt used to own the building and left it to me and my sisters.” Portia knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

Helen turned to her son. “I thought you were buying it for Anthony.”

“Mother, I’m handing this.”

“Gabriel, don’t tell me you didn’t go through with the deal. I know you don’t want Anthony here, but I won’t forgive you if you decided against buying the garden level just to keep him away.”

“Mother, enough.”

The woman composed herself with effort, turning back to Portia, who felt more uncomfortable than ever.

“Do you have people here, dear?” the woman finally asked. “Friends. Family. I’m sure there are plenty of places you’d rather live than downstairs in the godforsaken apartment.”

Portia didn’t know what to think or do. Clearly it wasn’t going to be as easy to explain not selling as she had hoped. “My sisters are here.”

“How lovely. Family really is the most important thing.” Helen said the words with more emphasis than necessary, turning back to Gabriel. “Where is your brother?”

If possible, Gabriel’s expression grew even more guarded. “I told you, Mother, he isn’t coming. We both know that Anthony only shows up when he needs money. Another reason why he doesn’t need me to buy him an apartment that he won’t spend time in.”

“That’s not true. He’s coming.” Her voice rose. “He promised.”

Miranda’s head shot up, fingers stilling on her iPhone, eyes brightening with excitement. “Uncle Anthony is coming?”

Gabriel opened his mouth, but his mother cut him off. “Yes, he is. He’s coming to town and he promised he’d arrive by dinner.” The grandmother shot Gabriel a glare. “When he arrives, he’ll be staying with me, for obvious reasons.”

“Dinner,” the cook announced.

“We need to wait,” Helen Kane said, rummaging around in her Chanel bag until she found a cell phone.

“Mother, how many times has Anthony said he’s coming to town, then failed to show up?” Gabriel refocused on Portia. “Thank you for stopping by,” he said. “Ariel, show Ms. Cuthcart to the door?”

Portia blinked.

“Dad,” Ariel interjected, “I told you, we invited her to dinner.”

Gabriel stared at his younger daughter, irritation riding across his face. “No, you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t? Oops, bad me.”

“Ariel, doesn’t your father know that you invited me to dinner?”

Ariel wrinkled her nose. “Not exactly.”

Just great. “I’ll go.”

“You can’t! You brought a cake. Dad, you can’t kick her out after she brought us a cake.”

“Way to be polite, Dad,” Miranda said.

Was that a hint of desperation in his eyes?

Gabriel ran his hand through his hair. “Sorry for the confusion. Please. Join us.”

“Really, I—”

Ariel grabbed Portia’s arm and pulled her toward a chair. Without jerking away, there wasn’t much she could do.

The dining room had been transformed into a breezy space. Billowing lightweight curtains framed French doors leading to a Juliet balcony. It was beautiful, in a picture-perfect magazine sort of way. But there was nothing personal about it.

“Nice, huh?” Ariel said.

“Absolutely lovely!” She might have added too much enthusiasm in an attempt to cover up a real lack of it.

Gabriel raised a brow, but didn’t comment.

Helen Kane managed to delay the meal for another ten minutes waiting for her other son, but finally gave in when Gabriel pointed out that Anthony was already forty-five minutes late. The family sat in silence as they were served a meal of tough beef tenderloin, overdone asparagus, underdone potatoes, wilted salad, and slices of plain white bread.

Portia thought of her own grandmother, of the cookbooks, of the knowledge that charred beef would fill a person with heated anger. The last thing this family needed was more anger.

Miranda’s phone rang, and she started to answer.

“What did I tell you about phone calls at dinner?”

“But, Dad!”

“No buts.”

Miranda glared.

Gabriel pretended not to notice. Ariel sighed. The grandmother kept looking toward the door.

This family was unhappy. This family needed food—light, nutritious meals. Happy food. Menus rushed unbidden through Portia’s head. A fluffy quiche. Arugula salad with a light balsamic dressing.

The thought surprised Portia, and she pushed this one away, too.

Miranda glared. “You’re a terrible dad, you know? Nobody I know has to put up with this stupid stuff at home.”

Portia opened her mouth, and closed it again. Gabriel’s face closed, his eyes expressionless. Helen raised a brow much like her son did so often.

“Hey, Dad?” Ariel said, breaking the silence. “I think you’re doing a great job.”

Apparently the task of peacemaking had fallen to Ariel.

The tense silence was interrupted when the doorbell rang.

“That’s him!” Helen lit up like a Christmas tree.

Miranda bolted from the table and dashed to the door.

“Uncle Anthony!” rang through the town house.

Portia heard a deep voice laugh and footsteps headed their way. Helen stood. For his part, Gabriel remained seated at the head of the table, his jaw visibly tight. But as his brother entered the room, he rose to greet him as if ingrained manners took over.

The man who entered couldn’t have been more different from his brother. It wasn’t that they didn’t look alike; they did. They had the same dark hair and dark eyes, the same set to their jaw. But something about the way Anthony Kane’s features came together made him seem like light to Gabriel’s dark—Beauty to the Beast.

Gabriel extended his hand. Anthony smiled and pulled his brother in for a bear hug.

When they stepped apart, Portia saw that Gabriel’s face hadn’t eased.

Anthony just laughed, and turned to his mother. Helen Kane looked as if she was on the verge of tears.

“It’s about time you noticed your mother,” she said, opening her arms.

Portia watched as Anthony pulled his mother into another fierce hug, then set her at arm’s length. “God, you are the best-looking woman I’ve seen in a long time.” He actually twirled her around, like two dancers on a stage.

Then, suddenly, the force of Anthony’s attention turned to her.

“Hello there, beautiful. Who are you?”

Portia felt Ariel’s surprised glance, Helen’s narrowed-eye glare, even something decidedly tense coming from Gabriel. But no one introduced her.

“I’m Portia Cuthcart,” she offered. “I live downstairs.”

Anthony took Portia’s hand and lifted it dramatically in the air. “Oh, to have a neighbor like you,” he said, his eyes laughing. He leaned down to kiss the backs of her fingers.

“Good Lord, Anthony,” Helen said. “I can see you haven’t lost any charm while you were away.” She sounded both jealous and proud.

“I wouldn’t call it charm.”

Gabriel hadn’t moved, but Portia felt his tension settle into something deeper, more nuanced as he said the words.

Anthony dropped into a chair next to his mother. He snatched up the woman’s hand and peppered kisses up to her wrist, making her scoff and bat him about the head.

What would it be like, Portia wondered, to be the less-favored child? She felt an instant desire to defend Gabriel. Then she shook the thought away. If anyone in this room needed protecting, it definitely wasn’t Gabriel Kane.

“You can’t believe how good it is to be back in the States, sitting at a real table, eating civilized food,” Anthony said, his lightning-quick attention span shifting to the serving dishes in front of him. After a closer look, he made a face. “Two out of three isn’t bad.”

“Where’ve you been, Uncle Anthony?” Miranda asked.

“Here and there,” he said, serving himself a plate. “Mostly there.”

Miranda giggled, though Ariel’s face stayed as expressionless as her father’s.

Anthony glanced at his brother. “You’d hate the places I’ve been. We never know when we’re going to get shot at. No showers for days. We spend weeks hiking to where we need to be. No cushy Easy Street for us.”

If Portia hadn’t met either man and she’d had to guess which one lived a less civilized life, it would have been Gabriel.

“What do you do?” Portia asked.

Gabriel glanced at his brother. “Yes, Anthony, what do you do?”

Anthony ignored his brother. “I’m a writer. I’ve done a bunch of work for newspapers.”

“Yes, like The Alliance Sun and The Waco Citizen,” Gabriel interjected.

Anthony glared, but then shrugged. “Right now I’m working on a book proposal.”

Gabriel began sawing at the leathery meat on his plate. “Translation: He’s out of a job.”

Anthony’s jaw set.

Ariel jumped in. “Speaking of jobs, Dad! Did you know that Portia is a cook?”

Anthony stabbed one of the rock-hard potatoes and waved it in the air. “Maybe you should hire her to cook for you, given the bang-up job you’re doing as ‘Mr. Mom.’”

Gabriel looked him in the eye. “Maybe you should worry about finding your own job.”

“Me? I’ll get a job. But, frankly, I’m in no hurry.”

“Interesting. I assumed the only reason you showed up this time was because you were broke.”

Anthony glared right back at his brother. “Turns out, I’m about to come into some money,” he said coolly.

“Really?” Gabriel asked. “Then you signed the documents?”

“What documents?” Helen demanded.

Anthony’s easy smile returned. “I haven’t signed a thing yet, big brother. I’ve got to make sure I’m getting the best deal.”

The tension that had wound around Gabriel like a rope pulled tight.

Anthony turned to his mother. “But let me tell you, I’ve lucked into the most amazing opportunity. It’s a deal that helps the environment and promises to pay back investors tenfold. All I need is five grand.”

The light in Helen’s eyes visibly dimmed, and Portia knew with a sinking sense of certainty that Anthony had sprung many “deals” on his mother before.

Gabriel opened his mouth, but luckily his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “If you’ll excuse me. I have to take this.” He directed a humorless smile at his brother. “It’s about a real job.” Then he stood up and left the room, saying, “Dan, is the Global deal done?”

Portia wanted nothing more than to hightail it out of Dodge. Apparently the rules regarding no cell phones at the dinner table applied only to adolescents. Which gave her the perfect way out.

“Oh dear, I forgot all about a call I have to take, too.” She hopped to her feet. “This really was lovely, but I have to go. If you’ll excuse me…”

Helen gave her a measured smile, and Anthony a lavish one. Miranda barely looked up from her own cell phone, which she had grabbed the minute Gabriel left the room.

Ariel looked miserable. “Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she said, keeping her tone bright. “You were sweet to invite me. Bye!”

Nine

THE NEXT MORNING, Ariel stared at her open journal, her neat block writing, the consistent Bic pen–blue ink. She always used her blue pen for the journal. All those lines of static blue ink should have made her feel better, but didn’t.

Her family was a mess. But unlike perfect block letters or math problems, there didn’t seem to be any orderly solutions in sight.

She missed her mom in a way that was so big that it constantly wanted to burst out of her. Mom had been so smart, but in a different sort of way. Not math smart, like her, or even money smart, like her dad, but something way more useful really. She knew how to deal with problems. She wouldn’t have come up with some lame plan of getting another woman to distract anyone.

Tears burned in the back of her throat. Not that crying would do any good. During the last year since Mom had died, Ariel had learned that over and over again.

She considered giving up on playing matchmaker between her dad and Portia. No question it was a ridiculous idea, and felt traitorous to her mom. Plus, Portia was weird. The only thing was that there was the whole Portia had made her dad laugh thing when she’d had on that burger suit. Which led Ariel right back to the fact that she didn’t have a better plan.

A few minutes later, Ariel found her dad in the kitchen dressed for work, peering into one of the big pots Gerta normally used to make her awful soup. Bread was toasting in the toaster oven.

“Hey,” Ariel said, coming up beside him. “You’re cooking?” She looked over at the toaster oven, then into the pot, and wrinkled her nose. “What is it?”

“Oatmeal.” He stirred it a few more times, like that would make it edible.

“Where’s Gerta?”

“She quit.”

“Quit?” She stepped back. “Ugh. Dad. That’s totally burned. Can’t you smell it?”

He jerked the pan off the stove, dumped it in the sink, and turned on the water. A sizzle and fog rose when the water hit the pan. Then he yanked the burned bread out of the toaster. By then, Ariel would have bet the whole house smelled liked a campfire cookout gone awry.

Grumbling, her dad opened the refrigerator and pulled out some milk. Then he stuck it on the table with three bowls and a box of cereal.

“Oh, joy, Wheaties.”

Her father scowled at her.

“Miranda!” he bellowed in the general direction of the doorway.

Ariel sat down at the table. “You know, I was serious the other day,” she said, deciding that if there was no other option than the Portia Plan, then there was no time like the present for a Portia Pitch, “about Portia cooking for us. But if you don’t want to hire her outright, have you ever thought of, I don’t know”—she made a show of considering—“dating her?”

He sliced her a look that she could only classify as irritated. “I’m not interested in dating Portia,” he said, pouring milk on her cereal. “As for hiring her, didn’t she say something about not cooking?”

Ariel tried to look serious and pensive. “I happen to know differently. But that’s neither here nor there.”

“Neither here nor there?”

“Dad, seriously? You sound like Miranda. Whatever, we’re talking about Portia. It’s probably good you don’t want to date her.” She nodded, just like the Shrink did whenever she bothered to say something, as if that would encourage her to start yakking away. “Now that she’s had a chance to get to know you, she’d never go out with you, anyway.” Didn’t every man like a challenge?

Unfortunately, other than snort, her dad didn’t take the bait. “I am not dating the woman downstairs.”

“She’s not just any woman. She’s Portia, who can cook regardless of what she says.” She shot him a broad, encouraging smile. “Portia, who could provide your growing daughters with much-needed food, even if she just bought it and brought it home to us.” She dragged the last word out just a hair. “I mean, really, she is looking for a job.”

“Are you suggesting I date a woman for convenience?”

“I’ve heard of worse reasons to ask someone out. In fact, I was watching Jersey Shore—”

“What were you doing watching Jersey Shore?”

“Stay with me, Dad; that isn’t the point.”

“The point is that you shouldn’t be watching cr—” He cut himself off. “Trash. You shouldn’t be watching trash.”

“Does this fall into the category of kid blocks on computers and ‘No, Ariel, you’re too young for a cell phone’? Because, seriously, just think what would happen if I got lost and I didn’t have a cell phone? If I had a cell phone, all I’d have to do is call you and say, ‘Hey, Dad, guess where I am?’” She wrinkled her nose. “Hmm, I guess that wouldn’t work since, given the whole lost thing, I wouldn’t know where I was. Whatever—”

“Not ‘whatever.’” Her dad glared even more. “No twelve-year-old needs a cell phone.”

“You’ve forgotten that I’m almost thirteen, but I won’t mention that since you’re probably sensitive about forgetting things. And, really, Dad, you could do a lot worse than Portia. Her hair is great, for one thing.”

Her dad just shook his head, though Ariel wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was about the way Portia looked. Truthfully, who could blame him? He had seen Portia in all her flowered-Keds-and-strange-clothes glory. Maybe if Ariel figured out how to fix Portia up some, he’d take the bait. Hair, clothes, attitude. But how to make over an adult?

Great. Something else she had to figure out.

She picked up her bowl, set it in the sink, and headed for Trident Prep. But if managing the illogical workings of the standard American family was tricky, three and a half hours later she decided the whole middle-school hierarchy thing was preposterous when she sat at a back lunch table in the school cafeteria and her tiny world erupted in a battlefield of peer pressure and social awkwardness.

It wasn’t like she had been popular in New Jersey or anything, but Ariel was her sister’s sister and she had lived there forever, so people left her alone. But now she was the new girl, and no one had even heard of her sister—who went to a different school anyway. Ariel was on her own. Plus, Mindi Hansen thought she was the head of the world and—no surprise—she couldn’t stand Ariel.

Ariel was sitting by herself doing homework when Mindi came over. “So, uh, Ariel, right?”

“Last I heard.”

Mindi obviously couldn’t take a joke. “What are you?” she demanded, tone biting. “A geek, a nerd, a moron?”

Mindi’s friends all laughed as they walked away.

“Actually,” Ariel muttered to the girls’ backs, “I’m someone who doesn’t need other people’s approval to understand my self-worth.”

Quite frankly, she blamed her dad for what happened next. If he hadn’t made her go to the Shrink, she never would have known anything about self-worth and outside approval.

Mindi froze in her Tory Burch ballet flats. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.” Her heart pounded like a fist on a drum. But because she just never learned, she opened her mouth and added, “There’s no point in repeating it because you’d never understand.”

It was that or give in to the knot of total sad-anger raging inside her—which she had no intention of doing. What would come out? Crying? Disappearing right then and there instead of the slow melting away it felt like she was doing every day?

Mindi leaned closer. “So, Ariel”—saying her name as three long, drawn-out syllables—“where’s your mom?”

The question caught her by surprise.

Mindi tapped a pink nail on her cheek. “Let me see. Is your mom, like, dead?”

Ariel just stared at her.

“And not dead of, like, cancer or something. She wrecked her car driving like a maniac in New Jersey, right?”

Ariel’s mother had died in a car accident, slowly disappearing as she bled out before the ambulance could get there. Ariel knew, because she had been in the car.

“That’s not cool,” one of Mindi’s friends said, grabbing her by the arm. “You’re putting the B in Bitch, girl. Let it go.”

Mindi tossed her hair, smiled, and walked away.

Ten

PORTIA GASPED AWAKE with the taste of apples in her mouth—crisp green apples smothered in brown sugar and spice. She needed to bake.

Lying tangled in the sheets, she tried to calm her racing heart. She tried to write off this urge, too. It was nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction to moving to the Big Apple. But no matter how forcefully she told herself she had stuffed the knowing back down, she realized that she hadn’t. Not really. When she should have smelled bleach and sundried cotton, it was the scent of apples and buttery caramel that swirled in her mind.

The urges to bake and cook were getting stronger, the knowing coming back to life like simple syrup spun into cotton candy.

For those first couple of weeks she had managed to feel alive and carefree. But with every day that passed with her unable to find a real job, the images of food growing more persistent, panic started to grow. The only thing that kept her from a full-blown panic attack was the promise of Robert’s settlement.

Groggy and disoriented, Portia made it out of the bedroom just when Cordelia arrived. Maybe her sister knocked, maybe not, but whatever the case, Cordelia walked right in using her own key, holding her cell phone to her ear with her other hand.

“I’m here. I’ve got to go,” Cordelia said, looking at Portia. “I promise,” she added quickly. “I’ll call as soon as I know anything.” She dropped her phone into her handbag.

Cordelia wore a cream blouse with a camel cashmere sweater tied around her shoulders, camel pants, and brown suede Chanel ballet flats. Her hair was pulled back in a demure twist at the nape of her neck, pearls at her ears. She looked just like a politician’s wife. No politician’s wife would be caught dead in Aunt Evie’s old dress, which Portia was now wearing regularly.

“Who was that?” she asked, trying to pull herself together. She had no interest in letting Cordelia know she was out of sorts.

“Oh, just Olivia.”

“Just Olivia?” Portia sliced her a look. “What do you need to let her know?”

Cordelia waved the words away. “Nothing.” Then she looked around. “My God, you must have worked around the clock.” She brushed past Portia, walking into the kitchen. “The place is still hideous, but at least now it’s clean.”

Cordelia sat down at the table and pulled out a stack of books and two magazines from her shoulder bag. Portia sat down opposite her. Her oldest sister was infamous for the self-help articles and books she distributed like a librarian encouraging a reluctant reader.

“I thought you might like some company,” Cordelia said, setting the assorted reading on the table.

“Did you think I’d be driving myself crazy by now?”

“Something like that.” Cordelia didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. Instead, she pushed the stack across the table.

Portia’s eyebrow flew up. “Bon Appétit? Fine Cooking magazine? Restaurant Management for Dummies?”

With a shrug that didn’t match the determination in her eyes, Cordelia pulled a plastic shopping bag from the tote. “I stopped at the market.”

“How sweet,” Portia said, trying to sound sincere. “But I have more than enough groceries.”

“What do you mean?” Cordelia scoffed. “I bet you hardly have anything in this place. Plus, I brought you a surprise. A present.”

Portia stared as Cordelia began pulling items out of the bags with the efficiency of a nurse preparing an operating room for surgery.

“Remember that fresh apple cake you used to make?”

Portia’s heart practically stilled in her chest.

Cordelia continued, laying out ingredients on the counter. She looked through the window, momentarily distracted. “It made me think about how much I miss The Glass Kitchen. For days now I’ve done nothing but think about that place.”

Portia’s heart surged into her throat. “You hated everything about The Glass Kitchen.”

“I did not. I might have been too young to appreciate it, but I didn’t hate it. But that’s beside the point. I would be over the moon if you’d make me one of your famous apple cakes.”

Portia stared at the ingredients her sister had lined up with perfect precision on the scratched countertop. Apples. Butter. Brown sugar.

Cordelia cocked her head. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Portia said, her voice weak. “It’s just that I’m not in the mood to bake, is all.”

That was a lie. Her fingers itched to dive in, peel, and core, sift the flour, fold in the softened butter and brown sugar. Again and again since moving into the apartment she’d had to ignore her tingling fingertips and the smells of chocolate and vanilla that didn’t really exist. She had thrown every bit of food in the apartment away, and it still hadn’t helped.

“I don’t believe you,” Cordelia said. “You want to bake like nobody’s business. I can see it in your eyes.”

“No.”

It was panic that glittered in her eyes. It was her fingers that wanted to betray her.

But her brain knew the real cost of baking. She didn’t want to be someone who knew things. She didn’t want to sense that something was going to happen and have no idea what that was until it was too late.

The knowing spelled worry and stress and desperately trying to save people. Under no circumstances did she want the stress and uncertainty of the knowing back in her life. “No,” she repeated, determined.

Cordelia sat there, quiet and watchful. After a second, she said, “Just hear me out.”

“Cordelia—”

Cordelia raised her hand, stopping her. “Olivia and I were talking. We want to open a restaurant.”

Portia felt the blood drain from her face.

Cordelia didn’t let up. “A café, really. Something small. A quaint version of, well, The Glass Kitchen. We thought, maybe, you had brought Gram’s cookbooks with you.”

While Portia didn’t want any part of the knowing, she definitely wanted nothing to do with another Glass Kitchen.

“It makes all the sense in the world,” Cordelia continued, with more of that calm efficiency. “And, of course, you’ll do it with us. Olivia and I agree.”

“You and Olivia?” As if that decided everything. Apparently, nothing had changed after the loss of her grandmother, her home, her husband. She was still the little sister to be bossed around.

“Yes, and it will be fabulous—”

“No.”

“Portia, it could be like old times.”

“What has that got to do with old times? You and Olivia weren’t there. You had nothing to do with The Glass Kitchen. You were here, in New York. You—” Portia cut herself off, forcing herself to be calm.

“No,” she reiterated, and to make sure her point was understood, she walked to the front door and opened it. “I have a million things to do.”

Like throw herself back in bed and never get up.

“Just listen.” Cordelia stopped herself and drew a deep breath. After a second, she continued. “If you must know, I haven’t been completely … forthcoming.” She pursed her lips, lines showing age in a way Portia hadn’t noticed before. “The truth is, Olivia and I need a Glass Kitchen.”

Portia studied her. “What do you mean?”

“I need something.” Cordelia said, looking away. “I’d be great running a restaurant with my sisters. I see it so clearly. I see you and me and Olivia creating the sort of place you can’t find in New York. Magical food in a magical space. Gourmand Texas style. How can it not be a huge success?”

“Cordelia, opening a restaurant is a hugely iffy proposition under the best of circumstances, and it’s not like any of us are in a strong position right now.”

Cordelia blushed, surprising Portia even more. Cordelia had always been so sure of herself. But then she pulled her shoulders back and looked Portia in the eye.

“I want to open a Glass Kitchen because it’s my legacy as much as yours. But more than that, James was wrong. Everything isn’t going to be all right. It’s one thing to lose our savings. But James took out a substantial loan against his next bonus—that would be the bonus he won’t receive. Portia, I have to find a way to make money, make a living for my family. And Olivia is no better off than I am, teaching yoga, arranging flowers, or whatever it is she does between boyfriends. She’s spent every dime she made when she sold her part of this place. We need this.”

Portia felt light-headed with worry. Then anger. How many times had she saved her older sisters when they were growing up?

Portia closed her eyes, recalling the time Olivia took a job as a caterer with a mom-and-pop shop that was The Glass Kitchen’s only real competition. As the middle sister, Olivia had been determined to be independent, to prove that she wasn’t reliant upon Gram or Cordelia or even Portia. Portia had been planning the night’s menu when she knew she had to make bouillabaisse—but not for dinner. The next afternoon, when the bouillabaisse was perfect, with loaves of French bread just done, Olivia flew in through the back door of the Kitchen.

“I promised the mayor’s wife I could cater a French meal for her party tonight. I promised it would be great! But everything I’ve made is a disaster.”

Portia stood silently as Olivia glanced over at the old cast-iron stove and took a deep breath. “I have to have it, Portia,” she said. She didn’t need to be told the answer to her dilemma was in the pot.

Now Portia stood in the small apartment in New York City, Cordelia in front of her again, tension thick in the room.

“Yes, but remember the strawberry preserves?” Cordelia said quietly, as if she were reading Portia’s mind.

Of course she remembered. She couldn’t forget any of it. The bad. The good. She remembered the strawberries, could smell them as if they were sitting in front of her on the counter. It had been a day when she and her sisters had argued. Afterward, all Portia could think about was making strawberry preserves. She had ended up making a huge vat of the preserves only to realize she didn’t have anything to can them in. Cordelia and Olivia had shown up with boxes of Ball jars they’d gotten at a yard sale for a penny apiece. They had ladled in tense silence, filling jars, setting them aside to cool, much as their tempers cooled.

Once they were done, without a word of apology, Olivia had smiled with that impudent glint of hers, and pulled Portia and Cordelia into a dance. Then they took the preserves to an outdoor flea market and made enough money to pay for the dress Cordelia needed for her wedding to James.

The knowing had provided the bridge back to each other, a way for Olivia to keep her job, a way for Cordelia to pay for a dress she couldn’t afford. Some of the few times the knowing worked for good, when it made Portia’s world better, rather than signaling a loss to come.

“I love James,” Cordelia said now. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help him. But I need help. Olivia needs help. And, sweetie, so do you.”

That had always been the way with the Cuthcart sisters. Fighting, furious, but unable to live without one another.

Portia hesitated. “Tell me this, Cord. Do you really want to open a café, or is it that you don’t know what else to do?”

Cordelia answered. “Both. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, you might not have been betrayed by your husband if you hadn’t been suppressing who you really are? Did it ever occur to you that turning your back on the … that trait Gram swore by made you blind to what was really going on with Robert and Sissy?”

The words hurt more than they should have. It wasn’t as if Portia hadn’t wondered exactly that. But it didn’t change anything.

“Just think about it,” Cordelia said, then gathered her things and left.

Portia paced from room to room in her small apartment. Small, at least, compared to the Texas house she and Robert had lived in. Size was relative in New York City. A closet in Texas was a million-dollar bargain in the city.

An hour later, the chirp of her cell phone caught her off guard. She grabbed her phone only to be brought up short by the display.

Robert Baleau.

She grabbed the counter, ducking as if her ex-husband could see her.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, letting the call go to voice mail.

As soon as the line was free, she dialed Cordelia.

“I’m at Saks; I can’t talk.”

Portia blinked. “You were just here. How can you be at Saks now, especially if your husband is out of work?”

“I’m just browsing. It’s like … therapy.”

“Tell me you didn’t just say that.”

“What do you want, Portia?” Cordelia shot back.

“Robert just called.”

“Oh, my Lord! What did he say?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t answer.” Her phone beeped. “He left a message.”

“Listen to it and call me back.”

Not a minute after she was done listening, her phone rang again and she answered to Cordelia, saying, “I’ve patched in Olivia.”

“What did that rat say?” Olivia demanded.

Portia’s hand shook as she held her phone. “He said he wants to talk to me. He wants to know where I am.”

“He doesn’t know?” Cordelia was surprised.

“No. And I don’t want him to know. If he calls either of you, you know nothing.”

“What about his lawyer?”

“Everything is going through my lawyer.”

“Have you gotten your settlement yet?” Olivia asked.

“No. Not yet.”

“Yep, typical male crap,” Olivia added. “I swear, you should have told the world about how he treated you. Why you haven’t told anyone who would listen what an ass he is makes zero sense.”

“I’ve told you. I have no interest in being in the news, and me telling the world that the good Christian politician Robert Baleau divorced me so he could marry my ex–best friend puts me smack dab in the middle of the news as yet another pathetic wronged-politician’s wife. I’ve already told you, no thanks.”

Olivia scoffed. “Portia—”

“No. I am not going there. Listen, I’ve got to run.”

She couldn’t breathe. She had to get out.

She pressed end, then threw on one of Evie’s old sweaters, grabbed her purse, and bolted. She didn’t slow down until she came to Columbus Avenue and the same bakery where she’d bought the cake for the Kanes: Cutie’s.

Before she thought it through, she was inside buying a baker’s box full of every variety of cupcake they sold. She couldn’t have explained the impulse if she had tried. She barely managed to cover the cost from the money she had in her wallet. Then she carried them home, nearly running all the way back, before slamming into her apartment. The minute she launched herself into the kitchen, she tore into the cupcakes like an alcoholic plunging into a binge.

Maybe thirty minutes later, maybe an hour, the door opened and Ariel walked in, finding Portia at the kitchen counter, half-eaten cupcakes spilling across the scarred linoleum.

“What are you doing?” Ariel said, gaping.

“These are terrible!”

“What do you mean, terrible?”

“Awful, hideous, dry. I tried one and couldn’t believe it. So then I started testing more of them, and so far they’ve all failed!”

“You’re testing cupcakes? Are they supposed to answer directly, or are you giving them a multiple-choice exam?”

“Ha-ha,” Portia said, taking a bite of a bright pink cupcake. She swallowed with a gulp of water. “Gah, these are awful.”

“They can’t be awful.” Ariel picked up the box. “Cutie’s Bakery. These are, like, the most famous cupcakes around.”

“So I’ve heard. Have one.”

“No thanks. I had a bite of that cake you brought from them. It wasn’t even close to as good as the one you made that first night. Hint hint.”

The words hit Portia in the gut, swirling around like plump, juicy blueberries folded into the kind of thick, sweetened batter perfect for licking off a spoon. Abruptly she stood, her mind whirling, when a huge bang sounded outside.

She and Ariel ran up the stairs and out the open door.

Gabriel was already there, two steps down. He wore faded Levi’s and a navy blue T-shirt that stretched across his chest. The sun hit his hair, the brown so dark it was nearly black. He looked great, Portia thought. Really great. No surprise there. What was a surprise was that he was howling with laughter, talking to a guy who was obviously a contractor. His eyes crinkled at the sides when he grinned like that, making him look downright approachable. Who would have guessed the beast had it in him?

Portia forced herself to focus, noticing for the first time that the outer front door had been ripped out. She gasped. “You can’t do that!”

Gabriel turned. “What’s all over your forehead?”

Portia swiped her skin, coming away with frosting. “Don’t think you can distract me with your, your … scowl.”

“My scowl?” He looked amused.

“You cannot rip out my aunt’s front door. I’m going to call someone, the historic society or something. I’m sure it’s listed. You can’t just rip out doors!”

“This is none of your business,” Gabriel said, the laughter disappearing.

“This is my home—of course it’s my business!”

He raised a brow.

“Okay, so it’s both of our homes. You on the top, me on the bottom.”

That got a different kind of raised brow.

“Errr!” Portia grumbled. “That door belongs to both of us!”

Gabriel’s jaw set.

“Well?” she demanded. “I bet we’re something like one of those insane apartment building co-ops they have in Manhattan, you know, giving everyone who lives there equal rights. I have rights to that front door, just as much as you do.”

“The door was rotting. And if you don’t like what I’m doing, you can always leave.”

“Funny. But I can’t. I have nowhere else to go.” Belatedly, she realized that after all her ranting, he just might ask her for half the price of the rotting door.

It flashed through her mind that maybe she should just sell him the apartment and be done with it. She had been scouring the New York Times real estate section, and she knew she could make a small fortune by selling.

Gabriel clearly saw her moment of vulnerability because he suddenly looked like a shark circling a floundering cruise ship tourist. He sensed blood. “Ariel,” he said, “can you give me a second to talk to Ms. Cuthcart?”

Ariel glanced between the two of them, shrugged, and trotted back inside.

Gabriel took two steps up. There was an intent look to his face that … well, Portia had the distinct idea that he was going to reach out and kiss her, never mind the work crew milling down below on the sidewalk.

But at the last second Gabriel’s eyes cleared and he said, “Why are you here?”

Portia blinked—then blinked again, hating the implication that she didn’t belong.

That was the thing. She did belong. Ever since that first morning she woke up in the garden apartment, she had felt as if her whole life had been bringing her to this place. Texas wasn’t home anymore. New York City was.

“I belong here,” she said. Then found herself blurting out, “You don’t like me, do you?”

That threw him. He gave her a look as if to say, “You are such a girl.” And who could blame him?

Aloud, he said, “I don’t even know you.”

Unbidden, the image of the way he had looked at her after peeling her out of the burger suit came to mind. He had wanted to know her that day, at least on some level.

“This is not about liking or not liking you,” he stated firmly.

“Dad!” Miranda marched out the front door. “There isn’t a thing to eat in the whole house! Are you trying to starve us? Huh? Is that what you really want?”

Gabriel took a deep breath. “Give me a second, Miranda. I’ll fix it.”

“Yeah, right. Sure, you will.”

She wheeled back inside.

“Listen,” Gabriel said, dragging his hands through his hair. “You need a job, right? Given the demise of the burger suit, I mean.”

“And?” Portia said carefully.

“The girls need someone to make meals for them. Breakfast and dinner, on school days.”

Portia felt her blood begin to boil. “Are you offering me a job as your cook?”

He eyed her. “I guess I am.”

“Either you are or you aren’t.”

“Fine, yes. I am offering you a job.” He told her an amount he would pay, and her stomach actually rumbled at the thought of all the boxes of cereal, not to mention fabulous food, she could buy with the amount. But then she remembered.

“What is the matter with everyone? How many times do I have to say that I don’t cook? Not anymore!”

Though she wanted to. God help her, she did.

Portia reminded herself of things that were normal. White picket fences. Food that didn’t come in visions. She took a deep, steadying breath.

“Ariel says you do. And you couldn’t be worse than me. Just give it some thought. In the meantime, I suggest you get out of the way before the workmen run you over.”

He left her standing on the steps. When Portia gathered herself and glanced around, she noticed the old man next door. Despite the closed window, the man raised a challenging eyebrow, as if he’d heard every word.

Her great-aunt Evie had followed her dream and moved to New York when it became clear that her future didn’t lie in Willow Creek, Texas.

“The measure of a person isn’t the bumps you hit in the road,” Gram had always said. “It’s how you pick yourself up and move forward.”

She could almost hear Gram asking a question: “Who are you, Portia?”

Every direction she turned, she was hit with images and urges, thoughts and knowing. Then something else hit her, harder than it had before.

If she had been true to who she really was, would Robert have been able to deceive her, as Cordelia had said?

And suddenly she lost the fight. Before she could think better of it, she dialed Cordelia, who answered on the first ring.

“Get me the names of some investment bankers.”

A beat passed before her sister spoke. “What for?”

“We’re going to open The Glass Kitchen in New York.”