Linda Lee - The Glass Kitchen - A Novel of Sisters

“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.”

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.