Linda Lee - The Glass Kitchen - A Novel of Sisters

WHAT WOULD I HAVE DONE without great friends and family who helped in so many ways while I wrote this book? To all of them, I raise a glass in thanks.

Amelia Grey, Lisa Kleypas, M. J. Rose, Sarah MacLean, Alana Sanko, Jill and Regi Brack, Julie Blattberg, Lisa Chambers, and Liz Brack—good friends who were always ready with book talk and/or impromptu dinners.

Stella Brack and Anna Vettori—for a peek into today’s Manhattan school world.

Joseph Bell, Peter Longo, Kevin Lynch, and Ron Smith—for lovely, long meals filled with amazing food and laughter. To Peter, for The Explorers Club, and Kevin, who who should have been a knight. To Joe, for teaching me the magic of ices. And it’s hard to quantify how many times Ron saved one of my recipes.

Alessandro Vettori and his beautiful wife, Mary—for family dinners and elegant parties.

Jennifer Enderlin—a writer’s dream, editor extraordinaire—for believing in this book and going above and beyond to make it the best it could be.

The amazing team at St. Martin’s Press, who cares a great deal about books, most especially Sally Richardson, the late and greatly missed Matthew Shear, Lisa Senz, Alison Lazarus, John Murphy, John Karle, Dori Weintraub, and Jeff Dodes.

Carilyn Francis Johnson—for being the best sister, amazing best friend, and, as much as it pains me to admit it, still the best cook in the family.

And to Michael, as always, who is there during my cooking triumphs, but more important—given my predilection for adventures in the kitchen—is there to step in during my cooking catastrophes, ready to roll up his sleeves and help, or … eat whatever I put in front of him, with a smile on his face. What is that if not true love?

Cheers!

ON THE MORNING her sister went missing, Portia Cuthcart woke up to thoughts of blueberries and peaches.

The taste of fruit filled her mouth, so sweet, so real, as if she’d been eating in her dreams. With a groggy yawn, she scooted out of bed. She pulled on her favorite fluffy slippers and big-girl’s robe, then shuffled into the tiny kitchen of the double-wide trailer on the outskirts of Willow Creek, Texas. Without thinking about what she was doing, she pulled blueberries from the icebox and peaches from the fruit bin.

She might have been only seven years old, but she was smart enough to know that her mother would have a fit if she pulled out knives, or did anything near the two-burner hot plate. Instead, Portia pulled the peaches apart, catching the sticky-sweet juice on her tongue as it ran down her fingers. She found a slice of angel food cake wrapped in plastic and plopped the fruit on top.

Just as she stood back, satisfied with what she had made, her parents tumbled into the trailer like apples poured out of a bushel basket, disorderly, frantic.

Portia’s oldest sister, Cordelia, followed. “Olivia’s missing,” Cordelia stated with all the jaundiced arrogance of a thirteen-year-old convinced she had the answers to everyone’s ills. “Disappeared,” she clarified with a snap of her fingers, “just like that.”

Portia knitted her brow, her hair a cloud of whipped-butter curls dancing around her face. Olivia was always in trouble, but she usually did bad stuff right in front of their eyes. “Nobody disappears just like that, Cordie. You’re exaggerating.”

Her mother didn’t seem to hear. Mama stared at the fruit and cake.

“Don’t be mad,” Portia blurted. “I didn’t use any knives.”

Her mother dropped to her knees in front of Portia. “Peaches and blueberries. Olivia’s favorites. Why did you make this?”

Portia blinked, pushing a curl out of her eye. “I don’t know. I woke up thinking about them.”

For a second, her mother looked stricken; then she pressed her lips together. “Earl,” she said, turning to Daddy, “Olivia’s down by the far horse pasture, near the peach tree and blueberry patch.”

Her parents’ eyes met before they glanced back at Portia. Then her mother stood and pushed Daddy out the door. Even though the emergency was over, Mama’s face was still tense, her eyes dark.

Twenty minutes later, the missing eleven-year-old Olivia pranced up the three metal steps of the trailer in front of Daddy, her lips stained with blueberries, her dress splotched with peach juice, flowers tangled in her hair.

It was the first time food gave Portia an answer before a question had been asked.

Not an hour after Olivia was found, Portia and her mother were in the family’s ancient pickup truck, bumping along the dirt roads of backwater Texas until they came to her grandmother’s café, a place that had been handed down through generations of Gram’s ancestors. The Glass Kitchen. Portia loved how its whitewashed clapboard walls and green tin roof, giant yawning windows, and lattice entwined with purple wisteria made her think of doll houses and thatch-roofed cottages.

Excited to see Gram, Portia jumped out of the old truck and followed her mother in through the front door. The melting-brown-sugar and buttery-cinnamon smells reminded her that The Glass Kitchen was not for play. It was real, a place where people came from miles around to eat and talk with Portia’s grandmother.

Portia smiled at all the regulars, but her mother didn’t seem to notice anyone, which was odd because Mama always used her best company manners wherever they went. But today she walked straight toward Gram, who sat at her usual table off to the side. Gram always sat in the same place, watching the goings-on, doling out advice, and making food recommendations for all those who asked. And everyone asked. Portia had a faint memory of a time when Gram actually did the cooking, but now she left it to others, to hired help who stayed hidden behind swinging doors.

“She has it,” was all Mama said.

Gram sat back, the sun streaming through the windows, catching in the long gray hair she pulled back in a simple braid. “I suspected as much.”

Portia didn’t understand what was happening, then was surprised when Gram turned to her and beckoned her close. “You have a gift, Portia. A knowing, just like me, just like generations of your ancestors. Now it’s my job to teach you how to use it.”

Mama pressed her eyes closed, steepling her hands in front of her face.

Despite her mama’s frown, Portia was excited about this knowing thing. It made her feel special, chosen, and as each day passed, she began to walk around with a new sense of purpose, pulling apart more peaches and making creations in a way that set her older sisters’ teeth on edge. Cordelia and Olivia weren’t nearly as happy about the special gift Portia supposedly had.

But four months later, the thick Texas air was sucked dry when the girls’ daddy was shot dead in a hunting accident. Four months after that, their mama died, too. The official report cited cause of death as severe cardiac arrhythmia, but everyone in town said she’d died of a broken heart.

Stunned and silenced, Portia and her sisters moved in with Gram above the restaurant. Cordelia found comfort in books, Olivia in flowers. Portia found comfort when Gram started bringing her into the kitchen in earnest. But strangely, Gram didn’t mention one thing about the knowing, much less teach her anything about it. Mostly Gram taught her the simple mechanics of cooking and baking.

Still, that worked. The Glass Kitchen was known to heal people with its slow-cooked meals and layered confections, and it healed Portia, too. Gradually, like sugar brought to a slow boil, Portia began to ease out of a brittle state and find a place for herself among the painted-wood tables and pitted silverware in a way Cordelia and Olivia never did.