Free The Glass Kitchen by Linda Francis Lee Page A

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