Free The Glass Kitchen by Linda Francis Lee Page B

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