The Glass Kitchen Read Online Free PDF

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