when she knew she had to make bouillabaisse—but not for dinner. The next afternoon, when the bouillabaisse was perfect, with loaves of French bread just done, Olivia flew in through the back door of the Kitchen.
“I promised the mayor’s wife I could cater a French meal for her party tonight. I promised it would be great! But everything I’ve made is a disaster.”
Portia stood silently as Olivia glanced over at the old cast-iron stove and took a deep breath. “I have to have it, Portia,” she said. She didn’t need to be told the answer to her dilemma was in the pot.
Now Portia stood in the small apartment in New York City, Cordelia in front of her again, tension thick in the room.
“Yes, but remember the strawberry preserves?” Cordelia said quietly, as if she were reading Portia’s mind.
Of course she remembered. She couldn’t forget any of it. The bad. The good. She remembered the strawberries, could smell them as if they were sitting in front of her on the counter. It had been a day when she and her sisters had argued. Afterward, all Portia could think about was making strawberry preserves. She had ended up making a huge vat of the preserves only to realize she didn’t have anything to can them in. Cordelia and Olivia had shown up with boxes of Ball jars they’d gotten at a yard sale for a penny apiece. They had ladled in tense silence, filling jars, setting them aside to cool, much as their tempers cooled.
Once they were done, without a word of apology, Olivia had smiled with that impudent glint of hers, and pulled Portia and Cordelia into a dance. Then they took the preserves to an outdoor flea market and made enough money to pay for the dress Cordelia needed for her wedding to James.
The knowing had provided the bridge back to each other, a way for Olivia to keep her job, a way for Cordelia to pay for a dress she couldn’t afford. Some of the few times the knowing worked for good, when it made Portia’s world better, rather than signaling a loss to come.
“I love James,” Cordelia said now. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help him. But I need help. Olivia needs help. And, sweetie, so do you.”
That had always been the way with the Cuthcart sisters. Fighting, furious, but unable to live without one another.
Portia hesitated. “Tell me this, Cord. Do you really want to open a café, or is it that you don’t know what else to do?”
Cordelia answered. “Both. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, you might not have been betrayed by your husband if you hadn’t been suppressing who you really are? Did it ever occur to you that turning your back on the … that trait Gram swore by made you blind to what was really going on with Robert and Sissy?”
The words hurt more than they should have. It wasn’t as if Portia hadn’t wondered exactly that. But it didn’t change anything.
“Just think about it,” Cordelia said, then gathered her things and left.
Portia paced from room to room in her small apartment. Small, at least, compared to the Texas house she and Robert had lived in. Size was relative in New York City. A closet in Texas was a million-dollar bargain in the city.
An hour later, the chirp of her cell phone caught her off guard. She grabbed her phone only to be brought up short by the display.
Robert Baleau.
She grabbed the counter, ducking as if her ex-husband could see her.
“No, no, no,” she whispered, letting the call go to voice mail.
As soon as the line was free, she dialed Cordelia.
“I’m at Saks; I can’t talk.”
Portia blinked. “You were just here. How can you be at Saks now, especially if your husband is out of work?”
“I’m just browsing. It’s like … therapy.”
“Tell me you didn’t just say that.”
“What do you want, Portia?” Cordelia shot back.
“Robert just called.”
“Oh, my Lord! What did he say?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t answer.” Her phone beeped. “He left a message.”
“Listen to it and call
“I promised the mayor’s wife I could cater a French meal for her party tonight. I promised it would be great! But everything I’ve made is a disaster.”
Portia stood silently as Olivia glanced over at the old cast-iron stove and took a deep breath. “I have to have it, Portia,” she said. She didn’t need to be told the answer to her dilemma was in the pot.
Now Portia stood in the small apartment in New York City, Cordelia in front of her again, tension thick in the room.
“Yes, but remember the strawberry preserves?” Cordelia said quietly, as if she were reading Portia’s mind.
Of course she remembered. She couldn’t forget any of it. The bad. The good. She remembered the strawberries, could smell them as if they were sitting in front of her on the counter. It had been a day when she and her sisters had argued. Afterward, all Portia could think about was making strawberry preserves. She had ended up making a huge vat of the preserves only to realize she didn’t have anything to can them in. Cordelia and Olivia had shown up with boxes of Ball jars they’d gotten at a yard sale for a penny apiece. They had ladled in tense silence, filling jars, setting them aside to cool, much as their tempers cooled.
Once they were done, without a word of apology, Olivia had smiled with that impudent glint of hers, and pulled Portia and Cordelia into a dance. Then they took the preserves to an outdoor flea market and made enough money to pay for the dress Cordelia needed for her wedding to James.
The knowing had provided the bridge back to each other, a way for Olivia to keep her job, a way for Cordelia to pay for a dress she couldn’t afford. Some of the few times the knowing worked for good, when it made Portia’s world better, rather than signaling a loss to come.
“I love James,” Cordelia said now. “I’ll do whatever it takes to help him. But I need help. Olivia needs help. And, sweetie, so do you.”
That had always been the way with the Cuthcart sisters. Fighting, furious, but unable to live without one another.
Portia hesitated. “Tell me this, Cord. Do you really want to open a café, or is it that you don’t know what else to do?”
Cordelia answered. “Both. Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, you might not have been betrayed by your husband if you hadn’t been suppressing who you really are? Did it ever occur to you that turning your back on the … that trait Gram swore by made you blind to what was really going on with Robert and Sissy?”
The words hurt more than they should have. It wasn’t as if Portia hadn’t wondered exactly that. But it didn’t change anything.
“Just think about it,” Cordelia said, then gathered her things and left.
Portia paced from room to room in her small apartment. Small, at least, compared to the Texas house she and Robert had lived in. Size was relative in New York City. A closet in Texas was a million-dollar bargain in the city.
An hour later, the chirp of her cell phone caught her off guard. She grabbed her phone only to be brought up short by the display.
Robert Baleau.
She grabbed the counter, ducking as if her ex-husband could see her.
“No, no, no,” she whispered, letting the call go to voice mail.
As soon as the line was free, she dialed Cordelia.
“I’m at Saks; I can’t talk.”
Portia blinked. “You were just here. How can you be at Saks now, especially if your husband is out of work?”
“I’m just browsing. It’s like … therapy.”
“Tell me you didn’t just say that.”
“What do you want, Portia?” Cordelia shot back.
“Robert just called.”
“Oh, my Lord! What did he say?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t answer.” Her phone beeped. “He left a message.”
“Listen to it and call
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