Actually, she did, and she couldn’t have agreed more. The tiny knot that had stayed inside her after having read one too many online articles about birth fathers wanting their kids back even after having signed them away eased.

She threw her arms around the guy’s shoulders. “Thank you for letting me go, Uncle Anthony.”

He held on tight for a long second, nodded at her dad, and left.

Later she had overheard her dad tell Nana that he’d given Anthony the money he wanted, even though all the new and better documents were already signed. Which made her heart buzz even more because her dad wanted her that much. Granted, it was not so buzzworthy that she obviously had a blackmailer’s blood sloshing around in her veins. But she figured she was smart enough to beat it back if the need to con money out of people suddenly started rearing its ugly head.

After hanging up with Nana, her dad walked back into the study. He looked surprised to find her there. But she’d finally had it. He had fixed the Anthony thing. He was nearly done fixing the garden apartment. But, hello, why wasn’t he taking all of her hints and fixing what was really wrong?

“You know, we’ve discussed how incredibly smart you are,” she said without preamble.

“Why do I suspect I’m not going to like where this is going?” he said cautiously.

“I think you’re stressed.”

Up shot one of those eyebrows of his.

She hurried on. “Maybe with all that construction stress you’re under downstairs, you haven’t been totally able to figure out on your own that you need to do whatever it takes to get Portia back. Maybe it’d help if I made a suggestion.”

“What kind of suggestion?”

“Groveling.”

He skewered her with his eyes. “Groveling?”

“Yep, groveling, to Portia. And don’t bother saying you don’t grovel, Dad, because really, like I said, you’ve got to do whatever it takes. We need Portia. I do. Miranda sure as heck does. And, well”—she scrunched her shoulders—“I hate to break it to you, but you need her most of all.”

Forty-six

PORTIA STOOD ON Columbus Avenue, arms raised to the gently falling snow, reveling in the mounting signs that her life was falling in place.

After growing up in Central Texas, she had virtually no experience with snow. She tilted her head back, feeling the brush of snowflakes against her skin.

Straightening, she looked into the windows of what used to be Cutie’s Cupcakes. The awful pastries had finally taken their toll, and when they did, the place had closed down and the space had gone up for rent. Yet another sign.

First, Robert had actually paid her the money he owed her. Then, just when she was ready to make a move, this perfect space came up for rent.

The minute she saw it, Portia had pulled out her cell phone right there on the street and called Cordelia and Olivia.

Since that day, the three Cuthcart sisters had worked tirelessly around the clock getting The Glass Kitchen ready—the real one, not the illegal one in a residential building. They’d taken on not one but two investors, using Portia’s money to hire a financial planner who made everything legal and set up an agreement that made sure Portia’s money would be repaid out of the first profits. She planned to buy an apartment of her own as soon as she could.

They were starting out small, mostly baked goods and a few entrées. Hopefully, with a combination of Portia’s knowing, Cordelia’s chatty advice giving and constant supply of helpful books, and Olivia’s ability to fill the space with the perfect assortment of flowers, not to mention network, they would soon be able to expand.

For the moment, Portia was living in a small rented apartment of her own, pretty close to The Glass Kitchen. Everything was going better than expected.

But still, she felt empty, even standing around in falling snow in front of a dream that had finally come true.

Of course, she knew why.

She hadn’t heard a single word from Gabriel since he’d walked out of Stanley and Marcus’s door a month ago. She should have been relieved. But all she felt was miserable.

Pulling her coat tight, she locked the doors of The Glass Kitchen and hurried the few blocks to her new apartment. Taking off her mittens, she checked her voice mail. The first message surprised her.

“Portia, hi,” the recording announced. “It’s Miranda. Miranda Kane.”

As if Portia could forget.

“I just thought you should know that Dad is using the kitchen. As in, he’s cooking. I talked to Ariel about it, but she’s being totally weird. She might have said something about how you, as a self-respecting adult, should be, like, trying to save me and her from Dad’s cooking. Or something. All I know is that we are starving over here.”

Portia heard the sound of Miranda unwrapping a piece of candy, as if her world was moving on and she needed to disconnect but didn’t know how to break the tenuous connection. The thought tugged at Portia.

“I’m totally not into missing anyone, but Ariel misses you. I can tell. Whatever. I just thought you should know.”

Portia didn’t call back. What could she say? The girls had lost so much, and she felt guilty to be part of it. But calling them only prolonged the inevitable. She wouldn’t ever be a part of their lives.

The next day she worked all day. The Glass Kitchen was packed. She should have felt joy, but by closing time, she felt a strange sensation, like she was getting sick. Worse, all she could think about was food. More specifically, Gabriel’s Meal kept circling back into her head, like some cruel reminder of what she could never have.

The kitchen staff had already left, and Olivia and Cordelia had departed early, though not before Olivia had shaken her by the shoulders.

“Portia, you know I love you, but you have to stop moping around.”

Portia could hardly argue, so she just gave her a lopsided smile.

“Yes, you do,” Cordelia had added, gathering her things. “And may I point out that while the store is crowded, it’s crowded with widows, Portia.”

“What?”

Olivia bustled close. “You didn’t notice? It’s not just widows. There was that poor woman whose son just died after a heart operation.”

Portia did remember—how could she not, when the woman had burst into tears at the sight of the cupcakes with little trains on them that she had made. They had both cried before the woman took away six cupcakes so her family could celebrate her little boy’s favorite treat.

“What are you saying?” Portia asked carefully.

“It’s like all your buckets of sadness are bringing lines of mourners to The Glass Kitchen,” Cordelia explained. “It’s not bad, Portia. Lord knows, you’re making them feel better. But I kind of miss a smile now and then, you know?”

Her sisters left her standing there speechless, until she finally turned around and started cleaning an already clean counter. A week’s worth of customers started marching through her head—the eighty-year-old man with the exhausted eyes, the two women whose mother had just passed away …

“Crap,” she said when she realized her sisters were mostly right. But the customers had all been grieving for someone they had lost. There was that man whose wife left him with a devastated five-year-old son, and that teenager who …

She snapped to attention when the bell rang and the door opened.

“We’re not open—”

As she spoke, she turned and froze. Her hair was wild from a day of cooking and baking, and now cleaning. She looked awful and she knew it.

“Gabriel.” She hated the breathy sound of her voice, the way her heart kicked up.

Of course he was still beautiful in that way she loved. Hard, craggy. Strong, as if with him she would always be safe. That was what had drawn her to him, right from the beginning. A beast would never let anyone hurt her.

Until he had.

“We’re closed.”

“Good,” he said.

He made the point by turning over the little sign tacked to the door with yarn. “Now you really are closed.”

“Which means you should be on the outside of the door. Not inside.”

He flipped the lock.

Portia watched him, her eyes narrowing. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What I should have done weeks ago.”

He had that way of seeming to catalog each part of her, as if reassuring himself that she was fine, that no harm had come to her in the weeks they had been apart. Portia stayed behind the counter, telling herself that she was above bolting for the side exit. She would deal with him as the adult she was.

“Gabriel,” she said as he walked toward her, stopping on the opposite side of the narrow counter. “I really don’t want to have another argument. Please.”

“I messed up, Portia.”

He’d already told her that, but this time, there was no anger in the words, only a commitment to truth.

“You said I didn’t believe in you, that I didn’t want you to be who you really are. I am going to prove that you’re wrong. I do believe in you. I love you, Portia. I love you for every streak of frosting on your face.…” He bent over the gaily painted counter tiles and reached out to wipe her cheek, his thumb coming away with frosting. She was mortified until he licked the buttercream away, and her pulse leaped.

“I love you for each of the times you pushed me to see some truth I didn’t want to face. For loving me just as I am. For taking care of my girls. For helping me save both of them.”