Ariel blinked at the sight of Portia standing in their kitchen, wearing another pair of her whackjob high-waisted, wide-bottomed pants, a white T-shirt, and an old-fashioned apron tied around her waist.
“What are you doing here?” Ariel asked, still frozen in the doorway.
“Believe me,” Portia said, “I’m as surprised as you by this turn of events.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m your new head cook and chief bottle washer.”
“Seriously? Dad hired you?”
“He did.” Portia got a weird look on her face, then shook it away.
Ariel came over and peered inside the pot on the stove. “Sheez, what are you making?”
“Doughnuts.”
“Dad actually took my advice, amazing. And does anyone other than Dunkin’ make doughnuts?”
“Your advice? Then thank you. I guess. And funny.”
“I thought you didn’t cook anymore.”
“I wasn’t.” Portia gave the big spoon a swirl around the pot of boiling oil. “But sometimes we have to be brave in order to dig deep and find answers. Even if we’re not sure we’re going to like the answers.”
“I don’t want to be mean, but you sound like a really bad infomercial.”
Portia laughed, and started extracting golden-brown fried balls. After placing them on a paper towel–covered plate, she tossed them into a brown paper bag and started shaking.
Ariel’s mouth started watering. “Powdered-sugar doughnuts!”
Footsteps stopped in the doorway. “My favorite.”
Ariel and Portia turned; Ariel blinked. “Uncle Anthony.”
“None other.” He sauntered into the kitchen. “And look who else is here,” he added, winking at Ariel, then smiling big and wide at Portia.
Ariel liked her uncle well enough, though she probably would have liked him better if Miranda didn’t act like an airheaded nitwit whenever he showed up. It was the same with their grandmother. Nana was totally mean to Ariel’s dad, but she gushed like a demented schoolgirl when her younger son came to town. Ariel figured Nana was in hog’s heaven now that Uncle Anthony was staying with her.
Thankfully, Dad wasn’t like Nana. Ariel was pretty sure he loved both her and Miranda the same. And if she was ever a mom—not that she was going to be, because it was a seriously awful job, as far as she could tell—she’d love all her kids the same. Even if one of them was as mean as Miranda.
Uncle Anthony walked over the stove, never taking his eyes off their neighbor. “Portia, right?” he asked.
“Yes, Portia Cuthcart.”
“From downstairs,” he added.
“Right again.”
Just in case Portia and her dad were getting something going, the last thing Ariel needed was her uncle getting in the way. You only had to be around Anthony for five minutes to realize that grown ladies turned into mush the minute they saw him. Which made no sense since he was like a math equation with only one answer: He never committed. So how come she, twelve-nearly-thirteen-year-old Ariel Kane, had figured this out when full-grown women hadn’t?
Anthony picked up a doughnut and popped it into his mouth. “Amazing,” he said, licking his fingers. He actually sounded surprised. “So amazing that I’d like to take you out to dinner to show my appreciation.”
Portia laughed, swatting his fingers away. “No thanks. Hands off my doughnuts.”
He stole another, anyway.
“You’re like a ten-year-old who’s used to getting his way.”
“You’ve pegged my little brother so quickly.”
Dad to the rescue! Ariel gave him a big grin.
“Gabriel,” Anthony said, minus the big grin. He looked at Portia. “Even as a kid, he was a wet blanket.”
“Not everyone can make it through life on the largess of others.”
If Ariel wasn’t mistaken, something weird was happening with Uncle Anthony’s jaw, sort of like a spasm. A definite sign that he was mad. But then her uncle just laughed, making her think she’d imagined it.
“Ms. Cuthcart,” her dad said in clipped tones.
The two of them exchanged a massively weird glance, and for half a second Ariel thought her dad was going to fire Portia on the spot. That, or Portia was going to up and quit.
Instead, Dad glanced at the doughnuts on the counter. “This is what you’ve chosen to feed my children for breakfast?”
“No.” Portia opened the oven door and pulled out a platter. “For the girls, eggs, turkey bacon, whole wheat toast.” From another pot on the stove, she whipped off the lid. “Oatmeal.” Then, like some crazed hostess on a game show, she walked over to the refrigerator, from which she produced a bowl of cut-up fruit and some orange juice.
“Covering all bases, I see,” Dad said.
“Yep, that’s me.” She threw him a look, kind of sideways under her lashes. “Though now that I think about it, not so unlike you last night covering a few of your own.”
Dad’s jaw dropped, then snapped closed. There was that weird look in his eyes again, though.
Portia turned away, like she had surprised herself.
“Isn’t this interesting,” Uncle Anthony said in a kind of sour voice. Which was even weirder.
Miranda walked in just then. She scowled at their dad, for whatever reason, this time. Then she saw Uncle Anthony. “Hi!” she said with a big smile.
“Hi, yourself,” Anthony said, grinning back.
Her dad got that frustrated look about him, but instead of saying something mean, he just asked, “Anthony, what are you doing here?”
Ariel could feel tension in the room like she felt heat coming from the oven. It made her stomach clench and worry come up in her throat, a worry that was always there these days.
She didn’t dare tell the Shrink about the worry, because he would tell her dad, and then there would be hell to pay. Dad would watch her like a hawk, just like he watched Miranda. As it stood now, Ariel knew her dad felt pretty certain she was under control with the whole journal and Shrink thing. She wanted to keep it that way.
Miranda glanced at Portia, seemed surprised, though not in a good away, then sat down.
Ariel focused on serving a plate. She really hated all this weird family mess that, even as smart as she was, she hardly understood.
It took a second before something occurred to her. “How did you know what our favorite stuff was?”
Portia bit her lip. “Really? I mean, I figured I’d just make a little bit of everything.”
“I have to get to work,” Dad said.
“But you haven’t eaten!” Portia blurted.
Dad gave her a look, grabbed a piece of toast, and then he was gone.
“Are you staying for breakfast?” Miranda asked Anthony.
Anthony was frowning after Dad, but he looked back and his smile returned. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
They all sat around the kitchen table. Portia was still cooking and didn’t sit down, but Uncle Anthony yakked at her the whole time anyway. “So, are you going to go out with me?” he asked again.
She just laughed and said, “No.”
“We got an assignment at school,” Ariel said, breaking in. “We have to write about our family tree. Uncle Anthony, can you tell me something about Mom that you think I don’t already know. Like, when was the first time you met her? Did Dad do the bring his date home to meet the family sort of thing and there she was?”
Uncle Anthony looked totally weird. “Your mom?” But then he got a faraway look in his eyes and a kind of dreamy smile. “The first time I met your mom I thought she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.” He focused on Miranda. “You’re the spitting image of Victoria.”
“Really?”
Ariel scowled. She wished she looked like their mom. But no, she looked like some mongrel dog.
“So when did you meet her?” Ariel asked.
Anthony sat back. “Actually, I met your mom before your dad did.”
“No wa
y!” Miranda breathed.
Great, more unstable ground. Sheesh.
Miranda came over and sat next to Uncle Anthony. “What was she like when you met her?”
“Well, like I said, she was beautiful. She walked into this place I used to go with a bunch of friends. Downtown. You know, music, dancing. We were young. Or younger,” he added with a twist of his mouth. “Vic walked in like she owned the place. She gave off so much wattage that you saw nothing but her.” Uncle Anthony gave sort of a half laugh. “Victoria Polanski. God, was she a handful.” He cleared his throat. “Like I said, she was just as gorgeous as Miranda here.”
Ariel ignored that and persisted. “Where was she from? New Jersey? Long Island? Did she grow up by Nana on the Upper East Side?”
Anthony blinked, coming back to himself, then leaned over and chucked Ariel on the chin. “Ask your dad that, A. I’m sure he’d love to talk about the old days.”
Yeah, right. She’d jump all over that. Not.
Her uncle glanced at the clock. “Gotta go.” He stood and walked over to the stove, where Portia was taking another batch of doughnuts out of the pot.
“You’re sure you can’t spare a few hours to keep a guy company?”
“I’m sure.”
“I guess I’ll have to settle for another of your doughnuts.” He grabbed one up. Just before he popped it in his mouth, he added, “At least for now.”
Thirteen
PORTIA FIRED UP THE LAPTOP she had borrowed from Cordelia and spent the next hour figuring out what a business plan looked like. She knew all about the practical elements of running a café, having learned the ropes at her grandmother’s side, so it wasn’t too hard. Plus, Cordelia and Olivia were coming over later to help.
Quite frankly, her intent was as much about work as it was about filling her head with something besides the memory of that kiss. She hardly knew how to square it away in her brain other than to chalk it up to the greatest kiss known to man. Which was melodramatic and completely absurd, especially given the fact that she hadn’t much to compare it to. She snorted. She didn’t need anything to compare it to. The man could kiss.
By the middle of the afternoon, her head was ready to explode with numbers and business details. She told herself that what really mattered was her ability to create food that wowed people. Which made her think of those Cutie’s cupcakes. And she knew with certainty that she could fix them.
The doorbell buzzed just as she was starting to put everything together, and Ariel walked in. “Are you baking?”
“Yes.”
“Something good.”
“One can only hope.”
“Interesting. You don’t strike me as the sarcastic type.”
Portia rolled her eyes, which she noticed Ariel ignored as she started rooting around in her backpack. The girl pulled out notebooks and magazines and set them on the table. Portia went back to her I Can Do Better Than Cutie’s cupcake. She had all the bowls and utensils out by the time Ariel was ready, her own project set up. Poster boards, magazines marked with Post-its, and some sort of list.
“What’s that?” Portia asked.
“Think of me as your fairy godmother.”
“You’re on the young side. Shouldn’t I be the fairy godmother?”
“My clothes are fine. Yours? Not so much. I’m going to fix you up. You can thank me with one of those cupcakes.”
“Fix me up?”
“So you can catch a, well, guy.”
Portia’s mouth fell open.
“I know you’re divorced and all. Still, you’re not so old that you can give up dating for the rest of your life. Right?”
“Are you sure you’re a child?” Portia asked faintly.
“I prefer preadult female. Now, stop talking and listen.”
Two minutes into Ariel’s “presentation,” Portia decided to ignore her and focus on the hideous Cutie’s cupcakes. If she wanted a makeover, she could ask one of her sisters. Well, not Cordelia.
Of course, Ariel just kept talking. She had ripped out a load of “perfect outfits” from Teen Vogue. But if Portia ever had money again, she wouldn’t be buying short, pleated skirts and platform tennis shoes.
The Cutie’s cupcakes were missing something. The more Ariel talked, the more Portia craved the cupcake fix. She mixed the dry ingredients in a bowl, stirring slowly, feeling a sense of peace come over her. Ariel battled on, talking about how tights could be coordinated with a short skirt.
Portia finished her first “fix” on the cupcakes, writing down what she had done, just as her grandmother had taught her.
Ariel peered at her. “Are you sure you’re listening to me?”
Portia put the batch in the preheated oven. “You bet,” she answered.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t you have homework to do?”
“I spent a lot of time on this. The least you could do is listen.”
“I am! Think of me as a multitasker. I can bake and listen. Tell me more about stockings.”
“Not stockings,” Ariel said with disgust. “Tights! There’s a big difference, you know.”
“Sorry. Of course.”
Ariel’s eagle eye stayed on her as Portia went back to the mixing bowl and started on a second batch. An hour or so passed with Ariel talking and Portia baking.
Oddly, it felt good to have Ariel’s high voice providing a counterpoint to the sounds of baking. But by the time cupcakes covered every inch of counter space, Ariel was running out of steam. “Looks” from Teen Vogue and Tiger Beat battled with the cupcakes for space on the counter and kitchen island.
“I just can’t believe that Tiger Beat is still in business,” Portia said. “And you know I’ll never wear pants like that, don’t you? I’m not seventeen.”
“These are totally swaggy pants,” Ariel said indignantly. “Justin Bieber—not that I’m a Belieber or anything, but still—he wore them on his last tour. In leather.”
“Do I really look like a woman who would wear swaggy leather pants?”
“Well, the other things, then. I got these magazines out of Miranda’s room. She totally knows how to dress and she marked the pages, so everything I told you about is like picked by an expert.”
“Picked by a teenager,” Portia said, pushing the cupcakes on the table closer together so she could put out another tray. “For a teenager.”
“My dad says she dresses like she’s sixteen going on twenty-six. You can’t be much older than twenty-six. Right?”
“I’m twenty-nine, and fashion isn’t a priority for me right now.”
“Like I didn’t already know that.”
Portia just laughed and kept working.
“You know, you’re not really like other adults. Just saying.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t get worked up like the teachers at school. They always look mortally wounded or bear-woken-in-winter mad whenever I start talking without thinking my words through, which is pretty much all the time.”
Portia just laughed again, concentrating on the elaborate designs she was swirling into the cupcake frosting.
Everything was nearly done when the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Ariel said, as though she lived there.
Miranda followed Ariel back into the kitchen, which was unexpected.
“Hi, Miranda,” Portia said.
The girl stood there scowling, not looking even a bit happy to be there. “Yeah, hi—” The words froze in the air, and she stared at the table. “Oh, my gosh! How did you know?”
Portia took a deep breath. “Know what?”
“The cupcakes! How did you know I needed cupcakes? We’re having a sophomore class bake sale and everyone has to bring something.”
Portia couldn’t speak. She hated this feeling, hated that she couldn’t just bake like a normal person. In the morning she’d had the Kanes’ favorite breakfast without knowing a single thing about what they liked to eat. Now this.
> “Awesome!” Miranda exclaimed.
Gabriel chose that moment to walk into the apartment. “I rang the bell, but no one heard,” he said.
When he saw Miranda laughing, the hard planes of his face eased, if only slightly. “I got your text that you needed cupcakes,” he said to Miranda. “There’s that cupcake place on Columbus.” His eyes shifted to the kitchen counters. “What’s this?”
“Cupcakes,” Ariel said.
Portia tried to ignore the way Ariel eyed her.
“Can you believe it! Portia already made them,” Miranda crowed. But then she seemed to realize what she was doing and stopped, the glower firmly back in place.
“How did you know?” he asked Portia.
“I didn’t. I was experimenting.” She refused to give in to the queasy emotions she felt. Maybe she just made the cupcakes because of Cutie’s. And maybe she was going stark raving mad. She turned to the girls. “Can you find some boxes to put them in? How many do you need, Miranda?”
“A lot. Like six dozen,” Miranda said.
Portia didn’t need to count. She knew on a sigh that if she did, there would be exactly six dozen sitting on the counter.
The girls went out to find boxes, which left Portia and Gabriel standing alone.
“You have batter on your face. Again.”
“Last time it was frosting.”
She would have sworn he swallowed back a smile.
She wiped her cheek and found a swipe of strawberry shortcake cupcake mix.
“How did you know about the cupcakes? Really.”
“I didn’t. I was trying to come up with a way to make Cutie’s cupcakes better. And I did.” She took a mock little bow. “The German chocolate cake was easy. So was the vanilla buttercream. But the strawberry shortcake gave me fits. Turns out, the final fix came when I baked a fresh strawberry in the middle of a vanilla sour-cream batter instead of strawberry batter with chunks of strawberries. Here, try one.”
“No, thanks.”
“What, you’re watching your boyish figure?”
Gabriel gave a surprised bark of laughter, snagged the cupcake, and took a bite. The amazement on his face made her smile. He stared at her concoction almost suspiciously before looking at her.
“And?” Portia prompted.
The Glass Kitchen Page 10