The Glass Kitchen (13 page)

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 way!” 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

P
ORTIA 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.

“And what?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you can bake.”

“I’ll take that as your way of saying you think it’s good. Thank you.” She shot him a saucy look, to which he raised a brow, his eyes intent on her.

The memory of him dragging her through the window and pulling her close made her light-headed, and she wondered if he was thinking about the same thing.

After a second he focused and saw the books. He picked up one with his free hand. “‘
Hospitality and Restaurant Practices’
?” He cocked his head. “What’s this for?”

“My sisters and I are going to open a restaurant.”

Saying it out loud thrilled her and terrified her in turn.

For a second she thought he was going to laugh. She just held his gaze.

“You’re serious.”

“As serious as an accountant at an IRS audit.”

His face closed off, reminding her of the ruthlessness she had first noticed about him on the front steps. “You have no business opening a restaurant.”

“Says who?”

“Says the guy who watched you try to extricate yourself from a burger suit with a knife.”

Her mouth fell open. “Burger suits and restaurants are two different kettles of fish.”

“Kettles of fish? Now there’s great business terminology.”

“Yep, Texas style.”

“You’re in New York, sweetheart.”

“I am not your sweetheart, thank my lucky stars.”

“Another of your quaint Texas sayings? What was the last one I heard you use? ‘Bless your heart’?”

She sliced him a tooth-grinding smile. “While you might not like them, you can bet your backside that a café that serves the kind of fare we create in Texas would have people lined up around the corner. Or, as we say in Texas, till the cows come home.”

He raised a brow as he eyed her. “Did you know that sixty percent of all restaurants fail?”

“Really, I thought the number would be higher.”

“Eighty percent in New York City.”

She refused to gulp. “Wow, I thought the number was more like ninety-five percent.”

“Some statistics put the number that high.”

Double non-gulp.

“Is it possible that something has left Portia Cuthcart speechless?”

She glared at him. “Okay, funny guy.”

His head cocked, but she kept going.

“I stand by my belief that a Glass Kitchen in New York will work.”

“Then tell me, if you’re such a prodigious businesswoman, what’s your cost-to-baked-goods ratio?”

“What?”

“Don’t know? How about margins? What kind of margins do you expect to achieve?”

She stammered.

The way he looked at her liquefied her insides, and she felt sorry for anyone who went up against him.