But before Portia could do anything like question, sit, or bolt for the front door, Gabriel walked into the room. Heat filled her like milk and honey coming to a slow boil. Truth to tell, she felt nervous, what with her promising herself to deal head-on with this man regarding the apartment, and nervous was bad.

He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb, arms crossed on his chest. “So,” he said.

“So?” she countered.

“What’s with the outfit?”

She looked him up and down. “People don’t really call clothes outfits anymore, at least not guys.” She considered him for a moment. “Take that, combined with the whole obsession-with-talking thing, and I have to ask: Is your favorite color pink? Have you ever worn tight jeans and cuffed them at the hem with loafers and no socks? No, wait; have you ever worn man clogs?”

His lips twitched. “Hardly. Never. And no. But you, on the other hand, look like you just stepped out of Saturday Night Fever.”

“I was going more for Annie Hall. Same year. Smarter movie.”

Ariel looked traumatized, as if she couldn’t imagine how or where this type of conversation was coming from. Portia shook the sarcasm free. She drummed up a good, if strained, Texas smile. And Ariel grew visibly relieved. Gabriel just looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“What’s going on?” An older, more put-together version of Ariel walked in. She had to be the older daughter Ariel had mentioned.

Unlike her younger sister, this one’s light brown hair was long and straight, and she had grown into her eyes and mouth. She wore a lime green T-shirt tucked into a short, fitted denim skirt that flared around her thighs, and multicolored tennis shoes with a wedged heel. “Nana’s here,” she said. She looked Portia up and down. “Who are you?”

“She’s our new neighbor,” Ariel supplied dejectedly.

Miranda gave her a once-over, then shrugged. “Cool clothes.”

Portia shot Gabriel a triumphant smile.

Footsteps resounded from behind Miranda’s shoulder. “Where is everyone?”

A woman of about sixty-five walked into the kitchen. Beautiful and elegantly put together, she seemed like a woman who was used to commanding attention. “There you are. Miranda, I saw you walk by without opening the door, which was astonishingly rude. I had to use my key. Gabriel, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, don’t let these girls run roughshod over you.”

“As if that were possible,” Miranda muttered.

The woman shot a pointed look at Gabriel, but a clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen interrupted.

The woman started to say something, but then she saw Portia. “Oh, I didn’t realize we had company.” As if she weren’t a guest. “I’m Helen Kane. Gabriel’s mother.”

“Hi, I’m Portia Cuthcart. I live downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Yet another person who gave Portia a once-over. “I thought the apartment was empty,” Helen continued. “Have you lived there long?”

“No, not long. My great-aunt used to own the building and left it to me and my sisters.” Portia knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

Helen turned to her son. “I thought you were buying it for Anthony.”

“Mother, I’m handing this.”

“Gabriel, don’t tell me you didn’t go through with the deal. I know you don’t want Anthony here, but I won’t forgive you if you decided against buying the garden level just to keep him away.”

“Mother, enough.”

The woman composed herself with effort, turning back to Portia, who felt more uncomfortable than ever.

“Do you have people here, dear?” the woman finally asked. “Friends. Family. I’m sure there are plenty of places you’d rather live than downstairs in the godforsaken apartment.”

Portia didn’t know what to think or do. Clearly it wasn’t going to be as easy to explain not selling as she had hoped. “My sisters are here.”

“How lovely. Family really is the most important thing.” Helen said the words with more emphasis than necessary, turning back to Gabriel. “Where is your brother?”

If possible, Gabriel’s expression grew even more guarded. “I told you, Mother, he isn’t coming. We both know that Anthony only shows up when he needs money. Another reason why he doesn’t need me to buy him an apartment that he won’t spend time in.”

“That’s not true. He’s coming.” Her voice rose. “He promised.”

Miranda’s head shot up, fingers stilling on her iPhone, eyes brightening with excitement. “Uncle Anthony is coming?”

Gabriel opened his mouth, but his mother cut him off. “Yes, he is. He’s coming to town and he promised he’d arrive by dinner.” The grandmother shot Gabriel a glare. “When he arrives, he’ll be staying with me, for obvious reasons.”

“Dinner,” the cook announced.

“We need to wait,” Helen Kane said, rummaging around in her Chanel bag until she found a cell phone.

“Mother, how many times has Anthony said he’s coming to town, then failed to show up?” Gabriel refocused on Portia. “Thank you for stopping by,” he said. “Ariel, show Ms. Cuthcart to the door?”

Portia blinked.

“Dad,” Ariel interjected, “I told you, we invited her to dinner.”

Gabriel stared at his younger daughter, irritation riding across his face. “No, you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t? Oops, bad me.”

“Ariel, doesn’t your father know that you invited me to dinner?”

Ariel wrinkled her nose. “Not exactly.”

Just great. “I’ll go.”

“You can’t! You brought a cake. Dad, you can’t kick her out after she brought us a cake.”

“Way to be polite, Dad,” Miranda said.

Was that a hint of desperation in his eyes?

Gabriel ran his hand through his hair. “Sorry for the confusion. Please. Join us.”

“Really, I—”

Ariel grabbed Portia’s arm and pulled her toward a chair. Without jerking away, there wasn’t much she could do.

The dining room had been transformed into a breezy space. Billowing lightweight curtains framed French doors leading to a Juliet balcony. It was beautiful, in a picture-perfect magazine sort of way. But there was nothing personal about it.

“Nice, huh?” Ariel said.

“Absolutely lovely!” She might have added too much enthusiasm in an attempt to cover up a real lack of it.

Gabriel raised a brow, but didn’t comment.

Helen Kane managed to delay the meal for another ten minutes waiting for her other son, but finally gave in when Gabriel pointed out that Anthony was already forty-five minutes late. The family sat in silence as they were served a meal of tough beef tenderloin, overdone asparagus, underdone potatoes, wilted salad, and slices of plain white bread.

Portia thought of her own grandmother, of the cookbooks, of the knowledge that charred beef would fill a person with heated anger. The last thing this family needed was more anger.

Miranda’s phone rang, and she started to answer.

“What did I tell you about phone calls at dinner?”

“But, Dad!”

“No buts.”

Miranda glared.

Gabriel pretended not to notice. Ariel sighed. The grandmother kept looking toward the door.

This family was unhappy. This family needed food—light, nutritious meals. Happy food. Menus rushed unbidden through Portia’s head. A fluffy quiche. Arugula salad with a light balsamic dressing.

The thought surprised Portia, and she pushed this one away, too.

Miranda glared. “You’re a terrible dad, you know? Nobody I know has to put up with this stupid stuff at home.”

Portia opened her mouth, and closed it again. Gabriel’s face closed, his eyes expressionless. Helen raised a brow much like her son did so often.

“Hey, Dad?” Ariel said, breaking the silence. “I think you’re doing a great job.”

Apparently the task of peacemaking had fallen to Ariel.

The tense silence was interrupted when the doorbell rang.

“That’s him!” Helen lit up like a Christmas tree.

Miranda bolted from the table and dashed to the door.

“Uncle Anthony!” rang through the town house.

Portia heard a deep voice laugh and footsteps headed their way. Helen stood. For his part, Gabriel remained seated at the head of the table, his jaw visibly tight. But as his brother entered the room, he rose to greet him as if ingrained manners took over.

The man who entered couldn’t have been more different from his brother. It wasn’t that they didn’t look alike; they did. They had the same dark hair and dark eyes, the same set to their jaw. But something about the way Anthony Kane’s features came together made him seem like light to Gabriel’s dark—Beauty to the Beast.

Gabriel extended his hand. Anthony smiled and pulled his brother in for a bear hug.

When they stepped apart, Portia saw that Gabriel’s face hadn’t eased.

Anthony just laughed, and turned to his mother. Helen Kane looked as if she was on the verge of tears.

“It’s about time you noticed your mother,” she said, opening her arms.

Portia watched as Anthony pulled his mother into another fierce hug, then set her at arm’s length. “God, you are the best-looking woman I’ve seen in a long time.” He actually twirled her around, like two dancers on a stage.

Then, suddenly, the force of Anthony’s attention turned to her.

“Hello there, beautiful. Who are you?”

Portia felt Ariel’s surprised glance, Helen’s narrowed-eye glare, even something decidedly tense coming from Gabriel. But no one introduced her.

“I’m Portia Cuthcart,” she offered. “I live downstairs.”