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 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

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.