Michaela watched him retreat to the living room and saunter over to her stereo, where he turned the radio to a Latin station. She enjoyed the sound of Brazilian jazz as she finished the wine and poured herself another glass. Well, at least Paolo wasn’t a deadbeat dad, but instead, a protective brother. Peeking through the kitchen pass-thru window, she watched him study her family photographs on the shelf. He leaned forward and examined each silver-framed photo.
“Hey, Maki, is this little freckle-faced, carrot-top you?” he called out. Michaela could hear the amusement in his deep baritone.
“I do not have freckles.”
“I’ll have to do a closer inspection to see for myself. You were no spaghetti in those days, Maki. More like a little meatball,” he teased merrily.
“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” she replied, her lips twitching in spite of herself.
Paolo’s loud rumble of laughter filled her living room. He already felt at home and was having fun teasing her.
“Who’s the adorable little girl with the blue eyes and blonde curls?” he asked.
“My sister, Tiffany. She takes after my mother’s side.” She couldn’t understand why her parents had given her a formal name like Michaela, instead of something fun like Tiffany. But she had to admit, the name Tiffany suited her cute little sister perfectly.
The doorbell rang and Paolo rushed to answer it before Michaela could get out of the kitchen. She heard Tiffany’s cheery voice when Paolo let her in.
“Hi, there. And who are you?” Tiffany’s naturally flirtatious tone was laced with curiosity and delight.
“Paolo Santos, and you are?”
“I’m Tiffany, Michaela’s younger sister,” she replied. “Speaking of which…where is she?”
Michaela sighed. She would have been happy to see Tiffany any other day. Her sister’s bubbly personality usually entertained her, but this was no time for sisterly fun. Hopefully, Tiff would get the message and leave when she realized that they were having a business meeting. But she wouldn’t hold her breath. Tiffany had been known to turn a blind eye when it suited her.
Knife in hand, Michaela emerged from the kitchen. “What’s up, Tiff? I was just thinking about you.”
Tiffany gave her a surprised look. “Cool. We had ESP then because I was thinking about you too! What are you making?” she asked, staring at Michaela’s knife. “I’ve been so busy shopping, I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast and I’m about to pass out.”
Michaela smiled. “Me too.”
Paolo immediately said, “You must stay and have dinner with us.” He smiled at Michaela. “The more opinions we get on our menu, the better. Eh, Maki?”
“Maki?” Tiffany repeated, raising her brows with delight as she glanced at Michaela.
Michaela tried to show in her eyes that it wasn’t a good time for Tiffany’s visit, but her meaningful look went unheeded.
Tiffany lifted a two-handled, glossy white paper bag with a pink hibiscus sketched on it. “I went shopping on Lincoln Road and discovered this funky little boutique called Faloola. They have the cutest stuff and it’s just a five-minute drive from the studio.” Tiffany worked as a makeup artist for Stefan Falcone, South Beach’s go-to fashion and celebrity photographer. She also did freelance modeling whenever Stefan needed someone in a pinch.
“What did you buy?” Michaela asked, wishing she could somehow usher her out without hurting her feelings.
Tiffany’s blue eyes twinkled. “A sexy red dress for your show on Monday. You’re going to look fab-u-lous!” she crowed in a singsong voice.
Sexy red dress? Michaela glanced at Paolo and caught the blatant wink he sent her way. “Thanks for thinking of me, Tiffany. I’ll try it on later and reimburse you.”
“No need to.” Tiffany gave her a tight hug. “It’s my gift.”
“Aw, that’s very sweet of you.” Michaela returned her hug. Her little sister’s impetuous generosity always warmed her heart. Tiffany had a sunny disposition and was always up for fun, even if her impulsiveness often got her in trouble.
“I bought this outfit there too. What do you think?” Tiffany gave a little twirl for their approval, her long blonde curls floating around bare, tanned shoulders. The clingy turquoise halter dress fit her hourglass figure to perfection.
Blessed with a gorgeous face and a leggy model’s slim figure with just the right curves, Tiffany could wear anything. She was sexy without even trying and she often dated several guys at once. At twenty-five, she had never had a serious relationship because the boys she went out with always ended up being “too lame”. In spite of her flirtatious personality, Tiffany held stringent standards for whomever she was going to end up with. Michaela could not have been prouder of her little sister for not falling into a destructive relationship like Michaela had with her ex-fiancé, Jeff. Maybe seeing how much Michaela had suffered had made Tiffany extra cautious when it came to commitment.
Tiffany loved dating and meeting men, but when the guys got serious, she ran. The only good-looking guy who hadn’t tried to put the moves on her was her boss. It was a good thing, too, since the enigmatic Stefan was at least a dozen years older than Tiffany and dated most of the models he photographed.
“Great outfit.” Paolo sent Tiffany a ravishing grin as he admired her from head to toe. He nodded toward Michaela. “I hope you got one like it for your sister.”
Seeing the appreciative gleam in his eyes made Michaela wish she were wearing something more appealing than a tank top and yoga pants. Stop that, she told herself firmly. Don’t care so much about attracting Paolo. The man was a known player, and most importantly, her adversary. They were competitors and that was the only reason she had let him in her apartment.
“It sure smells good in here,” Tiffany said, grinning shamelessly. “Hint, hint.”
Michaela couldn’t turn her sister away after the generous gift, so she caved. “You can stay for dinner, if you like, Tiff. Wanna help me set the table?”
“Sure. Should I do it now?” Tiffany asked eagerly.
“Not yet,” Paolo boomed. “Come into the living room and have some prosciutto melon balls.”
“I’d love to,” Tiffany said, trotting after him.
Michaela stood in the kitchen doorway and watched Paolo pour a glass of wine for Tiffany, then return to sit beside her on the living room couch. She waited for the male charm sure to surface any moment, this time directed at her ever-so-delighted sister. Amazing how at ease he felt after a mere half-hour at her place.
“So…tell me all about yourself, Paolo.” Tiffany settled comfortably on the couch after a sip of wine. She crossed one tanned leg over the other and gave him her undivided attention. “How do you know Mic?”
“Maki and I are doing a show together. Hasn’t your sister told you about me?” Paolo asked, turning to give Michaela a reproachful look.
Tiffany looked enchanted, as if she was uncovering a delicious secret. Her eyes lit up with interest. “I didn’t realize you were her competition. I thought you were a new boyfriend.”
“He isn’t,” Michaela said quickly. “Our meeting tonight is strictly business.”
“Suuure…if you say so, Mic,” Tiffany teased.
With no time for banter, Michaela listened to her grumbling stomach and returned to the kitchen to finish cooking. She picked up the wineglass and tossed back the contents. A rush of warmth spread from her cheeks, down her neck, to the tips of her hands and toes. She needed to prepare an entire meal in record time.
She could barely make out what Tiffany and Paolo were saying above the music, but they seemed to be getting along great. Well, at least Tiff would keep Paolo entertained so Michaela could concentrate on her meal. Tiffany had always been the cheerful, vivacious one, while her family and friends had referred to Michaela as the “serious little bookworm”. But what had they expected when even her pa
rents had misread her pensive nature and labeled her as uncreative? She had always wondered what it would be like to be her sister, whose playful nature could coax a smile out of anyone. Tiffany’s sentences always ended with a giggle, whereas Michaela only laughed if she was genuinely amused.
With a pang, Michaela remembered her sixth birthday when she had asked for an Easy Bake Oven with all the trimmings to make pretty cakes. Instead, her parents had bought her something “sensible” they hoped she would enjoy more than an Easy Bake Oven: a complete set of encyclopedias. They declared that baking cakes would only make her fatter, while the encyclopedias would open a whole world of knowledge. That was when Aunt Willow, bless her kind heart, stepped in and bought Michaela the coveted little oven, ignoring their objections.
The first thing Michaela did when she graduated from high school was donate the encyclopedias. With the Internet, she didn’t need them anymore. But she’d done it mostly because every time she glanced at them it was a stinging reminder that her parents had imposed their will on her, dousing her creative spirit. They had meant well, but they had done more damage than good with their practical gift.
Michaela spent her teen years glued to her books trying to please her demanding parents who wouldn’t be satisfied unless she made class valedictorian and was admitted to a top Ivy League school. To cope with the stress, whenever she felt anxious, she ate cookies or candy bars she kept stashed under her bed. But as soon as she finished indulging, she felt sick inside, knowing it wasn’t good for her. Her wake-up call came in her sophomore college year when her doctor told her she had to drastically change her diet or risk health problems. She took a course in nutrition and met Dr. Robin Wells, a brilliant professor who changed her outlook on food…and life. Under the wise woman’s mentorship and guidance, Michaela blossomed and became empowered. Now, years later, they still kept in touch and Dr. Wells had generously offered to add a foreword to Michaela’s cookbook.
Michaela pulled out two Sabatier chef knives and held them side by side as she made short work of slicing the crimini mushrooms before throwing them into the pan with the shallots and minced garlic already sizzling in the olive oil cooking spray. After stirring a few times, she added a cup of dry Chardonnay and waited for the stock to reduce while she lightly dredged the grouper filets in Panko and seasoned them with freshly ground pepper and coarse sea salt.
“Something smells good, Maki,” Paolo called out.
Michaela deftly sliced the zucchini and acorn squash lengthwise and coated them with a scant amount of olive oil before seasoning and brushing freshly chopped rosemary leaves over them.
She looked up and spied a lovely box of chocolate truffles beside her refrigerator, no doubt one of Paolo’s “surprises”. Chocolate was her biggest weakness, so she tried to limit it, except for once a month when her hormones demanded more.
She was jarred from her work by a loud shout of laughter. Giving in to curiosity, she peeked out to find Paolo and Tiffany bent over one of her high school yearbooks, laughing. She bolted out of the kitchen, hoping it wasn’t her senior yearbook. When she neared their side, she froze.
“Tiffany! How could you?” Michaela asked, feeling betrayed and hurt.
Tiffany’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“You were laughing at my picture. I can’t believe you would do that!”
“I wasn’t!” Tiffany protested, looking shocked. “I was just boasting to Paolo about all your accomplishments. He didn’t believe me when I told him that you were class valedictorian, president of National Honor Society, debate team leader, Key Club president, etc., etc. I had to prove it to him. Here it is in black and white, Paolo. Read for yourself.”
“Wow, Maki, you are a smarty-pants!” Paolo said, giving her an admiring glance.
“Yep, she inherited the brains in the family,” Tiffany said proudly.
“Your little sister admitted that she can’t even balance a checkbook.” Paolo shook his head and chuckled. “That’s why we were laughing.”
Michaela plucked the open volume from her sister’s lap. She stared at her unsmiling senior picture that showed her with an unflattering bowl haircut that emphasized her puffy face. Her thick, straight bangs were so long they covered her eyebrows, giving her a gloomy look. For a long, aching moment, she stared at the somber face, wishing she could turn back time and bring a smile to it.
Her senior year had been fraught with pressure and unhappiness as her parents had tried to steer her to Yale instead of to The Culinary Institute of America. But not all was lost, she reminded herself staunchly. She had persevered and gotten an excellent liberal arts education at Yale. When she graduated, she attended Duke law school, but dropped out in her third year and headed straight for the CIA in New York and then to Paris, where she studied at Le Cordon Bleu. Her parents had never forgiven her.
“Yikes, smells like something’s burning!” Tiffany suddenly cried out, darting up from the sofa.
Chapter Six
“Oh, no!” Michaela saw the flames flickering inside the cast iron skillet the second she ran into the kitchen.
Tiffany gave a high-pitched squeal and dashed toward the sink where she grabbed the faucet hose, struggling to pull it out. She wildly sprayed water from afar, not only dousing the flaming pan, but Michaela as well.
“Not me, the pans!” Michaela cried, when the stream of water drenched her face. Frustration welled up inside her as she surveyed the charred zucchini strips and withered mushrooms stuck to the cast iron skillet. The once meaty grouper filets looked like shriveled sardines. “What a disaster! Everything’s ruined,” she moaned.
Michaela’s hair was dripping from Tiffany’s careless play with the water hose. Paolo’s lips were twitching and so were Tiffany’s as they struggled not to laugh. Michaela couldn’t help but join in their mirth, but she then she sobered. No chef worth her salt left a meal unattended and let it burn. She felt drained and mortified as she grabbed a dishtowel off the hook and blotted her face dry.
“I’ll help you clean up,” Tiffany said in a soothing voice. “Why don’t we order pizza?”
“I’m not hungry anymore,” Michaela said quietly. “Maybe you guys should leave.”
Paolo took the dishtowel from Michaela and carried the charred pan to the sink. He tucked the towel in around his waist, turned on the faucet, and made short work of emptying the burnt remains into the garbage disposal.
“What are you doing?” Michaela was at his side in an instant.
“You’re tired and upset and this is partly our fault.” Looking concerned, Paolo smiled at her before turning back to his work. “You’ve had a long day. Go relax in the living room and I’ll clean up for you.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to clean up my mistakes,” she said, taking the towel from his waist.
“I insist,” Paolo countered, his voice deepening with firmness as he tried to take the towel from her hands, but she held on and a tug of war ensued. “Let go and do as I say, nena. You’re being stubborn.”
“It’s my kitchen.” She knew she sounded grouchy, but she needed to be alone in her kitchen, to compose her tattered emotions.
Paolo gave her an uncompromising look and then turned to the sink and resumed washing the dishes.
As if on cue, Tiffany scrambled toward the living room and picked up her Tory Burch handbag. “C’mon, Mic, walk me out.”
Michaela followed her to the door and Tiffany gave her hand a quick squeeze. “We were not poking fun at your picture. I swear I would never do that!”
“I know,” Michaela said. “But you shouldn’t have brought out my yearbook. You, of all people, know I don’t treasure those memories.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re the only one with the fat complex. Look at you! You’re a knockout, you fool,” Tiffany chided.
Michaela sighed deeply. How could she stay mad at her sister after that? “T
hanks, I guess I’m just tired.”
“I understand, sweetie. But before I go there’s something I have to tell you.” She paused. “I’m sorry to bring it up now. I know it’s a bad time—”
“What is it?” Michaela felt a frisson of alarm at the look on Tiffany’s face.
“It’s not good…” Tiffany trailed off with a doleful shake of her head.
Michaela hoped this was just Tiffany’s penchant for drama and nothing truly dire. “Then why do you have to tell me now?”
“Dad insisted that I personally deliver a message to you, which is part of the reason I stopped by.”
“Okay, spill,” Michaela said, anxious to get her going.
“He’s coming to the pilot show and he said he expects you to win. I think he might show up with his latest girlfriend,” Tiffany confided.
Michaela’s heart sank. “That was Dad’s uplifting message? Oh well, don’t worry about it.” His parenting style was a lethal combination of high pressure and towering expectations. Although she wasn’t a teen anymore, it still hurt her.
Tiffany fidgeted. “There’s more. Mom’s planning on being there too.”
“I figured she would.” Sylvia Willoughby was very competitive by nature and would be determined to see Michaela win.
“Don’t kill the messenger, but she’s bringing Aunt Magda.”
“Aunt Magda too?”
Tiffany nodded sympathetically.
Michaela loved her aunt, but the woman was a hopeless romantic. An English Lit professor at the University of Miami, Aunt Magda thought everything could be resolved like a Jane Austen novel. She had vowed that neither of her nieces, particularly Michaela as she was the oldest, would suffer the same fate as she. After Michaela’s break-up with Jeff, Aunt Magda had appointed herself matchmaker. She doled out prospective matrimonial candidates with the same fervor and consistency as a breeding rabbit.
“I hope she’s not bringing a new one…is she?” Michaela asked.
Tiffany squirmed. “’Fraid so. He’ll be at the show too.”
Grill Me, Baby Page 6
