A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (17 page)

“Oh, Maris, is that what you think?”

She nodded, a hint of embarrassment in her eyes.

“Don’t be silly. I’m very selective about whom I ask to be on my list. If I didn’t think you had what it takes, I wouldn’t have asked you.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” I assured her. Of course, it had taken three hairstylists, a trip to Barneys, and a personal trainer to bring the diamond out of the rough. But the basic elements had been there all along. They just needed a little love and care. “You can attract any man you want. In fact, you did. Douglas didn’t ask you to marry him because of me. I might have set the stage, Maris, but you’re the one he proposed to.”

“Yes, but now he’s unproposed.”

“I don’t believe that at all. He’s just got cold feet. You were about to tell me something before the phone call interrupted us. What were you going to say?”

“Just that he wouldn’t listen to anything I said. I tried to get him to tell me what was wrong. To understand why he’d changed his mind, but he didn’t really say anything coherent. He just kept mumbling something about it being too good to last. It didn’t make any sense. And I told him so, but he just said something about playing the fool. Honest to God, Vanessa, I haven’t got the slightest idea what he was talking about.”

But I did.

“This is about Alyssa.” Alyssa Mangrove was the woman who’d left him all those years ago. It had been a public spectacle. A stronger man would have buckled. And Douglas, well, he’d been destroyed.

“But that was years ago. And I’m not her.” Maris was a lovely woman, and I still say perfect for Douglas, but insight wasn’t her strong point.

“I know that. But Douglas doesn’t. Let me talk to him. I have an idea where he might be.”

“Thank you.” Maris gave me a watery smile. “I just didn’t know who else to turn to.”

“No worries. That’s what I’m here for.” I’d been this route before, although never with someone as fragile as Douglas. Still, I was pretty sure I could get him to see reason. And then with a little luck I’d take on Mark Grayson.

At least my job wasn’t boring.

A couple of hours later I was downtown looking for Douglas. He was fairly predictable, and I figured the White Horse Tavern was my best bet. The tavern is often billed as the second oldest bar in Manhattan, but its main claim to fame is the fact that Dylan Thomas actually drank himself to death there. Apparently, in November 1953, Thomas beat his own personal record by downing eighteen shots of whiskey. According to the story, soon after the last drink he stumbled outside and collapsed on the sidewalk. He was taken to the Chelsea Hotel and there fell into a coma; the next morning he was transferred to St. Vincent’s Hospital, where he died.

There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

Anyway, thanks to the notoriety, the bar was a gathering place for writers for the next twenty years or so. A tribute to one of their own, I suppose. And even now there is something about the place. It’s segmented into smaller rooms with heavy black beams overhead. A very British feel to it.

Actually, I love British pubs. And for that matter British pints. I was never a big beer drinker until I tasted my first bitter. But I digress.

I walked into the shadowy bar and wove my way through tables and framed portraits of Dylan Thomas, looking for Douglas. He was a smallish man, with a thatch of inky hair that insisted on hanging in his eyes no matter how often he pushed it away.

He also had that professorial air. You know, that distracted, where-the-hell-am-I-and-was-I-saying-something-important look? A very bright, if slightly unfocused, mind. It was only with pencil and paper (or, more realistically, with computer keyboard) that he found his true voice, and in it, I for one, got a glimpse of the man behind the curtain.

Just as I expected, he was sitting in a back room against the far wall, staring broodingly into space. Sort of Heathcliffe meets Ichabod Crane, neither of them better off for the union.

There was a half-empty beer glass and an open laptop on the table. I suspected the glass was getting more use than the computer. But it was just a guess.

“So how long have you been here?”

He stared up at me for a moment, then shrugged. “Since about eleven.”

Considering that it was close to five now, that meant six solid hours of drinking. Even sipping slowly, I was guessing he had quite a buzz going. Not that you could tell by looking at him. I took a seat across the table. “Maris is worried about you.”

“She is?” He tilted his head with a frown. “I find that hard to believe, considering I dumped her.”

“You want to tell me why you did that?”

He stared down into his beer for a moment, then looked up at me with sad brown eyes. “Because I didn’t want her to dump me.”

“Come again?” I was sure there was logic in there somewhere, but for the life of me I wasn’t sure what it was.

“You need a beer.” This non sequitur was followed by the appearance of a waitress.

Considering I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, a beer was probably the last thing I needed, but if I was going to get to the bottom of this I needed to get with the program, so to speak. “I’ll have a Boddingtons.” I smiled at the woman and then turned my attention back to Douglas. “So what in hell would make you think that Maris was going to dump you?”

“Because that’s what women do.”

I resisted the urge to pound my head against the wall. “That’s what Alyssa did. But she’s not all women. We’ve covered this ground before, Douglas.”

“I know,” he said, doing a fabulous imitation of Eeyore. Wonderful, I was dealing with a misanthropic donkey. Stubborn and irrational all at the same time. A killer combination. Just what I needed. “But who’s to say that Maris won’t do the same? And the truth is, I don’t think I can handle it happening again.”

“I can understand your fear, but believe me, it’s totally unfounded. Maris loves you.”

“Now. But who’s to say that won’t change?” The waitress arrived with my beer and set it on the table, along with a refill for Douglas.

“You really think you need more?” I asked, sounding more like my mother than I was comfortable admitting.

“Absolutely,” he said, reaching for his glass, and just missing. I pulled mine to safety and watched as he swallowed half the contents in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was almost as if he’d morphed into a complete stranger. The haunted look in his eyes was all Douglas, though. Drunk or sober, he needed my help.

“Douglas, there aren’t any guarantees when it comes to relationships.”

“Precisely why I don’t need one,” he mumbled into his glass.

“You don’t mean that.” I took a sip for fortification and plunged right to the heart of the matter. “Letting Maris go would be the biggest mistake of your life. She’s perfect for you.”

“So was Alyssa.” He glared at me. “And look how that ended.”

“Douglas, you begged me to find a match for you. You said you were ready for commitment.”

“I was wrong.” He looked so pathetic I almost felt sorry for him. But the engagement had already been announced—in all the best papers. Presents had been bought, invitations responded to. And in all honesty, if it fell apart now, so did my reputation.

Besides, Douglas and Maris belonged together. So there was simply no way I was going to let cold feet get in the way. “So now you want to spend the rest of your life alone?”

“When you put it like that, not so much,” he said with a frown, tilting his head from side to side, trying to focus. “But when I think about it rationally, then I suppose the answer is yes. I’m just not ready to take the risk.”

Considering the amount of Pilsner Urquell he’d consumed, I wasn’t at all sure he was capable of being rational, but I wasn’t about to mention the fact. Better to keep trying to get through to the part of him that wasn’t drowning in alcohol.

“But you’ve already done the hard part, Douglas. You’ve found the girl.”

“Actually, you found her,” he said, still channeling Eeyore. This was going nowhere fast.

“Look, Douglas, I can’t make you get married. But I can tell you that you’re making a huge mistake if you let Maris go. The two of you are a good fit. Your strengths play off of hers.”

“They do.” He shook his head, clearly not completely with the program. “But that’s not enough.”

“Of course it is,” I snapped, trying to hang on to my patience. There’s nothing more annoying than trying to reason with an inebriated friend when you’re sober. And in all truth, Douglas barely qualified as a friend.

“Douglas, what you need right now is to go home and sleep it off.”

“I’m fine,” he said, waving his beer in the air to underscore the fact. Unfortunately, beer sloshed over the sides, showering the table. I pulled the laptop to safety and watched as he used a cocktail napkin to try to blot up the mess.

It was sort of like using a spoon to drain the bathtub. Not particularly successful. I signaled the waitress for a rag and the check.

“I’m not ready to go,” Douglas protested.

“I think you are,” I said, already plotting how I was going to get him outside and into a taxi. He didn’t weigh all that much, but he still had the advantage over me. “Come on, let’s go.”

“But I still have beer.” He waved at his glass.

“Finish it, then.” Two more sips wasn’t going to make much of a difference. I glanced at the bill and pulled a wad of twenties from my purse.

“You shouldn’t pay. They were my beers,” Douglas insisted, trying valiantly to find his wallet, but not quite managing to access the pocket.

“No problem,” I said. “It’s my treat.”

He drained his glass, and then pushed back from the table. For a moment he was actually on his feet, then almost as quickly, his arms windmilled frantically, and he fell backward against the wall.

The bar was still fairly empty, but a burly guy at an adjacent table stood up to help. I shook my head and shot him a smile, moving at the same time to wrap an arm around a jelly-legged Douglas. “We’re fine.”

I didn’t want to make any more of a spectacle than necessary. The White Horse was not part of the celebrity circuit, but you never know when some yahoo with a camera is going to see his chance at making
Page Six
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“Okay, Douglas, we can do this.” He shot me a confused look, and I tightened my grip. Douglas wasn’t much of a drinker, and based on the tab, I figured he’d had something like eight beers. “Just put one foot in front of the other.”

It was slow going, but we were definitely making progress. “I’m sorry, Vanessa,” Douglas said. “Didn’t mean to do this.”

“No one ever does,” I commiserated. He was a bit morose, but beyond that he was a fairly decent guy—when he was sober. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“I blew it, though.” He shot me a baleful look with Eeyore eyes. “With Maris.”

“Yes, you did.” I nodded, pulling to the left to counterbalance his listing to the right. “But it’s not too late to fix things.”

“Maybe I should call her.” He stopped so suddenly, I almost fell over. “Got my phone here, somewhere.” He patted his pockets and then frowned. “Where’s my computer?”

“I’ve got it right here.”

“Good.” He started forward again, stumbling over the leg of a chair. “Phone’s in the pocket.”

I grabbed his elbow, just managing to keep him upright. “You don’t need to call anyone right now.”

“But I should talk to Maris. Try to make things right.”

It was exactly what I wanted him to do, but not in this state. “It’ll keep until the morning. Right now we need to get you outside and into a taxi. Think you can help me do that?”

He nodded and shot me a crooked smile. “Sorry to be such trouble.”

“You’re not any trouble,” I reassured him. Actually trouble was an understatement, but there was no sense in making the situation worse. “Come on. Just a few more steps.”

We walked out into the street, and I propped Douglas against a lamppost while I tried to hail a taxi. It was the tail end of rush hour, and the cabs that passed by were either occupied or off duty.

“We could walk,” Douglas said, pushing off the lamppost. He staggered a couple of steps, then frowned. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” He swayed to the right and then alarmingly to the left. I closed the distance between us, barely managing to keep him on his feet.

“Just hang in a few more minutes. You can do it.”

He nodded, but closed his eyes. I shook him. “Douglas, stay with me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a taxi and lifted my free arm to flag him down. The driver pulled over and I walked Douglas to the curb. Leaning against the taxi, I managed to hold on to Douglas while opening the door.

“Thank you . . .” His mouth kept moving, but nothing else came out. And then he closed the distance between us faster than I’d have thought possible. His lips hard against mine. “You’re the best.”

If someone had told me that Douglas Larson’s kiss would make me see stars, I’d have laughed out loud. But that’s exactly what happened.

One minute he was kissing me, and the next the world was filled with light—the cold, harsh flash of a camera.

Shit.

Chapter 13

Marie’s Crisis.
59 Grove Street (between Bleecker and Seventh Avenue), 212.243.9323.

Formerly Marie s, this dark, dive-y piano bar is decorated with Christmas lights strung across a low ceiling and with red, cracked leather barstools. It takes its unusual name from the original owner, Marie Dumont, who. after being diagnosed with cancer in the 1960s, felt it appropriate to memorialize the bad news forever.

—www.nydailynews.com

∞∞∞

The name says it all. I had a potential crisis on my hands, and I needed help. Fast. Richard was the best person to help me. And thanks to proximity, and Richard’s penchant for show tunes, Marie’s was the choice du jour.

There are some who claim the bar, originally the home of Thomas Paine, was named for his revolutionary rabble-rousing pamphlet of the same name. I prefer the other version. But either way, the joint has a wonderful, shady past. These days, however, the only rabble-rousing comes from patrons fighting over which Broadway standard to sing next.