A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (24 page)

“Well, the food here is definitely better than in my closet.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm, Vanessa. I came because I was worried about you.”

There was no arguing with that. She was worried. I could see it in the tiny lines around her eyes.

“I know. And I should have called. It’s just that escape seemed the better option.”

“From me?”

“No. From everyone else. The phone was ringing nonstop. Even Cybil was getting calls.”

“Me, too, I’m afraid. It’s seems you’re something of a celebrity these days.”

“My five minutes of infamy,” I said, forcing a smile.

“It’s nothing to make light of.”

We were spared further conversation for the moment when the waiter approached to take our order. From the looks he kept shooting my way, it was clear he’d either seen the photograph or recognized a mother-daughter powder keg when he saw one.

“I’ll have a dry salad,” my mother said, “and a Bloody Mary.” Cybil, following my mother’s lead, ordered a Bloody Mary and a Caesar salad.

Daring to buck the vegetable-driven solidarity, I ordered crab cakes and, after a moment’s hesitation, a martini with two olives. After all, martinis had started this disastrous ball rolling. Maybe a little hair of the dog would make the whole thing go away. Or at the very least, make it more palatable.

In short order the drinks arrived, and after a sip, my mother sat back, ready to begin the inquisition.

“So,” she said, with the air of a queen presiding over her court, “where were we?”

“Having a quiet lunch and trying to forget about Vanessa’s problems?” Cybil’s suggestion was much appreciated but, of course, totally ignored.

“Well, burying one’s head in the sand is hardly the way to deal with something this important.”

“Actually, Mrs. C., when you put it like that, it sounds a little macabre.” Cybil had been calling my mother Mrs. C. since we’d hit puberty and she’d started watching reruns of Happy Days. My mother hadn’t exactly warmed to the idea, but after a time it sort of caught on among my friends, and she’d grudgingly learned to accept it.

“You know what I mean.” She waved her hand, her wedding ring flashing in the light.

“I’m not hiding out or sticking my head in the sand,” I said, bringing the conversation back to the subject at hand. “I’m just trying to put a little distance between myself and the tabloids.”

“You should have thought about that before you let that man kiss you.”

“He didn’t actually consult me about it, you know.”

She sighed. “I know it’s not your fault. But it’s still going to be a problem.”

“For me. Not for you.”

“You’re my daughter, Vanessa, if it’s happening to you, then it matters to me. And so I want to do what I can to help.”

The last thing I needed was for my mother to poke her nose in and make things worse. No matter how well intentioned she was.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“I know. And I suppose that’s the hardest part. It doesn’t matter how old your children get, you want to protect them. Make their pain go away. It’s as natural as breathing.”

Put like that, it sounded pretty damn wonderful. But I wasn’t a kid, and no amount of motherly love was going to make things all right.

“Vanessa?” a familiar voice said. “I thought that was you.” Great, this was turning into a full-blown party.

Belinda Waxman stood beside the table. “I just wanted to come over and see how you’re doing.”

“Fine,” I said, feeling a lot like a fish in a bowl. Or more realistically, a duck in a shooting gallery.

“Really?” she asked, her frown making it perfectly clear that she wasn’t buying a word of it.

“Yes. Honestly. I mean I’ve had better days. But this too shall pass.” I smiled brightly, fooling no one at all, but the effort made me feel better nevertheless.

“You and Douglas aren’t. . . ,” she trailed off, clearly embarrassed.

“God, no.” The minute it came out I realized the protestation was a little too strong. I mean, Douglas was a client. “He’s marrying Maris.”

“So it’s still on? I’d heard there were problems.”

“Well, if there are, it’s nothing to do with Vanessa,” my mother asserted.

I shot her a look—chagrin mixed with gratitude—which pretty much sums up our relationship in a nutshell.

“There was a little hitch,” I said, returning my attention to Belinda. “That’s why I was with Douglas yesterday. But everything’s back on track. I talked to them both this morning.”

“And the kiss?” Belinda asked, never one to mince words.

“Was simply an overexuberant Douglas saying thank-you.”

“You mean an inebriated Douglas,” Cybil interjected.

“Well, it all amounts to the same thing. With a little prodding, Douglas was able to overcome his fear of rejection and realize that he didn’t want to lose Maris.”

“You’re a genius.”

Both Cybil and my mother worked to cover their laughter. Cybil by starting to cough and my mother, uncharacteristically, by stuffing her mouth with lettuce. I, quite wisely, kept my mouth shut.

“No,” Belinda said. “I mean it. First, you fix things between Stanley and me.” She reached up to touch the Kipepeo earrings. “And then you make things right for Maris and Douglas. I don’t care what the buzz is, I think you’re the best.”

Okay, I’m not immune to flattery, but there was a big ugly fly in all that sugar. “Buzz?” I asked, holding my breath.

“Oh, you know,” she said, suddenly looking uncomfortable, “it’s just the usual stuff.”

“Come on, Belinda,” Cybil said. “Vanessa’s a big girl. Just tell us what you’ve been hearing.”

Mother reached for my hand again.

I felt like I was about to be voted off the island.

“It’s not anything, really,” Belinda said, trying desperately to backpedal.

“Out with it,” I said, pulling free of my mother. “Cybil’s right. I can handle it.”

“All right,” she sighed. “Word is that you’ve not only lost the bet, you’ve lost credibility. And the scuttle is that Althea is already fielding calls.”

“What kind of calls?” Cybil asked, prolonging the moment.

“Clients.”

“Mine?” I asked, my voice coming out on a squeak.

“Yes.” She nodded. “And then, of course, there’s Mark Grayson.”

“What are they saying about him?” For some reason my stomach chose that moment to attempt to reject the martini and what was left of the croissants. I laced my fingers tightly and concentrated on the keeping everything down.

“It’s just gossip,” Mother said. “Most of it with no more credibility than that damn photograph.” My mother only curses when she is angry. Maybe she’d really meant what she said about wanting to right my wrongs. At the moment, the idea of a champion wasn’t at all distasteful.

“Just that if he’s truly interested in the idea of a matchmaker, he’d be better off with Althea.”

“Your mother’s right,” Cybil said. “It’s just a bunch of people with nothing else to talk about. There’s probably not a kernel of truth in any of it.”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Belinda said. “I’m sorry. But for the record, I agree with Cybil and your mom, and that’s what I’ve been telling anyone who broaches the subject with me.”

“No,” I said, “I’m glad you told me. Better to know what’s being said. It’ll give me a leg up on dealing with the fallout.” If there was anything left to deal with. Althea might be a friend, but she wasn’t a stupid one. And she’d be a fool not to use my misfortune to her advantage. I can’t say that I wouldn’t have done the same thing if given the chance.

“So far your clients are standing strong,” Cybil reminded me, correctly reading my mind.

“Some of them, yes.” I shot a grateful smile at Belinda. “But I haven’t talked to all of them.” I’d actually managed a few calls while Cybil was trying on clothes. And I’ll admit, everyone that I talked to had refused to jump ship, even when I’d said I’d understand. So maybe they were right. Maybe it would blow itself out in the wake of something more tantalizing. I mean, that’s exactly what I’d be saying if it were someone else in the same predicament.

Only it wasn’t someone else. It was me. And currently panic seemed to be winning the day, despite the troops rallying to my side.

My cell phone rang, breaking through my paranoid delusions, and I pulled it from my purse, checking the display before flipping it open.

My heart stutter stepped to a complete stop.

Mother’s eyebrows shot up in question, and Cybil tried to peer over my arm at the screen. Belinda, however, had full view of the phone, and she was the one who put them out of their misery.

“It’s Mark Grayson.”

“Answer it,” Cybil said.

“Quickly,” my mother added, “before he hangs up.”

Something in her tone broke through my inertia and I flipped the phone open. “Vanessa Carlson.” I was delighted to hear that my voice actually sounded close to normal.

“When you said compromising, you weren’t kidding,” he said. Nothing like jumping straight to the point.

“Well, I always try to do my very best.” I scrambled for something less flip to say, but nothing came to mind. “Did you call just to give me a hard time?”

His laugh was oddly comforting. “No. Actually I called to see if you’re free for dinner.”

“Can you hear what he’s saying?” Mother asked Cybil, who was closer to the phone. She shook her head, and I shooshed them both.

“Are you sure you’re up for it? I seem to be a magnet for trouble these days.”

“A magnet of your own making, I suspect.” I started to argue, but he really did have a point. “But to answer your question, I think I can handle a little innuendo. It’s not like I haven’t been there before.”

“Thanks in part to me.”

“So are you free?” he asked again, ignoring my self' deprecation.

I thought about saying no. But then I looked at Cybil. She deserved this. Even if I didn’t. “Yes. I’m free.”

And just like that, I was back in business again. Althea might have the upper hand for the moment. But my mother was right, tomorrow would yield something juicier than Douglas’s drunken kiss.

I just hoped to heaven it didn’t involve me.

Chapter 18

Waldorf-Astoria.
301 Park Avenue (between Forty-ninth and Fiftieth streets), 212.355.3000.

For more than a century, the Waldorf-Astoria has combined luxury with a wealth of amenities and services. This forty-two-story art deco hotel, located in midtown Manhattan, beckons New Yorkers and visitors alike. An official New York City landmark since 1993, the Waldorf-Astoria is synonymous with elegance and grandeur, boasting recent renovations renewing the splendor that has long made it an international icon.

—www.historichotels.org

∞∞∞

The Waldorf-Astoria is one of my favorite places. I’m an unabashed fan of everything about the place. From the grand lobbies to the ornately appointed rooms, it embodies my idea of the good life. So when Mark had asked me to meet him there, I’d readily agreed. But when we got on the elevator instead of heading for Oscar’s or the Bull and Bear, I had a shiver of concern.

And when the doors opened on the eighteenth floor, my stomach lurched with the elevator. The marbled rotunda was full of people in tuxedos and couture. On the plus side, I’d decided to dress for dinner. Wearing a vintage midnight blue sheath from Oscar de la Renta and rhinestone sandals from Stuart Weitzman, I could hold my own. On the negative side, these were the very people who’d been calling my apartment nonstop. (Anderson had kept a log. It read like a who’s who of Manhattan socialites.)

“I thought we were going to dinner,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth, simultaneously nodding at Winston and Marjorie Pierce. Just what I needed, an agonizing stroll through the latest incarnation of peacock alley.

“We are,” Mark responded, his hand on my elbow as we followed the coiffed and cultured into the exquisitely decorated ballroom.

“Here?” I said, glancing at the milling hoards.

I should stop here to say that the Starlight Roof is a fabulous place. In the thirties, the venue was reputedly one of the most luminous nightclubs in New York. But for more than fifty years its beauty languished behind a modern architectural remuddle. Fortunately, it has been restored to its former art deco glory, complete with two-story damask-covered windows and a fanciful grille that in its heyday retracted to give patrons an unparalleled view of the stars.

Of course, right at that moment, all I could think about were the smirks and whispers that were going to follow me as I walked through the room. “I can’t,” I said, trying to swallow my panic.

“Of course you can. Just act like you haven’t a care in the world.”

“Easy for you to say. No one’s going to snicker at you.”

His hand tightened on my elbow. “And as long as you’re with me, no one is going to laugh at you, either.”

“How do you figure that?” I snapped, my tone just this side of waspish. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m the topic du jour for pretty much everyone in this room.” All four hundred fifty of them.

“You certainly seem to have a high opinion of yourself.”

“That’s not fair. You know how condemning these people can be.” Considering a great deal of “these” people were my purported friends, I suppose the comment sounded a bit inane. But that didn’t stop me from saying it.

“Yes, I do know,” he said, turning so that we were facing each other. “That’s why I’ve brought you here. If people see you with me, then they’ll have to assume I’ve agreed to work with you. And since I’m known for my caution when it comes to business arrangements, it follows that they’ll assume that you’re on the up-and-up. No flagrant affairs with clients.”

It was a brilliant plan. Stunningly simple. To the point. Practically perfect. Except for one tiny little fact. “But you’re not working with me.” I held my breath—hope springs eternal and all that.

“Yes, but they don’t know that.”

I nodded, for once totally at a loss for words. On the one hand, his plan had every possibility of saving my reputation. And ergo my business. On the other hand, by agreeing with me, he’d just confirmed the fact that he wasn’t interested in a match.