A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (31 page)

“So what did she look like, this woman?”

Belinda’s eyes widened, the tears now skiing off the end of her nose.

“I don’t mean that part of her. I mean color of hair, height, you know, identifying characteristics.”

“She had huge boobs. You can’t get more identifying than that.”

“Well, I see your point. But honestly, these days a lot of women have big boobs.”

“But I don’t.” Belinda waved a hand at her chest. “And if that’s what Stanley likes, then he’ll never choose me.”

“Belinda, he’s already chosen you. I talked to him, remember? And I told you he’s not interested in that type of woman anymore. Honestly.”

“Well, considering what I saw, it seems to me like old habits aren’t that easy to break.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. Speaking of old habits, my mind immediately pulled forth two photos. Wife number one, and wife number two. “What color was her hair?”

“Redhead—the natural kind. You know, like Julianne Moore. Only a hell of a lot younger.” I’d never heard Belinda curse, which meant that despite having only two dates, she’d fallen fast and hard. I should have been ecstatic, but I really quite liked Belinda. And I didn’t want her to be hurt.

I trusted Stanley. A lot. But the facts seemed to stand on their own.

At least I’d been wrong about it being one of his exes. Both of them were more the Anna Nicole Smith peroxide-rules-the-day type. It was in the bimbo code somewhere—bleach blondes rule. Anyway, I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Not that I wanted it to be one of the exes, mind you, I just figured if Stanley was running scared, Belinda was right, he’d head for what was familiar.

But redheads were entirely new territory. Well, maybe not completely. I mean, she did have big breasts. What had I been thinking? A leopard never changes his spots. There’d been a redhead at the shoot in the park. White teeth, copper hair, humongous boobs.

“What is it?” Belinda asked, her voice shaking. “You know something, don’t you?”

I fought the urge to curse myself and schooled my expression into what I hoped was calm passivity. “I don’t know anything. I tried calling as soon as I talked to you, but he wasn’t answering his phone.”

“Because he’s in bed with . . . with . . . that woman."

As descriptions go, that one pretty much fit the bill. I mean, for hundreds of years “that woman” would come along and ruin everything. Or, to be politically correct about it, “that person.” There were “those men,” after all. In fact, following that train of thought, Stephen could be considered the textbook definition of “that person.” He just kept turning up like a bad penny, trying to ruin Cybil’s life.

Well, at least I’d done something about that.

Suddenly I felt a bit better. Which, of course, had nothing at all to do with the issue at hand. “I think you need to talk to Stanley.” In truth, there was only so much reassurance I could offer. And the picture etched in her brain was going to trump pretty much anything.

“There’s nothing to say. Believe me, I’ve seen it all.”

I told you.

But still, I had to try. “You saw something that looked incriminating. But that doesn’t mean it was. You have to try giving Stanley the benefit of the doubt. Like I said before, maybe there’s a perfectly logical explanation. And even if there isn’t, maybe it’s still worth talking to him.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t like being made a fool of.”

“Well, no one saw you except the woman, right? You said you didn’t actually see Stanley.”

“No. I just heard him.”

“So the only way you can feel like a fool is if you let yourself. It’s not like you were naked. If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s her. And even if what you think happened happened, the only real fool is Stanley.”

“Yes, but I don’t want him to be a fool, either. I just wish I’d never found out.” The tears were back, this time mixing with the salad dressing.

“Well, you have. And now you have to deal with it.” It was time to get down to basics. “Which means you can do one of two things. You can confront Stanley and find out the real truth, whatever it is. Or you can run away and pretend none of this ever happened. The choice is yours.”

“I’ve never been a coward.”

“No, you haven’t. And I don’t think you should start now. No matter what you find out, you’ll be happier in the long run.”

As if on cue, Stanley walked past the window.

“Oh, my God.” Belinda had seen him, too. “How did he know I was here?”

“I told you I left a message on his phone.”

“You said you’d called. Nothing about a message.” Utter panic had replaced all other emotion as she tried, not particularly successfully, to wipe away her tears and the now misplaced mascara.

“I should go,” I said.

She grabbed my hand with the grip of a sumo wrestler. “Don’t you dare.”

There was no time to debate.

“Hello, Stanley,” I said, buying a little more time for Belinda, who had retreated behind her Kleenex again. “You got my message.” I tried telegraphing my concern, but it was a total waste of time. I could have been sitting there stark naked, and Stanley still wouldn’t have seen anyone but Belinda.

Whatever had happened, I hadn’t been wrong about the two of them.

“Belinda. I need to explain.”

With a last swipe at her left eye, she surfaced from behind the tissue, focusing somewhere in the area of Stanley’s chin. “There’s no need for explanation. I think I saw more than enough.” I could hear the tremble in her voice, but to her credit, she kept her composure. Although I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. She is an attorney, after all.

“But that’s just the thing. You didn’t see anything,” Stanley said.

“There wasn’t a naked girl in your apartment?” Belinda lifted her gaze to his, her eyes flashing. I might as well have been watching a movie. The two of them had completely forgotten I was there.

“No. There was. Her name is Christine Menzel. She’s got a guest spot on the show.”

“Oh well, then, in that case . . . ,” she trailed off, ice dripping from every word.

“Belinda,” Stanley said, sitting down beside her, “I told her she could use my apartment. She’s only here for a couple of days. Helping us promote the show.”

“And, of course, all the hotels are full.”

“She flew in this morning. The red-eye from L.A.”

Okay, so I’d had the wrong redhead. But it didn’t much seem to matter. Stanley was still digging himself in deeper by the second.

“Stanley. . . ,” I started, only to have him frown at me in warning. Sure, why not—blame it on the matchmaker. “The plane was delayed, and she was due on The View. She called and asked if she could use my apartment to make herself presentable.”

“But that doesn’t—”

Stanley cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I wasn’t even there.”

“But I heard you.” Hurt replaced anger in less than a second.

God, now I wanted to cry.

“You couldn’t have. I was out looking for you.”

“For me?” Her voice now was almost a squeak. The attorney was replaced by a woman who desperately wanted to believe in happily ever after.

“Yes. After you left, I banged around . . .” He lifted his hand again, warding us both off. “Bad choice of words. I puttered around the apartment wishing you hadn’t had to go. And then I got a great idea.” He smiled timidly at Belinda, the world-renowned director nowhere in evidence. “Bagels.”

“Bagels?” Belinda and I said it together, but again I got the glare. From both of them this time. I held up a hand in supplication and clamped my mouth shut.

“H&.H.” Stanley held up a sad little bag. It looked like it had been run over by a cab, or a garbage truck, or a subway train, or maybe all three.

Belinda nodded, tears welling. “They’re my favorite in the whole city.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I got them. I thought I’d surprise you at your office. You know, after the deposition. But when I got there, the guard said you’d already gone.” His face fell with the words, like the dad in an old Disney movie I’d seen as a kid. He brings ice cream to a Boy Scout meeting, trying to please his son, but when he gets there, it’s all melted. You can guess the rest.

“It was cancelled,” Belinda was saying. “The other attorney never showed. That’s why I was back at your apartment.” Hope flared in her eyes, and I dug my nails into my palms. Matchmakers don’t cry. “So you really weren’t there?” she asked.

“No.” He shook his head, reaching out to take her hand. “I was gallivanting around Manhattan like a love-struck teenager.”

“Because of me?”

I swallowed the desire to yell “get a room”; after all, this is exactly what I wanted to happen. It’s just that sitting there in the face of it all, I felt sort of—well, if you must know—left out. I know, I know . . . occupational hazard. You’d think I’d learn.

As if to emphasize the point, Stanley stood up, pulling Belinda with him. “You don’t mind, do you, Vanessa?”

I shook my head and watched the two of them as they walked out the door, hand in hand. Before I had time to examine my emotions, the waiter appeared, a sort of self-satisfied smile on his face. “I assume you’ll be paying?”

I nodded, threw a twenty on the table, and shot the twit what I hoped was a glacial glare. You know, the kind you get in the elevator of your building when you decide to go grab the mail in your sweats only to be surrounded by expensively perfumed, fur-clad women of a certain status and age.

Once outside, I started to call Richard and Anderson, but stopped myself. I always seemed to call them when there was a crisis. And this time I’d actually managed to put out the fire all by myself. Although if I were being really honest, I’d have to say that, apart from calling Stanley and getting Belinda to the restaurant, I really hadn’t had a whole lot to do with the reconciliation.

I walked aimlessly west, watching people go about the business of living in Manhattan. It was a fabulous city, and no matter what mood I was in, I loved it. But today somehow it seemed a bit dimmer. I noticed the things we pretend don’t exist.

The white stain of graffiti on the side of a brick building, piles of garbage on the curb waiting their turn for pickup, an old lady using a walker crossing against the light, angry cabs and delivery trucks honking their displeasure. And there, on the stoop of a forgotten doorway, a transient curled into fetal position, newspapers and trash bags forming a new kind of couture.

I shook my head, my mind clearing, and headed down Lexington to Seventy-second. From there it was a quick walk to Madison.

I love Madison Avenue. There’s something so wonderful about it. Park is more regal, but in comparison kind of boring. And Fifth is supposed to be the grand dame of them all, but I’ve always felt like it was Madison’s flashier cousin. It’s not the stores themselves, mind you. Although there are some amazing ones. It’s more the amalgamation. You know, all of it coming together in an amazingly elegant symbol of Manhattan.

My Manhattan.

I stopped in front of a gift shop. The kind that carries wonderfully useless things that remind an adult what it was like to be a kid. Baccarat vases, Limoges boxes, little glass-blown candies from Murano. There was a plate with the famous Andy Warhol self-portrait, and a ridiculous-looking carved elephant wearing a tuxedo. And all of that just in the window.

I started to go in, then realized my heart wasn’t in it. A sure sign that something was wrong. I just couldn’t figure out what. I pulled out my phone again and dialed Cybil. But all I got was her voice telling me she wasn’t in.

I glanced at my watch. Still too early for her to be out with Mark. I had a moment’s hesitation, wondering if maybe she’d changed her mind and was out somewhere with Stephen instead, but I knew she’d have called to tell me if there’d been a change of plans.

Besides, she was finished with Stephen. She’d never have agreed to go out with Mark otherwise. She knew how important this was for me.

I dropped my phone back in my bag, suddenly feeling alone.

Everything was going amazingly well, and yet for some reason I felt just the opposite. The feeling had been hounding me all day, but I simply couldn’t put a finger on what was wrong. Everyone was happy. I’d managed to head off all kinds of catastrophes and even get Mark Grayson to agree to go out with Cybil.

I should have been dancing on air.

But I wasn’t.

I grabbed my cell again and dialed Althea, but hung up before it could connect. I didn’t know what to say. And even if I did, to be honest, I’m not sure she’d understand. Besides, she probably wasn’t home anyway. Today was her usual day with Ken, her personal trainer. He’s written all kinds of books and is a local celebrity of sorts, but the only reason Althea goes is because, in her words, “he has abs you could bounce a quarter off.”

Of course I could call the gym, but sharing my insecurities with her was like admitting I couldn’t make it on my own. I needed to solve my own problems. I sighed and stopped at another window. This one filled with fabulous handbags.

Nothing.

Not even a tingle of excitement.

Something was definitely wrong.

I needed a pick-me-up—fast. And I knew just where to go.

Since I was about three, I’ve loved the Central Park Zoo. I know it doesn’t exactly fit my image, and in fact if you ever tell anyone I’ll. . . well, suffice it to say that since reaching adulthood, I’ve usually come by myself.

But none of that changes the fact that I love the place. Especially when I’m not feeling on top of my game. I made short work of the remaining blocks on Madison, ignoring all the glittering merchandise that called my name, crossed over to Fifth, which fortunately on Sixty-fourth is still very residential, and then into the park.

One flight of steps and a game of “dodge that kid,” and I was six dollars poorer and standing in front of my favorite bears— Gus and Ida. Eighteen years old and raised entirely in captivity, they’re a fixture here. So popular you can Google them and pull up something like a million hits.

Gus is the bigger one. Something like one thousand pounds, and I’ve been told that’s small for a polar bear. Ida’s fur is whiter, and at seven hundred pounds she’s practically a size two in polar bear world. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because Gus only has eyes for her. Of course, there’re only the two of them. Which I suppose could be interpreted to mean he doesn’t have a choice. But I’ve seen them together. There’s definitely a spark.