Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (15 page)

Walter Mathias, Ethan’s grandfather, is an icon. The last of a generation of kingmakers, he buys and sells people and companies with a relish that is unequalled. He is the kind of man people speak about in hushed, almost reverent tones, partially in admiration, and partially in unadulterated fear.

And Ethan was his right-hand man.

The thought was staggering. It was akin to Cinderella realizing she was dancing with a prince—of Manhattan. If pricked, I suppose my blood would technically run as blue. But I have an equal measure of my grandfather’s sturdy Greek ancestry. And to be perfectly honest, I take greater pride in the latter. As I’ve already said, I’m not one to stand on ceremony or breeding. And yet here I was, going out with the heir apparent to one of the largest privately held companies in the world.

“Oh my God” was an understatement.

“And he didn’t say a thing?”

“Just that he was working for his family’s company. I suppose if I’d been thinking I could have put it together. He mentioned working in Asia and Europe. And that his grandfather started in steel.”

“I think you can safely say that for all practical purposes, he is steel.” Even Bethany sounded bemused.

“What am I going to do?” I asked, still staring down at Ethan’s picture smiling up at me.

“Nothing. I’ll admit it’s a bit of a mindblower. But it doesn’t change anything. Not really.”

“Are you crazy? It changes everything.”

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. That I’m the biggest kind of reverse snob. And maybe I am. But you’ve got to remember where I come from. My grandmother may not have cared about my great-grandfather’s rejection. But my grandfather did. He hated the idea that money and breeding could interfere in something as basic as a father loving his daughter. And he was determined to raise his daughters differently.

Of course, that sort of thing rarely goes as planned. My mother, the flit, was totally indulged when a stronger hand might have led to a different life. And Althea . . . well, she definitely seemed to reject her father’s beliefs in favor of my great-grandfather’s notions—like attracting like and all that.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that Niko Sevalas wasn’t a man to stand on ceremony. He believed the worth of a man wasn’t in his breeding, but in his character. And that most of the people occupying the world of high society aren’t gifted with the latter.

And I agree.

So, the real honest truth of the matter was that I’d been angry at Dillon for jumping ship for someone like Diana Merreck. And at Bethany for signing on with Althea and Michael Stone. But all the time, I was hobnobbing with the cream of the crop. A Mathias. And not just any Mathias, mind you. No. I was dating the heir to the throne.

Which made me, what? Potential princess of Manhattan?

My grandfather was probably rolling in his grave.

Chapter 11

May is always a dicey month in Manhattan. It’s almost as if the weather can’t quite make up its mind. One day it’s balmy and springlike, then the next, the temperature has dipped back into frigid territory and raindrops are pounding down on fledgling plants and spring couture. In any case, it’s best to dress in layers and carry an umbrella.

Fortunately for me, however, the day had turned out bright and beautiful—a hopeful harbinger of good things to come. And so at the appointed time, Bentley and I arrived, pressed and dressed (well, me more than Bentley), at the Shake Shack.

As the name implies, the outdoor venue features burgers, shakes, and the most divine soft-serve ice cream you’ve ever taken a spoon to. But, unlike its roadside inspiration, the Madison Square Park restaurant is equal parts homespun pleasure and epicurean delight. Americana served up with a Manhattan twist.

I scanned the long line winding its way through the park for signs of Ethan, but he was nowhere to be seen. My heart sank even as my brain reassured me that he was probably just running late. Fifteen minutes later, as I inched forward in line, checking my watch, I wasn’t so certain.

So it was with great relief when Bentley started yapping, his tail thumping a mile a minute as he spotted Ethan making his way through the crowd. He lifted a hand in a casual wave, and my stomach started the now familiar mambo.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, bending down to give Bentley, who was practically climbing his legs in a bid for attention, a scratch behind the ears.

“Well, I’m glad you managed to get away. I was starting to think maybe you’d stood me up.”

“Not a chance.” He shook his head as we moved to the head of the line and placed our orders, Bentley still dancing around at his feet. “Just a rough morning. My meeting went long.”

“I’m sorry. Anything serious?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. Anyway, it’s over now and I’m here with you.” He smiled as he paid for our order, then carried the tray out into the park as we looked for somewhere to sit. The biggest problem with the Shake Shack is that it’s practically impossible to snag a table. In fact, on nice days it can be so difficult, they’ve installed a Shack Cam. Seriously, you can check the Web site to ascertain how long the line is and decide if you’re up for the wait.

Thankfully, though, we had Bentley on the job. Tail wagging and butt wiggling, he led us right to a recently vacated table.

“Nice trick,” Ethan observed, as I slid into the chair across from him. “Can he get us a table at Pastis?”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” I laughed. Although I sincerely doubted that Ethan McCay would have trouble securing a table at any restaurant in Manhattan, his familial ties providing a virtual key to the city as it were. “But I’m afraid most of the epicurean in spots aren’t particularly keen on cold noses and fuzzy faces.” As if to argue the point, Bentley jumped into my lap, his chin perched on the edge of the table.

“Pity,” Ethan said with a smile. “I suspect Bentley would behave far better than some of the more celebrated clientele.”

“It is her, Angie,” an excited voice behind me interrupted. “I told you it was.”

“Oh my God,” her friend replied as the two of them moved up next to our table. Both women were in jeans, one sporting anI NEW YORK sweatshirt and the other a BeDazzled top with more glitter than a Chelsea sidewalk on a Saturday night.

“We love your show,” the first woman said. “Watch it every week.”

“Never miss it,” her friend concurred. “You’re our favorite.” They both nodded, and then the first woman held out a napkin and pen. “Could you sign this? To Liz and Angie?”

I nodded with a smile and signed the napkin.

“Pretty impressive,” Ethan said, after they were out of earshot. “Does this happen a lot?”

“Not that often, really.” I shook my head. “Once or twice a week maybe.”

“I suppose it can be a real nuisance.”

“Not at all,” I said with a smile. “In fact, it’s kind of a rush. I mean, it’s nice to know people watch the show.”

“With cultlike devotion, if Angie and Liz are any indication.”

I laughed, and we sat for a moment in comfortable silence.

“So,” Ethan said, finally, taking a bite from his burger, “how was your morning?”

“Uneventful, comparatively speaking. I went to the studio early to tape some promo spots and then spent the rest of the time testing recipes at home.”

“That sounds interesting,” he said. “Recipes you made up or someone else’s?”

“A little bit of both, actually,” I admitted. “I like to see if I can duplicate restaurant dishes. At the moment I’m trying to copy some agnolotti I had at Craft.”

“I’d have thought pasta is pretty much all the same,” he said, taking a bite from his hamburger. There were people who actually swore Shake Shack burgers were the best in the world. Which was entirely possible, I supposed, when one considered they were prepped across the park, at Eleven Madison Park, one of Manhattan’s better upscale restaurants.

“It is. More or less. Although good homemade pasta is nothing at all like the stuff most of us are used to eating. But agnolotti is a kind of tubular ravioli—from the Piedmonte region of Italy. So, it’s the filling and sauce that make it special. In this case, pureed sweet potatoes in a butter-pecan sauce.”

“Sounds interesting,” he said, his skepticism negating the words.

“Honestly, it’s amazing. Deceptively light, and unbelievably good. Only so far I haven’t managed to nail it. Something the chef added to the potatoes, I think. But I haven’t figured out what. Anyway, you can’t write it off until you’ve tried it.”

“Well, once you get it mastered, maybe I will.”

It was the perfect segue into asking him to the party, since I was planning to serve the agnolotti then. But I couldn’t make myself do it. Partly because of my misgivings about his background, but mostly due to my complete and utter fear of rejection. Stupid, probably, but for better or worse I held my tongue.

“So you said you had a rough meeting,” I said, surreptitiously breaking off the end of my hot dog for—well, my dog.

“I guess no more so than usual. Except that this one was a little more personal. One of our holdings received some bad press recently, and we’re just trying to head things off at the pass.”

“Defensive moves.”

“Actually, this one is a little more on the offense. But you didn’t come here to talk about my family’s business,” he said, pushing away his half-eaten burger in favor of the main event. Frozen custard—today’s special being coffee-bean brownie. Even from across the table it looked fabulous.

“No,” I shook my head, drawing a breath for fortification, “but I am curious to know why, when you were telling me about your family, you somehow managed to omit the fact your grandfather is Walter Mathias.”

“It never really came up.” He shrugged. “At least not specifically.”

“But I told you all about my family,” I said, giving Bentley more of my hot dog.

“And I told you about mine. I just didn’t mention the surname. I find it has a way of shifting things. It shouldn’t matter. But it always does. So how did you find out?”

“I Googled you.”

“And I take it you have a problem with my heritage?”

“Not a problem per se. It’s just that I’ve sort of made it a rule not to date ‘connected’ people.”

“Now you’re the one who’s sounding like
The Sopranos
,” he said with a laugh, placing the remainder of his hamburger on the ground. Bentley’s ears went up, and then with a yip of pure delight he jumped off my lap, his attention firmly fixed on this latest bonanza.

“You’re going to spoil him.”

“Hey, you’re the one who just fed him half a hot dog. Anyway, the point here is that I’m still the same guy I was before you looked me up on the Internet.”

“True. And I’m here, so I’m obviously not entirely opposed to the idea of our seeing each other. It’s just that I thought you should know how I feel.”

“This coming from a woman whose ancestors founded Plymouth Colony. Not to mention the fact that your great-grandfather owned half of Massachusetts. Had they been in the same generation I expect Jackson Herold Winston would have given my grandfather a run for his money.”

“It’s hardly the same. My great-grandfather disinherited us, remember?”

“He disinherited your grandmother. But not Althea or your mother. And I assume, by succession—not you. And anyway, you’re missing the point,” he said as Bentley, the traitor, finished the hamburger and jumped up into Ethan’s lap.

“Which is?”

“At the end of the day, we’re not that different, you and me.”

“Oh, come on,” I said, reaching for a bite of his ice cream. “We’re miles apart. My grandfather was an itinerant Greek immigrant.”

“Who made a fortune with his import business. He may not have started out with the pedigree, but he certainly made a name for himself in Manhattan.”

“It’s still not the same,” I protested.

“It’s exactly the same. My great-great-grandfather started life as an Irish dock worker. He followed the same dream your grandfather did. Just a couple of generations earlier. Face it, your money is as aristocratic as mine.”

“Put like that, I suppose it is,” I admitted.

“But I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know. So why don’t you tell me what’s really behind this moratorium on Manhattan society types?”

“The same thing that’s behind everything in my life,” I said, wishing I’d never started the conversation. “My mother.”

“I’m not sure I’m following.”

“I told you my mother was a bit of a wild child. Suffice it to say her lifestyle wasn’t exactly Miss Manners material. And in those pre-Paris Hilton days, following the rules mattered.”

“And I take it society, as it were, wasn’t kind?”

“Got it in one. They ridiculed her. Ostracized her. Basically made her life unbearable. So much so that she ran away.”

“But you said she left because of a fight with Althea.”

“She did. But that was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Don’t you see? The fight with Althea just epitomizes the way society viewed my mother. They wanted her to change. To become something that she wasn’t. And because of that, she was forced to leave.”

“So why didn’t she take you with her?” The question was abrupt and one I had never been able to find a complete answer for. So I did what I always did. I stood up for my mother—for what I needed to be the truth.

“She wanted to. At least, I think she did. But Althea wouldn’t let her. She believed I’d be better off here in Manhattan.”

“But you wanted to be with your mother.”

“Of course,” I said, trying to rein in my emotions. “Who wouldn’t? Melina was amazing. Always laughing. You should have seen her. She lit up a room. Like sunshine or something. She made everything fun. I remember once she woke me in the middle of the night to see a meteor shower. We bundled up in blankets and went across the street to the park. We lay on the grass and watched the lights shooting over the river. It was magical. I’d have given anything to have gone with her. But Althea said I needed school and a disciplined routine.”

“Not a bad notion, actually.”

“I suppose not,” I said, picking at my napkin, trying to find the right words. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I lost my mother.”