Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (17 page)

“That’s fabulous—,” she started, only to interrupt herself with a fit of coughing.

“Are you okay?” I asked, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. “Here, drink this.” I gave her the glass and she took a sip, then another, fanning herself with one hand.

“Sorry,” she said, putting the glass on the counter. “Something must have gone down the wrong way.”

“You’re sure you’re all right?” I frowned.

“Perfectly fine.” She nodded. “And I’m delighted to hear about your show. Prime time. Won’t that be wonderful? Of course, it’s still only cable.” Talk about your mixed messages.

“Well, I’m really excited, although nothing’s been finalized. But things are definitely looking good. So was there any other reason you came by? Besides checking on me?” It was a loaded question. But if I hadn’t asked, we might have been sitting there all day. Better to just take the bull by the horns.

“Yes. Of course. I almost forgot. I wanted to tell you that your grandmother is coming into town.” Not the topic I’d expected. Maybe I’d lucked out.

“I thought she was in Cabo San Lucas.” My grandmother believes that life is meant to be lived out of a suitcase. Preferably at five-star establishments with people who unpack for you. It’s something she and my mother have in common. That and a tendency to view life with a slightly altered state of mind. In my grandmother’s case, with the help of martinis.

“She was,” Althea confirmed. “But when she heard about your accident she insisted on coming home. To see you for herself.”

“Didn’t you tell her I was fine?”

“Of course. But you know she never listens to me.” That was true enough.

“Well, she could have called.”

“Yes, well, you haven’t exactly been accessible by that route.” I actually felt a little guilty. Maybe I’d been ducking calls more than I should. “Anyway, she wants to see for herself that you’re fine. And I can’t say that I blame her. I was terrified when I got the call from the hospital.” Okay, the guilt was growing by the nanosecond. “So, in light of all that, I thought maybe I’d throw my own little party.”

“I don’t know,” I said with a frown, “my schedule is crazy right now.”

“Andrea.” I hated it when she made my name a rebuke. “Surely you can find time for your grandmother.” Put like that, though, I really couldn’t say no.

“So what’s the plan?” I asked, pasting on what I hoped was a breezy smile.

“Well, I’m thinking tomorrow. Brunch.”

“Althea, I’m giving a party tonight. I’m not going to be up to brunch tomorrow.” Even for my grandmother.

“It’s not like you have to do anything except come,” she said with infuriating logic.

“Of course,” I said, the guilt peaking, “I’ll be there.”

“And you’ll bring Ethan?” And just like that she dropped the bomb. I should have been better prepared, but she’d lulled me into believing I’d dodged the minuteman.

“I can’t... I mean, I . . . It’s just that...” I stumbled through a few more ill-phrased words and then stopped—surely silence was better than me making a complete idiot of myself.

“It’s just brunch.”

“I’ve only started seeing him. I hardly think he’s ready to be exposed to the entire family.”

“Well, why in the world not? He’s coming tonight, isn’t he?” Bethany and her big mouth.

“Althea, I don’t want to talk about this. My love life is my business.

“Love?” she queried, seizing on the word like a pit bull in a butcher shop. “So you’re falling for him? I can certainly see why.”

“I didn’t say anything of the sort,” I said, dropping down on a stool at the counter. “I’ve only been out with him twice. And I’m still getting over Dillon. So let’s not jump to conclusions. Okay?”

“Fine. It’s just that Bethany led me to believe—”

“Bethany should have kept her mouth shut. Now, can we just drop the subject?”

“I suppose so. But I still think you should bring him with you tomorrow. Your grandmother would love to see him.”

“She knows him?” Something else Ethan had apparently forgotten to tell me.

“Actually, I have no idea if she’s met the man, but she admires his grandfather. They’ve been friends for years.” Apparently, I’d fallen into some kind of alternate universe, one where Althea was more plugged in to my relationships than I was.

“Well, I’m not bringing him.”

“It’s an open invitation.” Althea had never been one to take no for an answer. “In case you change your mind.”

"I won't."

“Honestly, Andrea,” she said, picking up her Birkin bag, “I don’t understand why you have to make everything so difficult. I’ll expect you at eleven. With or without Ethan McCay.”

I opened my mouth to argue, and then closed it again. Sometimes even I knew when to shut up. She gave me an air kiss and left the apartment, her perfume lingering like some kind of undercover operative.

“Honestly, Bentley,” I said to my dog, in my best Althea impersonation, “I don’t know why we bother.” Bentley yawned, and I sighed. “Nothing I do is ever going to be good enough. It’s just wasted effort.”

And believe me, there have never been truer words spoken— except when it came to Ethan McCay. Now there was a man my aunt could thoroughly approve of.

Which of course was precisely the problem.

.

Chapter 13

Dinner parties are a dying animal, I think. Especially in Manhattan. People just don’t take the time anymore. Or have the space. And in a city full of fabulous restaurants, it’s just easier to go out. But sometimes I think that we’ve lost something kind of crucial.

I remember, as a kid, helping Bernie polish the silver when my grandmother was throwing a party. The house would literally sparkle. Fresh flowers in every room. Heavenly smells coming from the kitchen. China and silver gleaming in the dining room. And just before the appointed time, my mother would come into my room, smelling of Chanel N° 5, her dress swishing as she walked. She always looked amazing.

Anyway, sometimes I was allowed to stay up and help serve the hors d’oeuvres. I took the job very seriously, offering Bernie’s savory confections with a flourish. My mother would smile, my grandfather would wink, and Althea would tell me it was time for bed.

Killjoy.

Still, it was a magical time. But after my grandfather died and my mother ran away, we didn’t have as many parties. It was almost as though my mother took the fun with her when she left. I think my grandmother just couldn’t deal with her losses. And Althea had never been all that keen on entertaining. She’d always been the practical one in the family.

Anyway, from almost the moment I was old enough, I’d started having my own parties. For family and friends. Keeping alive the memories, I suppose. My grandmother had given me china and crystal and some of her silver. And I still delighted in getting everything ready. Making certain it was all just right. And sometimes, when I was feeling particularly nostalgic, I’d even wear Chanel N° 5.

Today, though, I was concentrating on the present, and maybe even the future. Ethan was coming, and even though my common sense was issuing stern warnings, my heart wasn’t having any of it. Instead, it just kept coaxing my brain into reliving his kiss. (Okay, kisses.) The one at Shake Shack had been even better than the one at my door. Deep, compelling, toe curling, and, well…right.

I smiled as I chopped tomatoes, and forced myself to focus on the task at hand. I had eleven people coming for dinner in less than half an hour. Best not to cut off my finger while lost in a pheromone-induced haze.

The agnolotti was finished. But there was still the sauce to prepare. The salad was washed, but not dressed, and the lamb, marinated and ready to skewer, was still waiting for its vegetable garnish. The custard tarts were finished, but still lacking their strawberry toppers. And although the peasant bread had been cut and toasted, I still had to assemble the topping for the bruschetta.

Okay, so there were still one or two things to do.

I’d gotten kind of sidetracked between Cassie’s good news and Althea’s visit. Not to mention last-minute errands. And to be honest, I hadn’t actually done a dinner party of this size on my own in a really long time. I’d always had someone helping me. Most recently, Dillon.

It’s funny how you can fall into routines and not even realize you’ve done so. I’d almost forgotten the flowers altogether, only remembering them when I’d seen an empty vase I planned to use. Dillon had been in charge of flowers, and the bar, and numerous other details that I hadn’t bothered to deal with in three years.

He might not have been much of a cook, but organizing was his middle name, and entertaining his forte. And even though I was well on my way to recovery, I still had a moment of regret. Of missing the little things that made up a long-term relationship. The normalcy, as it were.

I dumped the tomato in a bowl, pushing aside my maudlin thoughts. Tonight was about new beginnings. Bethany’s and mine. And I wasn’t going to let old memories get the better of me. Besides, I’d probably glamorized them, anyway. I mean, Dillon had been horrible at cleaning up. Prone to going to bed and leaving me with the lot. Or worse, insisting we both go to bed (okay, that part was usually quite pleasant), but then, the next morning, leaving me to face an apartment full of dirty dishes and abandoned party fare. Usually solo.

With a sigh I reached for the parsley, and had just started a rough chop when the buzzer sounded. Someone was early. Putting down the knife, I checked the security cam, smiling to see Bernie standing there holding a large sack.

I buzzed her in and unlocked the front door, then returned to my chopping, making short work of the parsley and moving on to chiffonade some basil.

“Look at you,” Bernie said, stepping into the apartment, “the picture of domesticity.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a gourmet celebrity. It’s got a better ring. Don’t you think?”

“If you’re prone to putting on airs,” Bernie snorted.

“So did Althea send you to spy?” I wouldn’t put it past my aunt, but Bernie wasn’t into subterfuge.

“She probably would have asked me if she’d thought of it,” Bernie laughed, placing two Tupperware containers on the counter. “But she didn’t. I just figured you could use a little help.”

“And food?” I nodded at the containers.

“Just some crab puffs and cheese wafers.” Bernie’s crab puffs were lighter than air, and her cheese wafers legendary. “I figured they’d go with pretty much any menu.”

“They’re perfect,” I said, mixing the herbs into the chopped tomatoes. “I was only planning on bruschetta as a starter. This will be much nicer.”

“So I came to help. What can I do?”

I started to protest, then realized I’d only hurt her feelings, and besides, I really did need her. “There are onions and peppers in the fridge. They need to be chopped up for the shish kebabs.”

I added olive oil to the tomato-herb mixture, and then transferred it to a crystal bowl set in the middle of a silver platter with the bread. One dish down. . . .

“So I hear you’re coming to brunch tomorrow,” Bernie said, skillfully alternating onions, peppers, and lamb as she threaded them onto skewers.

“Without Ethan, if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m not ready to subject him to the family.”

“She means well, Andi,” Bernie said.

“Althea?” I tried to keep the skepticism out of my voice, but failed miserably. “Hardly.”

“You’ve just never understood her.”

“Like you do?” I asked, walking over to the sink to wash the strawberries.

“I don’t pretend to understand everything she does. But I do know that she does most of it for you.”

“And I think you’ve been tippling the sherry.”

Bernice smiled. “Well, maybe it’s best that we agree to disagree on this subject.”

“She’s your employer, you have to take her side.” The minute the words came out I felt awful about them. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“I know you didn’t,” Bernie reassured. “And I also know that you know how much Althea loves you.”

“I suppose in her own unique way.” I shrugged as the buzzer went off. It seemed everyone was coming early. “But I’m still not bringing Ethan.”

“Which is why I figured I ought to just come on over and see him for myself.” Bernie grinned as she started to arrange the crab puffs on a baking sheet.

“Well, get ready,” I said as I recognized Ethan in the security camera, my heartbeat ratcheting up to an uncomfortable rhythm, “because he’s here.” I shot her a look of sheer panic. “I’m a mess.” I was wearing an old apron I’d liberated from Bernie’s kitchen, and as usual it was spotted with bits of the dishes I’d been making. “And I haven’t finished my makeup or hair.”

“Well, buzz the man in,” Bernie scolded. “Or he’ll think you don’t want him.”

“But I don’t,” I said, trying to breathe normally. “At least not now.”

“Go on, then. Get ready,” Bernie said, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “I’ll let him in.”

“You’re a godsend,” I whispered, already heading for the bathroom and salvation in the form of Bobbi Brown. Ten minutes later, coiffed and lipsticked, I sucked in a deep breath and walked down the hall toward the living room, stopping just shy of the doorway so that I could watch for a moment, unobserved.