Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (25 page)

“Have I missed a marriage proposal here?” Clinton queried.

“No. Of course not.”

“Then I don’t think there’s a problem. Just take things day by day and see where they lead. It’s called dating,” Clinton said with a laugh.

“Sound advice.” Harriet nodded. “Life is too short not to take a leap of faith.”

Since I’d had that very thought myself, I could hardly argue. Still, I couldn’t help but worry. “Bethany took your so-called leap of faith and look what happened to her.”

“She panicked,” Clinton said.

“What do you mean she panicked?” I frowned. “It’s Michael who overreacted.”

“Their reactions were both a little over the top, if you ask me,” he said.

“When I met Niko,” Harriet smiled, taking a sip of her martini, “I didn’t think twice about running away with him. I just did it.”

“No hesitation at all?” Clinton asked.

“Absolutely not,” she said with a shake of her head.

“And you never had regrets?” I asked, fairly certain I already knew the answer. Like my mother, my grandmother was a free spirit—a woman who followed her heart, not the dictates of society.

“Of course there were regrets,” she said, much to my surprise. “I loved my father very much. And there were times when I missed my family more than I can say. But that doesn’t mean I made the wrong choice. I loved Niko so much that I was willing to give up everything for him. But even when you know what you have to do, that doesn’t mean there isn’t a cost. One simply has to be willing to pay it.”

I’d never heard my grandmother sound so—well, pragmatic. And I wasn’t all that sure that it suited her. Or maybe it’s just not how I wanted her to be. I guess in my mind I’d always thought that she’d gone with my grandfather without a backward glance. The idea that she hadn’t was a foreign concept.

But then maybe, as usual, I was putting too fine a point on things. I do have a tendency to overanalyze a bit. Anyway . . .

“I never know what to order here,” my grandmother was saying. “I mean, what in the world is sea-soaked chicken? A last holdout from the
Titanic
?”

“No,” Clinton laughed, “that’d just be really old chicken. Besides, it’s not sea-soaked, it’s seawater-soaked.”

“Same difference. Who wants to eat a drowned chicken?”

“Harriet,” I said with a smile, “it just means it was soaked in brine. That’s what makes it so juicy.”

“Well, then why don’t they just say that?” She frowned, closing her menu. “I don’t understand menus these days. They’re so full of alliteration and fancy descriptions no one has any idea what it is they’re actually eating. Everything is either crusted with something—which sounds hideous in and of itself—or topped with ingredients I’ve never heard of and usually can’t pronounce, and then to top it off, everything is piled together so that you can’t distinguish one thing from another anyway.”

“It’s called vertical cuisine,” I said. “Food as architecture. In its heyday it was a completely new way to look at food. Giving chefs ‘air rights,’ if you will.”

“Well, I prefer my sides on the side, thank you very much,” Harriet sniffed.

“In a divided plate no doubt,” I laughed as I handed the waiter my menu. “I’ll start with the bisque and then the black bass.” The fish came with fennel-cauliflower “risotto” and an artichoke and picholine olive-preserved lemon relish. It did sound exotic. But for me that only enhanced the experience. Seeing how the chef combined different elements to create the perfect meal was half the fun. And in this case, chef Eric Hara was a master at the game.

“I’ll have the chicken,” Harriet said with a beatific smile. “And another martini. What better accompaniment for overly hydrated chicken than an overly hydrated me?”

“I don’t think vodka counts as hydration, Harriet,” Clinton said after giving the waiter his order and handing over his menu. “So, are you planning to stay in New York for a while?”

“I don’t think so,” she said with a shake of her head. “I only came back to make sure Andi was okay.”

But Andi wasn’t okay. My whole life seemed to be teetering on the brink. Not that I was going to admit the fact. Still, it might be nice if she’d noticed.

“The truth is,” Harriet continued, blissfully unaware of my insecurities, “ever since losing Niko, I just don’t feel comfortable in the city. Too many memories. There’s just nothing here for me anymore.”

“What about me?” The words just sort of spilled out on a wave of resentment.

“Oh, darling,” she said, sounding exactly like Althea, “you know what I mean. Between your grandfather’s death and your mother leaving I just need a little space. It has nothing at all to do with you. I came home the minute I thought you needed me.”

“I know.” I sighed. “I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t care. But it would be nice to have you around for a while.”

She reached over and patted my hand, signaling the waiter at the same time. “I believe I asked for another drink? Really,” she said, before turning her attention back to me, “service just isn’t what it used to be. Anyway, sweetie, you know I love you. But I’m expected in Paris by the end of the week. Count Barogie is having a huge party. Everyone will be there. I’ve even heard there’s a chance that your mother will show.”

And there you had it. The chance to see my mother outweighed anything I could possibly throw at her. Just for a moment I wondered if Althea felt the same sense of rejection, prodigal daughter taking first chair to the one who’d stayed at home.

Weird feelings. I shook my head, dismissing them. The last thing I wanted to do was empathize with Althea.

“You know she probably won’t show,” I said, referring to my mother.

“Does she do this often?” Clinton said, clearly intrigued by our dirty laundry.

“Melina tends to stay pretty much off the radar where I’m concerned,” Harriet said, her tone dejected. “I’ve never really understood why. I wasn’t the one who asked her to leave. Although push come to shove I probably would have sided with Althea.” This was definitely a day for surprises. Harriet never sided with Althea about anything. At least not until now.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Nothing, really,” she said with a shrug. “It’s all water under the bridge. Melina’s chosen her life, just as I chose mine.”

“So you never actually get together?” Clinton asked with a frown.

“Oh, once or twice a year our paths usually cross,” Harriet admitted. “But never for very long. Melina isn’t any better at staying put than I am.”

“At least you’ve seen her,” I said, unable to keep the wistful tone out of my voice. “I never hear from her at all.”

“She sends cards,” my grandmother said. “And gifts”

“When she remembers, but it’s not the same.” Actually, I cherished everything she’d ever given me. And I kept the cards in a box under my bed. It was a childish thing to do. Ridiculous, really, when you considered that she never actually wrote anything except “love, Mother.” The truth was that I was clinging to a bunch of sappy sentiments written by some Hallmark staffer I didn’t even know.

“But at least it proves she’s thinking of you,” Harriet said. “She just isn’t the demonstrative sort.”

“She used to be,” I sighed. “I remember her here in New York. Before Althea drove her away. She was a good mother.”

“Memory is subjective, Andi. We all have a way of seeing what we want to see,” she said, leaning back as the waiter brought her new martini. “Anyway, enough talk of Melina.”

“My fault,” Clinton said with an apologetic frown. “I brought it up. I’m afraid I was just curious.”

“Understandably.” Harriet smiled. “Our family is a trifle unusual.”

“Believe me,” Clinton laughed, “yours has nothing at all on mine. And I can totally understand the need to get away.”

I could, too, actually. Except that in this instance we were talking about getting away from me. And that really wasn’t a particularly palatable thought.

“It was never about you, Andi,” my grandmother said, reading my mind. “You have to know that.”

“I suppose I do. But I’m still the one who got caught in the fallout. Anyway, you’re right, it’s all old news. Surely we can find something better to talk about.”

“So catch me up on the latest developments with the show,” Harriet said, her warm smile directed to me. And suddenly I felt better. My family might be weird, but in their own unique way they did love me. “I take it everything is on again with Philip DuBois?”

“Seems to be,” I said. “Cassie is finalizing the details as we speak. Although I confess I don’t think I’ll breathe easily until we’re standing in front of the man.”

“He does appear to have a tendency to change his mind,” my grandmother agreed.

“Or have it changed for him,” Clinton said with a frown. “You’re talking about Diana again.”

“Unfortunately,” I sighed, “she seems to be the focal point of my life of late.”

“Not a pretty picture.” Clinton shuddered. “But at least for the moment she seems to have been vanquished back to whatever slime pit she crawled out of.”

“With Dillon.”

“If he’s going to be that stupid,” my grandmother said, “then I say he deserves what he gets.”

I laughed, feeling a lot better. “We did manage to dodge Diana’s bullet, didn’t we?”

“You bet your ass we did.” Clinton raised his hand and we high-fived.

“Here’s to the sweet smell of success,” Harriet said, lifting her martini. We toasted, then leaned back as the server set our appetizers on the table.

My lobster bisque looked amazing. Steaming hot with a positively divine aroma. Angled jauntily across the bowl was a thin oblong crisp of lobster roll. It was almost too perfect to eat, as artistically appealing as it was appetizing. (I told you d&d was a fabulous restaurant.)

Polite silence descended. You know, like on an elevator full of strangers, everyone concentrating on the little numbers overhead as if they were crucial to their very existence. Only in this case it was lobster bisque, crab cakes, and sashimi.

Anyway, after everyone had had a chance to sample their food, Harriet brought the conversation back to the topic at hand. “So will you and Clinton both be at the meeting?”

“No.” Clinton shook his head. “Just Andi and Cassie. And Ethan.”

“I’m not sure I understand why Ethan needs to be there.” My grandmother leaned back in her chair.

“You and me both,” Clinton said, over a forkful of crab cake.

“I thought you were pro-Ethan,” I protested. “Weren’t you just telling me that I made the right decision when I forgave him?”

“Actually, I think it was a mutual forgiving,” Clinton said with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. “You kind of jumped to some pretty harsh conclusions.”

“With your help,” I said, frowning at him with mock severity.

“True enough.” He shrugged. “But the facts did seem to support the assumption.”

“You know what they say about assuming,” Harriet said.

“Yeah, I do,” I laughed. “And it’s absolutely, positively true. Believe me.”

“Well, it seems to me that it all came out right in the end. But you’ve managed to get completely off point. What I want to know is what Ethan McCay has to do with DuBois and your show?”

“Well, for starters, he’s the reason we got the meeting with DuBois rescheduled.”

“Actually, it was Mathias Industries that opened that particular door,” Clinton said.

“Yes, well, for all practical purposes they’re one and the same. And even if that weren’t the case, DuBois asked Ethan to come. An independent opinion, I guess.”

“Hardly independent.” Harriet shook her head. “Ethan’s in this up to his neck. It was his cousin that caused the problems in the first place.”

“Which is why I’m not completely comfortable with him being there,” Clinton said on a sigh. “But there’s nothing much I can do about it, so we’ll just have to hope that it’s all for the best.”

“Maybe you should think about approaching someone else to be on the show,” Harriet said. “Someone less mercurial. Even if Chef DuBois agrees to come on What’s Cooking, who’s to say he won’t change his mind ten minutes later?”

“I’ve had the same thought,” Clinton nodded, “but DuBois is as big as they come when one is considering celebrity chefs. And when you add in his aversion to public appearances, it makes him irresistible. A real ratings bonanza.”

“And we’re going to get him to agree. I know we are.” If only I felt as confident as I sounded.

“If positive thoughts could move mountains. . .” Harriet smiled as Clinton’s iPhone signaled an incoming text.

“Excuse me,” he said, pulling the phone from his pocket to read the message.

“You young people and your multitasking,” Harriet said. “I’d never be able to keep up.”

“Actually, I’m right there with you.” I smiled. “One task at a time. But I think, given the desire, it’s probably pretty easy to get the hang of it.”

“Well, I’m not sure I’d ever be able to master it. But thankfully, I don’t have to. Anyway, in regard to DuBois I didn’t mean to be a naysayer. I just wondered if there were other options. In light of everything that’s happened, I just don’t see how you can trust anything he tells you.”

“If we can get him to agree to the appearance,” Clinton said, still scrolling through the text message, “the network lawyers can make sure he hasn’t got any room for wriggling out of the agreement.”

“So all that’s left is for me to convince him to do the show.”

“Tomorrow,” Clinton said, shoving the phone back in his pocket. “That was Cassie. Everything has been finalized. You’re meeting at his offices.”

“Just DuBois?” I asked, my stomach knotting in anticipation.

“No. Monica will be there, too. And, of course, Ethan.”

“Right. Just the five of us. Maybe you should come.”

“You don’t need me,” Clinton said, patting my hand. “You’ll do fine. You always rise to the occasion.”

“A true Sevalas.” Harriet nodded, lifting her hand to signal a passing waiter. “And on that note, I think we all could use another drink.”

And for once in my life, my grandmother and I were in total agreement.

Chapter 20

In Manhattan you can tell how long a person has lived in the city based solely on the name he uses to refer to certain places. Request the Pan Am Building and you’ll find MetLife. Avenue of the Americas? You’ll get an eye roll and wind up on Sixth Avenue.