A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Page 13

  Still, considering the alternative, it was a small price to pay. I walked over to Waldo and, much to his dismay, pulled him into my arms. Waldo might be a lothario, but he preferred initiating contact, thank you very much. But he was my cat, and I had single-handedly—all right, Richard helped a little—saved his gonads. The least he could do was offer a cuddle and a purr.

  Of course, all you really had to do was stroke his belly and all bets were off. He was a cat, after all. He curled against me, warm and furry, and just for a moment I forgot all my worries. Okay, so I was glad Waldo wasn’t a dog.

  We stood for a moment, me bonding with my cat, Waldo suffering my ridiculous human sentimentality. And then the phone rang. I dumped Waldo faster than a guy on a blind date dumps an ugly woman.

  He yowled and I ran.

  “Hello?” I sounded like I’d surfaced from a silk-sheet love fest.

  “Vanessa? Is that you?”

  Not Mark—Maris Vanderbeek.

  I cleared my throat and sucked in a calming breath. “It’s me. Sorry. I was in the back room.” Considering my apartment is only about nine hundred square feet and that each of the four rooms in it has a phone, the excuse was lame, but Maris had never seen the apartment and I wasn’t about to explain that I’d been communing with my cat. “What’s up?”

  No matter how much I wanted Mark Grayson to call, I couldn’t in all good conscience hang up on Maris. After all, Grayson was only a prospective client. Maris was marrying Douglas Larson—a bona fide paying client.

  “I need your help,” she said, and for the first time I noticed the tremor in her voice. “Douglas called off the wedding.”

  I swear to God, my life flashed before my eyes.

  Chapter 12

  Gramercy Park. Irving Place (between Twentieth and Twenty-First streets).

  One hundred and sixty years ago, Samuel Ruggles developed a tranquil residential area surrounding a private park in New York. . . . Today, almost two centuries later, New York’s Gramercy Park remains as private, secure, and serene as it was in the days of Samuel Ruggles. Enjoyment of the park is still limited to those with keys to the park’s gate: the homeowners and tenants of Gramercy Park.

  —www.coopcommunities.com

  ∞∞∞

  An apartment with a key to Gramercy Park is as close to a sure investment as it gets. And Maris Vanderbeek had one.

  Maris is a card-carrying member of New York’s blue blood society. Not that they have meetings or anything, but their pedigree allows them access to certain privileges above and beyond common celebrity and bourgeois billionaires.

  According to the DAR, the original Vanderbeek had come to New York with Henry Hudson. And, according to legend, had been present when Hudson famously bought Manhattan. Hey, you got to love a guy with an eye for a bargain. Anyway, apparently unlike a lot of those early adventurous types, Vanderbeek had held on to his share, which in today’s market is worth something in the neighborhood of $17 billion.

  And Maris, as an only child, had inherited the lot.

  You’d think all that money would make finding a husband a snap, but there were a few flies in the Baccarat-encased ointment. Primarily the fact that Horace Vanderbeek suffered a stroke sometime during his fifties, and with the death of his wife (some say he drove her to it), his daughter was left with the onerous job of caring for her father.

  By all accounts—not Maris’s, bless her—Horace was a difficult man, and despite having enough ailments to fill a season in one of Stanley’s television shows, he held on to life with the tenacity of a broke fashionista at a Prada sale. Finally, at ninety-two, he had succumbed to pneumonia, which doesn’t give a whit how much you’re worth, and Maris, at fifty-three, was left on her own for the first time in her adult life.

  I met her at an after-party for the Broadway opening of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. (The show was amazingly funny—but what would you expect with John Lithgow and Norbert Leo Butz?) She was standing all alone in the corner nursing a lemon-drop martini, the dichotomy of drink and social skills intriguing, to say the least.

  Everyone at the party was someone, but Maris’s clothes screamed old money while her eyes flashed lost and lonely, an irresistible combination for a woman in my particular line of work. And in just a few minutes I, too, was sipping a sweet and sour libation and chatting up what indeed turned out to be a valuable addition to my list.

  Maris had managed to snare Douglas Larson.

  Yes. The Douglas Larson. Reclusive author of Essence of Henry. Douglas was something of an urban legend in Manhattan. An English lit professor at NYU, his family can be traced back to the Mayflower. And unfortunately, like the Vanderbeeks’, inbreeding hadn’t really done them all that much good. As a result, Douglas was extremely shy and very awkward around women, the latter due, at least in part, to the fact that his first and only love had left him standing at the altar.

  His scars were deep, and his novels echoed a haunting sadness that had to be experienced before it could be expressed. While not a commercial hit in the way of John Grisham or Stephen King, there was a lyrical resonance to his prose that had resulted in a devoted following.

  We’d known each other socially for years, but never really talked. He was the kind who hid in the corner, while I was more the tabletop-dancing type. But one night we’d actually struck up a conversation, and from there a sort of friendship had developed. Despite that fact, however, I’d been shocked when he’d called me to request a match.

  I mean, some people are better off single, you know? Still, I have never turned down a challenge, and when Maris presented herself front and center, I knew the game was on. Not only on, but amazingly successful.

  Maris and Douglas were engaged to be married.

  Or they had been.

  Which brings us right back to Gramercy Park and Maris’s frantic call. We settled on a green metal bench, the traffic noise washed away by the singing birds and the wind in the trees. A Disney moment if ever there was one. “So tell me what happened,” I urged. Maris hadn’t said much of anything since I’d met her at the park’s gate.

  “Everything was going fine. We talked to the caterer last week, and then this week we finalized the registry. We went to dinner at Bette.” Only someone with Maris’s kind of connections could throw that out without name-dropping. It was nearly impossible to get into Bette. Unless you were independently wealthy and engaged to one of Manhattan’s literati. Is that a word? Anyway, you get the point.

  “All sounds good to me,” I said, waiting for the other shoe to drop. To date, the Larson-Vanderbeek merger was my greatest accomplishment. If it fell apart now, the repercussions would be monumental.

  “Exactly, it was. I mean, everything was better than good; it was great. And then this morning I get a phone call from Douglas. And he tells me that he can’t do it.”

  “Do what?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. It was like watching a train wreck; you don’t want to, but you can’t help yourself.

  “Get married.” She said, her blue eyes welling with tears.

  Most people would consider Maris attractive, although her figure is a bit too full for conventional beauty. And the lines around her eyes and forehead are clear indications that she’s probably never even considered Botox. Salt was winning over pepper in her hair, and left to its own, her natural curl frizzed in a way that made one think immediately of electric sockets.

  Fortunately, Natasha Magleeva at Limpopo was wonderful with frizz. Which meant that thanks to me, Maris’s hair was revitalized in a way that only a good blowout can accomplish.

  “Did he say why?” I sucked in oxygen, trying to keep my pounding heart in line. It would never do for the matchmaker to show fear.

  “No. He just said it was no use talking about it, he wasn’t going to change his mind.” She reached over for my hand, squeezing it until I thought my bones might break. “You’ll do something, won’t you? I ... I love him.”

  Love. That nasty four-letter word. It has mo
re power than all curse words combined. If only I could wave the magic wand and take Maris back to the pre-Douglas state. But I couldn’t, and even though I usually side with the client—they’re paying the bills after all—it was in my best interest to knock Douglas into shape. For his own good.

  “I’ll talk to him.” I nodded sagely as if I knew exactly what needed to be done, all the while searching like a crazy woman for the key to Douglas’s defection.

  “He’s not answering any of his phones. And the university won’t tell me anything.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, trying for reassurance. Maybe I’d been wrong about the two of them. But I was never wrong. It had to be something else. “I’ll find him. Are you sure he didn’t say anything else? Something to give you an idea where all this is coming from?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I tried to reason with him. But—” My cell phone’s ring sounded discordant in the quiet of the park. “Vanessa Carlson,” I barked into the receiver, my mind still on Douglas.

  “Vanessa. Sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you.”

  Some part of my brain recognized that it was Grayson on the other end of the line, but the rest was simply too panicked about Maris’s problem to react appropriately.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t talk right now. I’m in the middle of an emergency.”

  “And here I was hoping you’d have time for a late lunch.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I said, waving good-bye to all hope of winning the bet. But I didn’t have any choice, Maris and Douglas had to come first.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  Talk about coming out of left field. I mean I didn’t really even know the guy. And, to be honest, our previous interactions hadn’t been all that positive. “Thanks. But no. I can handle it.”

  “All right. So how about dinner then?”

  My brain screamed yes, but my heart held sway. “I don’t know how long this is going to take.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to blow me off.”

  Well, there was a full reversal of situations. “I’m not. I’m just knee-deep in alligators here.”

  His laugh was surprisingly rich. “Why don’t you call me when you’re finished. I eat late.”

  Hope blossomed. “You’re on. Should I call the office?”

  “No, my cell.” He gave me the number and I fumbled around in my purse for a pen. Maris, thankfully, produced a piece of paper. I scribbled down the number and rang off.

  “Am I keeping you from something important?” Maris asked.

  “No. That was just a potential client.”

  “Not Mark Grayson?” she asked.

  “Of course not.” I lied. No need airing my laundry. Besides, Maris would only be more upset. “The whole Grayson thing is on hold. He’s not all that interested in matchmaking.”

  Maris nodded. “I can understand that. I mean, it is sort of difficult to admit to someone that you aren’t capable of attracting a mate on your own.”

  “Oh, Maris, is that what you think?”

  She nodded, a hint of embarrassment in her eyes.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m very selective about whom I ask to be on my list. If I didn’t think you had what it takes, I wouldn’t have asked you.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely,” I assured her. Of course, it had taken three hairstylists, a trip to Barneys, and a personal trainer to bring the diamond out of the rough. But the basic elements had been there all along. They just needed a little love and care. “You can attract any man you want. In fact, you did. Douglas didn’t ask you to marry him because of me. I might have set the stage, Maris, but you’re the one he proposed to.”

  “Yes, but now he’s unproposed.”

  “I don’t believe that at all. He’s just got cold feet. You were about to tell me something before the phone call interrupted us. What were you going to say?”

  “Just that he wouldn’t listen to anything I said. I tried to get him to tell me what was wrong. To understand why he’d changed his mind, but he didn’t really say anything coherent. He just kept mumbling something about it being too good to last. It didn’t make any sense. And I told him so, but he just said something about playing the fool. Honest to God, Vanessa, I haven’t got the slightest idea what he was talking about.”

  But I did.

  “This is about Alyssa.” Alyssa Mangrove was the woman who’d left him all those years ago. It had been a public spectacle. A stronger man would have buckled. And Douglas, well, he’d been destroyed.

  “But that was years ago. And I’m not her.” Maris was a lovely woman, and I still say perfect for Douglas, but insight wasn’t her strong point.

  “I know that. But Douglas doesn’t. Let me talk to him. I have an idea where he might be.”

  “Thank you.” Maris gave me a watery smile. “I just didn’t know who else to turn to.”

  “No worries. That’s what I’m here for.” I’d been this route before, although never with someone as fragile as Douglas. Still, I was pretty sure I could get him to see reason. And then with a little luck I’d take on Mark Grayson.

  At least my job wasn’t boring.

  A couple of hours later I was downtown looking for Douglas. He was fairly predictable, and I figured the White Horse Tavern was my best bet. The tavern is often billed as the second oldest bar in Manhattan, but its main claim to fame is the fact that Dylan Thomas actually drank himself to death there. Apparently, in November 1953, Thomas beat his own personal record by downing eighteen shots of whiskey. According to the story, soon after the last drink he stumbled outside and collapsed on the sidewalk. He was taken to the Chelsea Hotel and there fell into a coma; the next morning he was transferred to St. Vincent’s Hospital, where he died.

  There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

  Anyway, thanks to the notoriety, the bar was a gathering place for writers for the next twenty years or so. A tribute to one of their own, I suppose. And even now there is something about the place. It’s segmented into smaller rooms with heavy black beams overhead. A very British feel to it.

  Actually, I love British pubs. And for that matter British pints. I was never a big beer drinker until I tasted my first bitter. But I digress.

  I walked into the shadowy bar and wove my way through tables and framed portraits of Dylan Thomas, looking for Douglas. He was a smallish man, with a thatch of inky hair that insisted on hanging in his eyes no matter how often he pushed it away.

  He also had that professorial air. You know, that distracted, where-the-hell-am-I-and-was-I-saying-something-important look? A very bright, if slightly unfocused, mind. It was only with pencil and paper (or, more realistically, with computer keyboard) that he found his true voice, and in it, I for one, got a glimpse of the man behind the curtain.

  Just as I expected, he was sitting in a back room against the far wall, staring broodingly into space. Sort of Heathcliffe meets Ichabod Crane, neither of them better off for the union.

  There was a half-empty beer glass and an open laptop on the table. I suspected the glass was getting more use than the computer. But it was just a guess.

  “So how long have you been here?”

  He stared up at me for a moment, then shrugged. “Since about eleven.”

  Considering that it was close to five now, that meant six solid hours of drinking. Even sipping slowly, I was guessing he had quite a buzz going. Not that you could tell by looking at him. I took a seat across the table. “Maris is worried about you.”

  “She is?” He tilted his head with a frown. “I find that hard to believe, considering I dumped her.”

  “You want to tell me why you did that?”

  He stared down into his beer for a moment, then looked up at me with sad brown eyes. “Because I didn’t want her to dump me.”

  “Come again?” I was sure there was logic in there somewhere, but for the life of me I wasn’t sure what it was.

  “You need a beer.” Th
is non sequitur was followed by the appearance of a waitress.

  Considering I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, a beer was probably the last thing I needed, but if I was going to get to the bottom of this I needed to get with the program, so to speak. “I’ll have a Boddingtons.” I smiled at the woman and then turned my attention back to Douglas. “So what in hell would make you think that Maris was going to dump you?”

  “Because that’s what women do.”

  I resisted the urge to pound my head against the wall. “That’s what Alyssa did. But she’s not all women. We’ve covered this ground before, Douglas.”

  “I know,” he said, doing a fabulous imitation of Eeyore. Wonderful, I was dealing with a misanthropic donkey. Stubborn and irrational all at the same time. A killer combination. Just what I needed. “But who’s to say that Maris won’t do the same? And the truth is, I don’t think I can handle it happening again.”

  “I can understand your fear, but believe me, it’s totally unfounded. Maris loves you.”

  “Now. But who’s to say that won’t change?” The waitress arrived with my beer and set it on the table, along with a refill for Douglas.

  “You really think you need more?” I asked, sounding more like my mother than I was comfortable admitting.

  “Absolutely,” he said, reaching for his glass, and just missing. I pulled mine to safety and watched as he swallowed half the contents in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was almost as if he’d morphed into a complete stranger. The haunted look in his eyes was all Douglas, though. Drunk or sober, he needed my help.

  “Douglas, there aren’t any guarantees when it comes to relationships.”

  “Precisely why I don’t need one,” he mumbled into his glass.

  “You don’t mean that.” I took a sip for fortification and plunged right to the heart of the matter. “Letting Maris go would be the biggest mistake of your life. She’s perfect for you.”

  “So was Alyssa.” He glared at me. “And look how that ended.”