Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Read online

  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.

  To my surprise, Ethan was standing beside Bernie, sleeves rolled up, chopping strawberries while she finished with the lamb. I’d worried that it might be awkward, but instead the two of them looked as if they’d spent many an evening chatting over a cutting board. I smiled, thinking how easily Ethan seemed to blend into my life.

  “The two of you look like you’ve been working together for years,” I said, stepping into view.

  “Bernie’s keeping me on track,” Ethan said, and I smiled at his use of her nickname. As far as I knew, no one but Wilson and me called her Bernie. The fact that she’d shared it with him was only further proof of her approval.

  “You’re early,” I said, feeling a little bit like the third wheel.

  “I thought maybe I could help.” Ethan smiled, nodding down at the growing pile of strawberries.

  “Looks like you’re doing a fine job,” I said. “Bernie’s always been good at commanding the troops.”

  “It’s my business to know how to run a kitchen.” Bernie shrugged with a smile.

  “She was just telling me about your first attempt in the kitchen.”

  “Not the pancake story?” I rolled my eyes with an exaggerated grimace.

  I’d been really little. Hardly big enough to hold a skillet. Let alone manage a recipe all on my own. But I’d been determined to make pancakes for my mother. And I’d seen Bernie do it a million times, so I’d gamely gathered milk and flour and eggs and made a batch of what would probably have been the worst pancakes ever. Except that in my zeal to perform like a pro, I’d decided to flip the pancakes the old-fashioned way.

  Bernie had arrived in the kitchen just as I hefted the skillet with all the strength I could muster. The pancake had flown into the air with surprising gusto, sticking to the kitchen ceiling— along with three of its predecessors.

  “I gather it wasn’t much of a success,” Ethan laughed.

  “It was a disaster,” I agreed, walking over to join them. “I think there are still pieces of pancake on the ceiling, and it’s been repainted—twice.”

  “I tried scrubbing them off,” Bernie said, “but they were like industrial-strength glue.”

  “My first cooking experience was hamburgers—in prep school. I tried to make them in my popcorn popper.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know how that worked,” I said.

  “Well, it was an old-fashioned popper. You know, the kind with the Teflon bottom. My roommate had done it. Or at least claimed that he had. Anyway, it seemed like it’d work. And actually, it went pretty well, until the grease caught fire.”

  “And you threw water on it,” I said, already anticipating what was coming next.

  “Exactly.” Ethan grinned. “How did you know?”

  “It’s the single biggest reason for most kitchen fires—not to mention popcorn poppers,” I said, trying to contain my laughter. “Don’t tell me you burned down your dorm.”

  “No. It wasn’t quite that bad. But the popper was toast, not to mention the carpet.”

  “Carpet?” Bernie choked on a laugh.

  “I was cooking on the floor. Not very smart, I’ll admit. But it was comfortable.”

  “And comfort beats logic every time.” I nodded as if it made total sense. “I wish I could have seen it. How much trouble did you get in?”

  “The headmaster called my father. Which was much worse than anything the school could have possibly doled out on their own. You see, my family has been attending Andover for generations. And my father was president of the school’s board. Not surprisingly, he was fit to be tied. Threatened to send me off to military school, as I remember it.”

  “But you survived,” Bernie said. “I mean, you graduated from Andover, if I remember right.”

  “And you know that because ...” I queried, surprised at her inside info.

  “I looked him up on the Internet.” If it weren’t for the fact that I’d done the same, I’d have been angry with her. But the pot isn’t allowed to call the kettle black.

  “It seems to run in the family,” Ethan said, shooting me a knowing look.

  “I Googled him, too,” I said with a shrug, pleased beyond words that he understood how I felt about Bernie.

  “Well, inquiring minds and all that… ,” Bernie laughed. And suddenly I felt everything was right with the world.

  “So I’ve finished with the strawberries,” Ethan said, pulling us back to the task at hand. “What else needs to be done?”

  “I think we’ve done all the prep. I just need to put the final touches on the hors d’oeuvre trays. If you want you can put the cheese wafers on this tray.” I reached behind me for a platter I had displayed above the sink.

  “That’s really nice. Italian?”

  “Yes, from the Lake District,” I said, pleased that he’d identified its origin. “It’s one of my favorites. Mother sent it to me a few years back.”

  Bernie coughed, the sound a cover-up for her harrumph of disapproval. She’d never really forgiven my mom for running out on me.

  “You don’t like the tray?” Ethan said to Bernie, his gaze only curious.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the thing.” She shrugged. “I just don’t think gifts make up for desertion.”

  I swallowed nervously, uncomfortable with the turn in conversation. “I think it’s nice that she remembers.”

  Bernie just shrugged again, concentrating on skewering the lamb.

  “I brought wine,” Ethan said, the comment a welcome non sequitur. “I didn’t know what you were serving so I brought red and white.”

  “Fabulous,” I said, relieved at the change of subject. “Maybe we could have some now?”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Bernie said, “you two have some wine, and I’ll finish up here then head for home.”

  “Absolutely not,” I protested. We might have different opinions about my mother and her gifts, but it didn’t change how I felt about Bernie. “You have to stay for dinner. I know for a fact that Wilson’s working tonight. So you can’t use him as an excuse.”

  “I can’t, Andi. I don’t belong at your dinner. Besides, I’ll make it an odd number.”

  “Actually, you’ll be doing me a favor,” I pleaded. “Clinton is coming on his own. So we’re already an odd number. You’d make it a full party. And Clinton adores you.”

  “Bernie, you have to stay,” Ethan confirmed. “We won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Ethan’s right.” I shot him a grateful look, secretly delighted with his use of the word “we.” “Please?”

  “All right.” Bernie held up her hands in defeat. “But give me something else to do. Your guests will be here momentarily.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Oh my gosh, I hadn’t realized it had gotten so late. Bernie, can you check everything upstairs while I finish these trays?”

  “Upstairs?" Ethan asked.

  “The roof,” Bernie said, pointing toward the spiral staircase. “Andi’s got a veritable paradise up there. The best-kept secret in Manhattan.”

  “Sounds amazing.”

  “It is.” I nodded, pulling the crab puffs out of the oven. “It’s the main reason I bought the apartment. Why don’t you go have a look. You can check the table for me whi
le you’re up there. And Bernie and I will finish up down here.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He sprinted up the stairs and disappeared from view.

  “I like him,” Bernie said, filling a doily-clad silver platter with cheese wafers. “More than Dillon.”

  “Not you, too? I thought you approved of Dillon.” I set the finished tray of bruschetta on the coffee table, then gave the sofa pillows a final fluff.

  “It’s not like that. You know I’m going to support whomever you choose. All I’m saying is that I think Ethan is right for you in a way Dillon never was.”

  “Shush,” I said, with what I hoped was a formidable frown, “he’s just upstairs, he might hear you.”

  “He can’t hear a thing.” Bernie smiled as she moved to arrange the crab puffs. “And you know I’m right.”

  “Maybe,” I conceded, although in truth I did think she was right, but the thought made me feel somehow disloyal to Dillon. Talk about ridiculous notions. “Anyway,” I began, but was saved from further discussion by the buzzer.

  “People are here.” I pressed the button to let them in, then shot a final look around the room as Bernie placed the other trays on the table. The plan was to serve drinks and hors d’oeuvres downstairs, moving outside for dinner.

  There was a knock at the door and I threw it open to welcome my friends. Stephen and Cybil were the first to arrive, followed by Clinton.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Cybil said. “I left the door downstairs propped open. Vanessa and Mark are just behind us. I saw them getting out of the taxi.”

  “No problem. I should have thought of that myself. We’ll just need to be sure to close it after everyone’s here.”

  “It smells delicious,” Clinton said, already moving into the kitchen. Occupational hazard. “Is that Bernie’s crab puffs I smell?”

  “Just for you, Clinton.” Bernie beamed as the two of them inspected my pasta sauce.

  “You look great,” Stephen said, holding both my shoulders so that he could inspect my face. “I was afraid it was much worse.”