A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Page 22

  “I guess the real answer is that you’re full of surprises, too. You’re not what I thought you’d be at all.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked, realizing how neatly he’d managed to flip the conversation from him to me.

  “Just that you’re an interesting dichotomy. On the one hand, you believe fervently in arranged marriages. Or, as you put it, a controlled form of intimacy. But on the other hand, you care so passionately about your clients and friends that you’d do almost anything for them.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” I asked, intrigued and sort of freaked out all at the same time. I work really hard to keep my emotions in check. I mean, in my business they’re a detriment. I can’t afford to care.

  “I’ve seen you in action.” He smiled and reached for another piece of bread.

  So maybe I was more transparent than I thought. Or maybe he was just particularly insightful. Either way, I didn’t really relish the idea of being under the microscope, better to move the topic to something less personal.

  “I’m just doing my job. And on that note, I think I have someone you might be interested in.”

  His frown was so fierce, I thought maybe I’d misunderstood. “You haven’t had second thoughts?”

  “Not as long as you haven’t.” His expression was still intense, but not as angry.

  “Why would I change my mind?” I asked, not certain that I was following his train of thought. “I’ve been pursuing you for almost a week.”

  “Yes, you have,” he said. “And you’ve got me. I guess I just didn’t expect you to produce someone so quickly.”

  “Well, I don’t always move this quickly.”

  “So what’s different about me?”

  “I just want the best for you. And I think Cybil fits the bill.”

  “Your friend? She’s on your list?”

  “No, actually, she’s not. It’s just that the two of you have a lot in common, and she’s just broken up with her on-again-off-again boyfriend, and so the timing is perfect.”

  “But she’s rebounding. Surely that’s not the best criterion for a prospective match?”

  “Usually I’d agree with you. But this is different. I told you last night, Cybil’s really special, and she deserves someone who can appreciate the fact. And I think that person is you.” Funny, in saying it out loud, I suddenly wasn’t as certain as I’d been before, but it really didn’t matter. It was up to the two of them now.

  “Well, I appreciate your vote of confidence, but shouldn’t I be signing a contract or paying you first? After all, you’re not running a charity service.”

  I laughed and reached for my glass. “Absolutely not. In fact, you’ll find that I’m quite expensive.”

  “So maybe we should hold off on the date thing until we get everything squared away.”

  “I’m not worried. I know you’re good for it. And besides, after everything you’ve done for me, I owe you one.”

  He nodded, but I could see that he was still troubled.

  “Look, Mark,” I said, “it’s perfectly normal to be nervous about this kind of thing. I mean, everyone wants to believe that they’ll fall in love and live happily ever after. And if, by chance, they’ve avoided that fantasy, then our culture will inundate them with the idea until they capitulate. But the truth is that most people need a little help. And that’s where I come in.”

  “I’m not nervous,” he said, shaking his head, but I could still see the concern in his eyes.

  “You’ll love Cybil. I promise. She’s amazing.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Again I was surprised at his lack of enthusiasm. But then most of my clients were a bit hesitant in the beginning.

  “I told you that we were best friends, but she’s a lot more than that. The Baranskis come from old money. They’ve been in New York for practically ever. So it would be easy for Cybil to coast, but she hasn’t. She’s managed to make her life a success without falling back on her family’s reputation.”

  “So what does she do?” he asked, nodding at the waiter as he set our food in front of us.

  “She’s a columnist. Works for Rupert Murdoch. I think she’s syndicated in something like three hundred dailies, and a dozen or so weeklies. She’s had articles in People and Glamour. And she even made the cover of Time Out New York."

  “How did she handle all the things that have been happening to you?” His frown now seemed less aggravated.

  “She helped a lot, actually. She ran interference for me after the debacle in Bungalow 8. The press could have been a lot more vicious, but she called in a lot of markers to help contain the damage.”

  “But not with the photograph?”

  “She’s used pretty much everything she had. The best she could do there was tell the real story in her column. But in all honesty, I’m not sure how much that helped. I mean, anything she says is suspect since she’s my friend. But it’s the thought that counts, right?”

  “Sounds like you’re lucky to have her.”

  “I am. And you’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”

  He cut a piece of the veal he’d ordered. “So how does this work?”

  “The old-fashioned way,” I said, forking a mouthful of pasta. “You call her and ask her out.”

  “I see,” he said. “I guess I thought you’d be there to run interference.”

  “I hardly think that’s necessary. And besides, nothing kills a mood more than a third wheel.”

  “Well, it isn’t as if I’m going to romance her, right? I mean, this is just a business arrangement.”

  He was twisting my words and throwing them back at me. “I don’t think a little romance would hurt. I mean, after all, you want to make a good impression.”

  “So give me her number.”

  I was surprised he’d surrendered so easily. For some reason I’d expected more of a fight. And, equally alarming, I was actually disappointed. I fumbled in my purse for a pen, trying to analyze my scattered emotions. Cybil and Mark were perfect for each other. I was never wrong about this sort of thing.

  So why was I suddenly feeling hesitant? Fallout from a very trying day, no doubt. I shrugged it off and wrote Cybil’s contact information on the back of one of my business cards. “Here you go.”

  “Shall I call her now?” he asked, pulling out his cell phone.

  “No. We’re in the middle of dinner.” The protest seemed ridiculous. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t eat and talk on the phone all at the same time. “Besides, I want to give Cybil a heads-up.”

  “You haven’t told her about this?”

  “Of course I have. And she’s delighted at the prospect of getting to know you.” Okay, I was exaggerating slightly, but she had agreed. And once they’d gone out, they’d both see that I was right. “But she doesn’t know that you’ve signed on.”

  “Well, if I were a betting man,” he smiled, “I’d put big money on Althea telling anyone who’d listen that you’ve managed to snag me as a client.”

  “I think you’d lose that one. Making it public would only make Althea look bad.”

  “Well, someone else then. There were a lot of people at the Waldorf tonight, and news travels fast.”

  “Well, either way I want to talk to Cybil first. So why don’t you wait until tomorrow to call?”

  “Fine,” he said, putting the phone away. “We’ll do it your way.”

  My way was actually totally suspect. I didn’t need to talk to Cybil first. When Mark called, she would be more than capable of connecting the dots. So the real question here was why in the world I wanted the delay?

  This was exactly what I wanted. A professional coup and a deliciously happy friend all rolled together into a single white wedding. And yet, I’d just told Mark to wait. Clearly, I was losing my mind.

  Chapter 20

  Park Avenue Floratique. 368 Park Avenue South (corner of Twenty-sixth Street), 800.472.7528.

  Skilled in the latest forms of contemporary floral design,
our award-winning team of floral designers can create a dramatic floral creation that will delight the mind and touch your soul. . . . For those who are not content with the ordinary.

  —www.parkavenuefloratique.com

  ∞∞∞

  I adore flowers. Just walking by the window of a florist or the corner bodega’s flower display lifts my spirit. And I’m an equal-opportunity flower lover. For me a daisy or a carnation is every bit as delightful as an orchid or a rosebud. I’ve been known to buy three bouquets at a time from a stand on Lex just to fill my apartment with the glorious riot of color.

  And even though I’m not hesitant to buy my own flora, I like it even better when I arrive in my lobby to find a beautiful arrangement waiting to surprise me. Bearing that in mind, you can imagine how delighted I was when Harry, our concierge, told me that the exquisite crystal vase of lilies, roses, and irises was for me.

  The creamy envelope indicated that the flowers had come from Park Avenue Floratique, a fabulous shop on Park Avenue South. I’d used them myself on occasion. But oddly, what excited me more was the fact that they weren’t that far from i Trulli. Okay, I know that it shouldn’t matter at all, but the idea that Mark Grayson had sent me flowers was pleasing in ways I couldn’t even put a name to.

  I shot Harry a smile and slid a finger under the envelope flap.

  The card was short and to the point.

  Congratulations, you’re hooked the fish. Now let’s see if you can land him. —Althea

  It was a backhanded compliment at best, at worst another passive-aggressive jab. Fish and flowers did not a pretty picture make. And to imply that Mark Grayson was a fish. Well, the idea was ludicrous. Of course, she was right about one thing. In order to win the bet, I did have to marry the man off.

  But I had a secret weapon—Cybil. And things were already well under way. The hard part had been getting him on board in the first place. And I’d managed it. Although to be honest, I wasn’t completely sure how. Still, the point was the game was on. And I was up to the task. I was a matchmaker after all. I had instincts about these things. Mark and Cybil were a match made in heaven. Or more realistically a match made on Madison. And frankly in Manhattan they were sort of one and the same.

  “Thanks, Harry,” I said, picking up the vase with renewed vigor.

  “Someone special?” he asked with a knowing smile.

  “In a roundabout way. Let’s just say they’re a sign that things are looking up.”

  Famous last words.

  The door to my apartment was open. Most people would immediately fear a burglary. I thought immediately of my cat. Now, before you start thinking that I’m a moron for not running for the elevator while dialing 911, you have to understand the kind of building I live in. Fort Knox isn’t as well fortified. There’s a doorman, a concierge, a security guard, and enough security cameras to put together a montage of the entire building. Add to that a live-in super, a gaggle of porters, and an army of maintenance men, and you’ll begin to have a picture of how safe I really am.

  Not only that, Richard and Anderson are right next door.

  Or not.

  I stopped in the doorway, clutching my flowers, staring into my living room with something akin to complete and absolute terror. No, it wasn’t an ax-wielding, fake fireman rapist. It was Mrs. M., and she didn’t look happy. And sitting right next to her was Leo Walderstein, president of the co-op board.

  Reinforcements in the form of Anderson and Richard were the only thing that kept me from turning tail and fleeing. Dorothy needed her friends, too. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the Cowardly Lion’s courage, she’d probably have been toast, or gingerbread, or whatever it is that witches turn you into.

  I blew out a breath and stepped inside. “So what’s happening here? A last-minute board meeting? If I’d have known, I’d have ordered refreshments.” Anderson shook his head, Richard smiled, and Mr. Walderstein’s face twitched. But Ms. M. was not amused.

  “What have you done with my baby?”

  “Excuse me?” I said, still holding my flowers, trying to work out exactly what was going on.

  “Arabella has gone missing,” she said, as if that explained everything.

  “And you think she’s here?” I shot a questioning look in Richard’s direction. I was a lot of things, including the owner of the feline equivalent of Don Juan, but I wasn’t in the habit of stealing other people’s pets. The one I had was clearly more than enough.

  “Actually, we’ve searched the apartment,” Anderson said, his tone apologetic. “Waldo’s gone, too, I’m afraid.”

  “Again? Did you check the garbage room?” Anderson had snagged him from the recycling bin just that morning. Waldo has a decided penchant for slightly used food, particularly when it contains milk products. Yogurt, sour cream, you name it, Waldo craves it.

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “So you think they’ve eloped?” I couldn’t help myself.

  “This isn’t funny.” If Mrs. M.’s gaze were lethal, then I would most certainly have expired on the spot.

  “No, of course not.” I shook my head and walked over to put the flowers on the table.

  “Secret admirer?” Richard asked.

  “No. Althea. Congratulating me on securing Mark Grayson as a client.” In the face of the assembled company, it suddenly didn’t seem such a big deal.

  “I realize it’s a bit imposing for us to have come in without you,” Mr. Walderstein said. He is one of those rail thin, stoop-backed men who walk as if they carry the world upon their shoulders. He’d inherited the presidency when Minerva Baker stepped onto an elevator that was unfortunately sixteen floors below her. Thank you, Otis Elevators. I’d often dreamed of luring Mrs. M. to the same fate. All it would have taken was a bottle of Chanel N° 5.

  But of course Mr. Walderstein’s first official act had been to get the elevators renovated and rewired. So it was sadly nothing more than a fantasy. Okay, I’m not sadistic, I swear. It’s just that wicked witches are supposed to get theirs. And there were no buckets of water in sight.

  Anyway, I digress. Mr. Walderstein was standing now, nervously lacing his fingers together. Thanks to the fact that everyone in the building feared Mrs. M., no one wanted to be on the board, and certainly not take on the role of president. So I suspected Mr. Walderstein was in it for life.

  Poor little man.

  “It’s fine. I’m sure you did what you thought best,” I said, looking first at Mr. Walderstein and then with a sympathetic glance to Richard and Anderson. I’m sure they had far better things to do than protect my humble abode from Mrs. M.’s hysteria-driven hunt.

  “I want you to tell me where they are. Now,” Mrs. M. said, her red lips pursing in anger. Years of smoking had given her radiating lines around her mouth, her current expression only magnifying the effect.

  “I don’t know. And in your current state, I’m not sure I’d tell you if I did.” I’ve always managed to let my temper get the best of me. But really, the woman was intolerable. We were talking about cats, not children, not diamonds, not even a good pair of Manolos.

  “Well, I never . . .” Mrs. M. crossed her arms over her bony chest, her frown transferring the wrinkles from her mouth to her forehead.

  “Look,” I said, trying for a more compassionate tone. “I’m sorry that Arabella is gone, but I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “If it wasn’t you, it was that. . . that animal of yours.”

  “Waldo is pretty damn amazing, but I don’t think he’s mastered the art of picking locks.”

  She snorted and mumbled something under her breath.

  “I searched the entire building. Even got the staff involved,” Anderson said.

  My heart twisted as I considered for the first time that maybe something awful had happened to him. Waldo was my family. I might bad-mouth his behavior, but I loved him, and the idea that something might have happened to him made my stomach flutter.

  “No sign of him at all?�
�� I asked, feeling suddenly bereft.

  “Nothing. Richard looked, too.” Anderson glanced over at Richard and he nodded, his expression full of remorse.

  “We tried,” he said, lifting his palms in apology.

  “I know you did.” Guilt washed through me hot and heavy. I was the one who’d left this morning not knowing where he was. “It was my responsibility. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me.”

  “See, I told you she was behind it,” Mrs. M. said, looking to Mr. Walderstein for support.

  He, of course, had no choice but to nod his head, or she would probably have incinerated the poor guy. Think Uncle Henry—who actually always pissed me off for letting Miss Gulch (no way was she married) take Toto in the first place. I mean, his bluster came way too late for it to have had any real impact.

  “I’m not behind anything. I just should have watched out for my cat.”

  “Well, at least she’s admitting that Walter got out.”

  “Waldo,” Richard and I said simultaneously.

  “Whatever.” Mrs. M. waved her hand, dismissing me and my cat. “What I’m trying to say is that your cat has kidnapped mine.”

  “Is that even possible?” I asked, looking to see if anyone else was taking the woman seriously.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Walderstein apparently knew which side of the bread his butter was on. “You have to admit, Ms. Carlson, there have been numerous incidents involving your cat.”

  There was truth to that. There was the year he’d single-handedly—or pawedly—managed to knock over the lobby Christmas tree. And then there was the time he snuck out the window and onto Mrs. Smyth’s balcony. He’d wound up parading around the building in her unmentionables. “But he’s never hurt anyone.”

  “What about Arabella?” Mrs. M. sniffed. “She’ll never be the same again.”

  “Motherhood certainly has a way of changing everything,” Richard offered, only to be greeted by a glacial frown.