A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Read online

  “What is it?” Belinda asked, her voice shaking. “You know something, don’t you?”

  I fought the urge to curse myself and schooled my expression into what I hoped was calm passivity. “I don’t know anything. I tried calling as soon as I talked to you, but he wasn’t answering his phone.”

  “Because he’s in bed with . . . with . . . that woman."

  As descriptions go, that one pretty much fit the bill. I mean, for hundreds of years “that woman” would come along and ruin everything. Or, to be politically correct about it, “that person.” There were “those men,” after all. In fact, following that train of thought, Stephen could be considered the textbook definition of “that person.” He just kept turning up like a bad penny, trying to ruin Cybil’s life.

  Well, at least I’d done something about that.

  Suddenly I felt a bit better. Which, of course, had nothing at all to do with the issue at hand. “I think you need to talk to Stanley.” In truth, there was only so much reassurance I could offer. And the picture etched in her brain was going to trump pretty much anything.

  “There’s nothing to say. Believe me, I’ve seen it all.”

  I told you.

  But still, I had to try. “You saw something that looked incriminating. But that doesn’t mean it was. You have to try giving Stanley the benefit of the doubt. Like I said before, maybe there’s a perfectly logical explanation. And even if there isn’t, maybe it’s still worth talking to him.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t like being made a fool of.”

  “Well, no one saw you except the woman, right? You said you didn’t actually see Stanley.”

  “No. I just heard him.”

  “So the only way you can feel like a fool is if you let yourself. It’s not like you were naked. If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s her. And even if what you think happened happened, the only real fool is Stanley.”

  “Yes, but I don’t want him to be a fool, either. I just wish I’d never found out.” The tears were back, this time mixing with the salad dressing.

  “Well, you have. And now you have to deal with it.” It was time to get down to basics. “Which means you can do one of two things. You can confront Stanley and find out the real truth, whatever it is. Or you can run away and pretend none of this ever happened. The choice is yours.”

  “I’ve never been a coward.”

  “No, you haven’t. And I don’t think you should start now. No matter what you find out, you’ll be happier in the long run.”

  As if on cue, Stanley walked past the window.

  “Oh, my God.” Belinda had seen him, too. “How did he know I was here?”

  “I told you I left a message on his phone.”

  “You said you’d called. Nothing about a message.” Utter panic had replaced all other emotion as she tried, not particularly successfully, to wipe away her tears and the now misplaced mascara.

  “I should go,” I said.

  She grabbed my hand with the grip of a sumo wrestler. “Don’t you dare.”

  There was no time to debate.

  “Hello, Stanley,” I said, buying a little more time for Belinda, who had retreated behind her Kleenex again. “You got my message.” I tried telegraphing my concern, but it was a total waste of time. I could have been sitting there stark naked, and Stanley still wouldn’t have seen anyone but Belinda.

  Whatever had happened, I hadn’t been wrong about the two of them.

  “Belinda. I need to explain.”

  With a last swipe at her left eye, she surfaced from behind the tissue, focusing somewhere in the area of Stanley’s chin. “There’s no need for explanation. I think I saw more than enough.” I could hear the tremble in her voice, but to her credit, she kept her composure. Although I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. She is an attorney, after all.

  “But that’s just the thing. You didn’t see anything,” Stanley said.

  “There wasn’t a naked girl in your apartment?” Belinda lifted her gaze to his, her eyes flashing. I might as well have been watching a movie. The two of them had completely forgotten I was there.

  “No. There was. Her name is Christine Menzel. She’s got a guest spot on the show.”

  “Oh well, then, in that case . . . ,” she trailed off, ice dripping from every word.

  “Belinda,” Stanley said, sitting down beside her, “I told her she could use my apartment. She’s only here for a couple of days. Helping us promote the show.”

  “And, of course, all the hotels are full.”

  “She flew in this morning. The red-eye from L.A.”

  Okay, so I’d had the wrong redhead. But it didn’t much seem to matter. Stanley was still digging himself in deeper by the second.

  “Stanley. . . ,” I started, only to have him frown at me in warning. Sure, why not—blame it on the matchmaker. “The plane was delayed, and she was due on The View. She called and asked if she could use my apartment to make herself presentable.”

  “But that doesn’t—”

  Stanley cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I wasn’t even there.”

  “But I heard you.” Hurt replaced anger in less than a second.

  God, now I wanted to cry.

  “You couldn’t have. I was out looking for you.”

  “For me?” Her voice now was almost a squeak. The attorney was replaced by a woman who desperately wanted to believe in happily ever after.

  “Yes. After you left, I banged around . . .” He lifted his hand again, warding us both off. “Bad choice of words. I puttered around the apartment wishing you hadn’t had to go. And then I got a great idea.” He smiled timidly at Belinda, the world-renowned director nowhere in evidence. “Bagels.”

  “Bagels?” Belinda and I said it together, but again I got the glare. From both of them this time. I held up a hand in supplication and clamped my mouth shut.

  “H&.H.” Stanley held up a sad little bag. It looked like it had been run over by a cab, or a garbage truck, or a subway train, or maybe all three.

  Belinda nodded, tears welling. “They’re my favorite in the whole city.”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s why I got them. I thought I’d surprise you at your office. You know, after the deposition. But when I got there, the guard said you’d already gone.” His face fell with the words, like the dad in an old Disney movie I’d seen as a kid. He brings ice cream to a Boy Scout meeting, trying to please his son, but when he gets there, it’s all melted. You can guess the rest.

  “It was cancelled,” Belinda was saying. “The other attorney never showed. That’s why I was back at your apartment.” Hope flared in her eyes, and I dug my nails into my palms. Matchmakers don’t cry. “So you really weren’t there?” she asked.

  “No.” He shook his head, reaching out to take her hand. “I was gallivanting around Manhattan like a love-struck teenager.”

  “Because of me?”

  I swallowed the desire to yell “get a room”; after all, this is exactly what I wanted to happen. It’s just that sitting there in the face of it all, I felt sort of—well, if you must know—left out. I know, I know . . . occupational hazard. You’d think I’d learn.

  As if to emphasize the point, Stanley stood up, pulling Belinda with him. “You don’t mind, do you, Vanessa?”

  I shook my head and watched the two of them as they walked out the door, hand in hand. Before I had time to examine my emotions, the waiter appeared, a sort of self-satisfied smile on his face. “I assume you’ll be paying?”

  I nodded, threw a twenty on the table, and shot the twit what I hoped was a glacial glare. You know, the kind you get in the elevator of your building when you decide to go grab the mail in your sweats only to be surrounded by expensively perfumed, fur-clad women of a certain status and age.

  Once outside, I started to call Richard and Anderson, but stopped myself. I always seemed to call them when there was a crisis. And this time I’d actually managed to put out the fire all by myse
lf. Although if I were being really honest, I’d have to say that, apart from calling Stanley and getting Belinda to the restaurant, I really hadn’t had a whole lot to do with the reconciliation.

  I walked aimlessly west, watching people go about the business of living in Manhattan. It was a fabulous city, and no matter what mood I was in, I loved it. But today somehow it seemed a bit dimmer. I noticed the things we pretend don’t exist.

  The white stain of graffiti on the side of a brick building, piles of garbage on the curb waiting their turn for pickup, an old lady using a walker crossing against the light, angry cabs and delivery trucks honking their displeasure. And there, on the stoop of a forgotten doorway, a transient curled into fetal position, newspapers and trash bags forming a new kind of couture.

  I shook my head, my mind clearing, and headed down Lexington to Seventy-second. From there it was a quick walk to Madison.

  I love Madison Avenue. There’s something so wonderful about it. Park is more regal, but in comparison kind of boring. And Fifth is supposed to be the grand dame of them all, but I’ve always felt like it was Madison’s flashier cousin. It’s not the stores themselves, mind you. Although there are some amazing ones. It’s more the amalgamation. You know, all of it coming together in an amazingly elegant symbol of Manhattan.

  My Manhattan.

  I stopped in front of a gift shop. The kind that carries wonderfully useless things that remind an adult what it was like to be a kid. Baccarat vases, Limoges boxes, little glass-blown candies from Murano. There was a plate with the famous Andy Warhol self-portrait, and a ridiculous-looking carved elephant wearing a tuxedo. And all of that just in the window.

  I started to go in, then realized my heart wasn’t in it. A sure sign that something was wrong. I just couldn’t figure out what. I pulled out my phone again and dialed Cybil. But all I got was her voice telling me she wasn’t in.

  I glanced at my watch. Still too early for her to be out with Mark. I had a moment’s hesitation, wondering if maybe she’d changed her mind and was out somewhere with Stephen instead, but I knew she’d have called to tell me if there’d been a change of plans.

  Besides, she was finished with Stephen. She’d never have agreed to go out with Mark otherwise. She knew how important this was for me.

  I dropped my phone back in my bag, suddenly feeling alone.

  Everything was going amazingly well, and yet for some reason I felt just the opposite. The feeling had been hounding me all day, but I simply couldn’t put a finger on what was wrong. Everyone was happy. I’d managed to head off all kinds of catastrophes and even get Mark Grayson to agree to go out with Cybil.

  I should have been dancing on air.

  But I wasn’t.

  I grabbed my cell again and dialed Althea, but hung up before it could connect. I didn’t know what to say. And even if I did, to be honest, I’m not sure she’d understand. Besides, she probably wasn’t home anyway. Today was her usual day with Ken, her personal trainer. He’s written all kinds of books and is a local celebrity of sorts, but the only reason Althea goes is because, in her words, “he has abs you could bounce a quarter off.”

  Of course I could call the gym, but sharing my insecurities with her was like admitting I couldn’t make it on my own. I needed to solve my own problems. I sighed and stopped at another window. This one filled with fabulous handbags.

  Nothing.

  Not even a tingle of excitement.

  Something was definitely wrong.

  I needed a pick-me-up—fast. And I knew just where to go.

  Since I was about three, I’ve loved the Central Park Zoo. I know it doesn’t exactly fit my image, and in fact if you ever tell anyone I’ll. . . well, suffice it to say that since reaching adulthood, I’ve usually come by myself.

  But none of that changes the fact that I love the place. Especially when I’m not feeling on top of my game. I made short work of the remaining blocks on Madison, ignoring all the glittering merchandise that called my name, crossed over to Fifth, which fortunately on Sixty-fourth is still very residential, and then into the park.

  One flight of steps and a game of “dodge that kid,” and I was six dollars poorer and standing in front of my favorite bears— Gus and Ida. Eighteen years old and raised entirely in captivity, they’re a fixture here. So popular you can Google them and pull up something like a million hits.

  Gus is the bigger one. Something like one thousand pounds, and I’ve been told that’s small for a polar bear. Ida’s fur is whiter, and at seven hundred pounds she’s practically a size two in polar bear world. But it doesn’t matter anyway, because Gus only has eyes for her. Of course, there’re only the two of them. Which I suppose could be interpreted to mean he doesn’t have a choice. But I’ve seen them together. There’s definitely a spark.

  Gus is a swimmer. Endless laps back and forth across their pool. He’s even perfected a flip turn. Ida is more of a bobber. You know, like a barrel in water. She sways with the current and watches you watching her. She seems to find us entertaining.

  Or maybe she’s just imagining hors d’oeuvres.

  I don’t know what it is about them really, but I love to watch them. Gus relentlessly piling on the laps, and Ida placidly going with the flow. They’re the perfect couple.

  Which, now that I was thinking about it, didn’t exactly fit into my theories. I mean, they were the ultimate in arranged marriages, but you really couldn’t find two more different bears. Maybe in some cases opposites do attract.

  But then we’re talking about polar bears. And while I might enjoy projecting human emotion on them, in the end, they’re still animals. And as such, what applies in my world doesn’t necessarily apply in theirs.

  My theories were sound.

  And I had the couples to prove it. Of course, the ultimate test was still ahead. I needed for Cybil to see that she was better with Mark Grayson than with Stephen.

  Which sounded absolutely self'-centered when put like that.

  What I meant was that I wanted Cybil to be happy—and that wasn’t going to happen with Stephen. So my meddling was all for the best. Really.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure I believed myself. And since Ida and Gus were stubbornly refusing to comment on any of it, I decided I needed someone human. Someone who saw the world through the same Givenchy shaded lens.

  And I’m not talking about Cybil.

  Or Richard, or Anderson, or even Althea.

  I’m talking about my mother. As crazy as it sounds, she’s the only one who really knows me. I mean, in that what-the-hell-is-going-on-with-me?-Don’t-worry-I-understand-baby kind of way.

  Sometimes a girl just needs her mother.

  Even when said mother is mine.

  Chapter 23

  Tiffany & Co. 727 Fifth Avenue (corner of Fifty-seventh Street), 212.755.8000.

  “I don’t want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together. I’m not sure where that is, but I know what it is like. It’s like Tiffany’s. . . . I’m just crazy about Tiffany’s.” (Holly Golightly, Breakfast at Tiffany’s)

  —www.imdb.com

  ∞∞∞

  My mother is crazy about Tiffany’s, too. As far as she’s concerned, nothing compares to opening a present carefully placed inside that famous turquoise box tied with the white, satiny ribbon. And I can’t say that I disagree. Since I had my very first heartbreak—Matthew Barrington, seventh grade— my mother has made it a practice to take me to Tiffany’s. And I’ve got the blue boxes to prove it.

  So it wasn’t all that surprising that when she’d heard my voice on the phone, she’d insisted on Tiffany’s. I love the store, I really do. But for me it’s not quite the religious experience it is for my mother. But then she was Holly Golightly. Not now, of course, hut once upon a time. Okay, she wasn’t a call girl, but to hear my father tell it, she’d been a rather free spirit in her day. So I guess Breakfast at Tiffany’s had struck a chord.

  All I know, really, is that she crie
s like a crazy woman every time she sees the movie, and owns a first edition signed copy of the book. Who knows? Maybe she had a thing for Truman Capote. Now there’s a scary thought.

  When I was younger it embarrassed me to think of her that way; now I have to admit I find it amusing. I mean, we’re talking about my mother.

  It’s odd, isn’t it? You never really know your parents as people. They’re forever relegated in your mind to the roles of mother and father.

  But all that aside, coming to Tiffany’s with my mother had always been special. The ultimate pick-me-up. A moment out of time that was just about the two of us. All heartaches and troubles checked at the door.

  So here we were, Mother and I, walking between glittering cases of jewelry, all that gold and silver the perfect appetizer for the main event—the diamond floor.

  “Isn’t this divine?” she asked, stopping to look at an Elsa Peretti brooch. It was deceptively simple, gold and silk coming together to form a calla lily or maybe a poppy. It didn’t really matter.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said, picturing it on the lapel of my turquoise coat. “Wish they’d done it in pink.”

  “No,” she murmured, still admiring the pin. “It’s perfect in red.”

  I nodded and moved on to another case. This one was awash with color. Like a rainbow of jewels, a pair of peridot earrings catching the carefully directed light.

  “So tell me what’s wrong,” Mother said, coming to stand beside me.

  I waved away the woman behind the counter and blew out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

  “But you called.” She linked her arm through mine, pulling me toward the elevator. “There has to be something.”

  I suppose it’s a sad state when your mother honestly believes the only time you call her is when you have troubles. But in our case, I’m afraid it’s the truth. I sort of have this thing about maintaining my independence. Maybe it’s just a personality quirk, but I don’t like admitting I’ve got problems unless the situation’s dire.

  Which meant I must be really screwed up, because theoretically I should have been on top of the world, yet here I was, standing in an elevator with my mother. The doors slid open and we stepped out onto the diamond floor. It’s an elegant room, with understated lighting designed to highlight the glittering cases filled with the world’s most precious commodity. Diamonds.