Set Up in SoHo (The Matchmaker Chronicles) Read online

“You have plans with Michael.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “We just need a little time for ourselves. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. I totally understand.”

  “And you’re certain you’re all right?” she asked, her tone worried. “I can change my plans.”

  “You’re sweet to offer. But it’s not necessary. If I sound a little off it’s only because I’m still dealing with the fallout from everything that’s happened. But I promise, I’m going to be okay.”

  And for the first time since falling down the rabbit hole, I actually believed it was true. I might not have gotten a perfect ending. But it was definitely a new beginning. And that had to count for something.

  “You’re sure?” Bethany asked, still sounding unconvinced.

  “Yes. I am,” I assured her. “Now go. Be with Michael. We’ll talk later.”

  I disconnected and then slid my phone back in my pocket with a sigh. Althea had been right again. Bethany and Michael belonged together. They completed each other in a way that I couldn’t possibly have seen—until now.

  I closed my eyes, content in the moment. The soft breeze caressed my skin as the sun beat warm upon my face. Sometimes joy was found in the smallest of pleasures.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  Like the voice of someone we love.

  “No, I. . . no,” I said, our gazes colliding as I opened my eyes.

  Ethan was here. Right here.

  Standing beside me.

  In the flesh. As if I’d just conjured him up from my imagination.

  “Please,” I stuttered, struggling for words, “sit down.”

  He sat next to me on the bench as I tried to sort through my agitated thoughts. “How did you know I was here?” I asked, as if I didn’t already know the answer.

  “Althea,” he said.

  I nodded. “She has a way of sticking her nose in.”

  “Hopefully where it’s wanted?” Ethan sounded so tentative, my heart actually skipped a beat.

  “Definitely.” I nodded, certain that we weren’t talking about Althea anymore. “I … Oh, God, Ethan, I’m so sorry. I never should have…the things I said…I…”

  “You had good reason,” he said, a muscle in his jaw working overtime. “None of this would have happened if I had just told the truth. I never should have let you believe that our meeting in the park was an accident. I should have come clean about Althea’s involvement from the very beginning.”

  “She said it was your idea. Our getting together, I mean.”

  “It was. In fact, as I recall, I was quite insistent about it.”

  “That’s pretty much what she told me.”

  “Well, it’s the truth. I just wanted to be careful about how I handled things. My timing wasn’t the best. What with everything that had happened. I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I was just thinking that sometimes we have to grab on to opportunity when it presents itself. No matter the circumstances. Anyway, I certainly didn’t make things easy. I second-guessed our relationship every step of the way. And when I found out about the setup, I immediately jumped to all the wrong conclusions. I should have known that Diana wasn’t telling the whole truth.”

  “We’ve both made mistakes.”

  “Some more unforgivable than others,” I said, watching the rowboats glide by. “I didn’t mean to...at least I don’t remember... I shouldn’t have slept with Dillon. It was stupid. And I’m so sorry.”

  “Andi,” Ethan said, reaching over to cover my hand, “it’s okay—”

  “No, it’s not. It’s horrible. But it didn’t mean anything. I don’t want Dillon. I want you.” The words came out of their own accord and I stopped, horrified at what I’d just admitted.

  “Sweetheart,” Ethan said, his hand covering mine, the endearment making my heart flutter so rapidly I thought it might actually take flight, “you didn’t sleep with Dillon.”

  “I didn’t?” Hope like some stupid neon light blinked in syncopated rhythm with my heart.

  “No. You didn’t.”

  “But how, I mean …you can’t possibly ...” I trailed off, apparently totally incapable of coherent thought.

  “Dillon told me.”

  “You spoke with him?” Talk about a crazy shift in the cosmic existence.

  “He was worried about you. And about what I’d think. So he called to tell me that nothing happened. He apparently tried to tell you, but you were too busy throwing him out to listen.”

  “That seems to be my modus operandi of late.”

  “It’s one of the things I find most charming about you.”

  “Really?” I said, chewing on the side of my lip. “I thought it was my worst fault.”

  “Well, sometimes it’s a bit of both.” He shrugged with a crooked smile. “So, tell me, did you really mean it? The part about wanting me?”

  “I did.” I was back to nodding. The man was going to think I was a bobble head.

  “Well, then,” he said, lacing his fingers with mine, “what do you say we give it another try?”

  “Yes,” I said, certain that in this moment anything was possible. “Definitely yes.”

  He leaned forward, I closed my eyes, and—well, that’s really none of your business, is it? Let’s just say it was absolutely perfect, and that when I opened my eyes, Ethan was smiling, the sun was shining, and somewhere out there Althea was probably doing handstands.

  “You know, of course,” he said as I snuggled into his arms, “now that we’re giving it a go, Althea will probably expect me to pay for the match.”

  “No worries,” I said, smiling up at him. “I’ll be more than happy to write that check.”

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  An excerpt from A Match Made on Madison (the first book in The Matchmaker Chronicles)

  Bemelmans Bar. The Carlyle Hotel, 35 East Seventy-sixth Street (corner of Madison Avenue), 212.744.1600.

  Best remembered as the creator of the classic Madeline books for children, Ludwig Bemelmans once joked he’d like his tombstone to read: “Tell Them It Was Wonderful.” Well, wonderful it was, and still is, at Bemelmans Bar. Named in honor of the legendary artist, Bemelmans is a timeless New York watering hole that has drawn socialites, politicians, movie stars, and moguls for more than five decades.

  —www.thecarlyle.com

  ∞∞∞

  "Another round please.” I signaled the tuxedo-clad waiter with an impervious twist of my hand, the gesture undoubtedly not nearly as regal as I supposed. But then dirty martinis will do that to you. Two is really the limit even for the most dedicated of drinkers. And we’d already had three.

  But this was a celebration.

  And I wasn’t paying the bill. Which was just as well.

  Bemelmans is my idea of heaven when it comes to a bar. Small and intimate, with killer drinks, fiery-hot toasted edamame, and folksy art that puts one in mind of a children’s story-book, it’s absolutely perfect. But you could mortgage a Park Avenue apartment and still not have enough to pay the tab— especially on a martini bender. So better that it was Althea’s headache.

  I’d save mine for tomorrow.


  Althea Sevalas was my friend, mentor, and sometime rival. In truth, I’d absorbed all she had to teach me with the voracity of the young and hungry and then proceeded to go out and apply what I’d learned on my own.

  Actually, I’m making it sound easier than it was. I don’t know that I’d ever have taken the leap, so to speak, if it hadn’t been for Franklin Pierpont’s tendency toward dramatic scenes. Franklin is a billionaire geek with absolutely no social skills.

  Althea had taken him on in a fit of absolute pity. And when his first match ended in a somewhat less than desirable way, he’d wound up standing on a ledge outside my office window— nineteen floors up. Obviously this sort of behavior is not good for the matchmaking business, and Althea, who suffers from vertigo, tasked me with talking him down.

  Suffice it to say, it was not one of my favorite assignments, but after showing half of Manhattan my Perele panties, and losing a Manolo to windowsill gymnastics, I managed to talk sense into the man.

  Of course it didn’t hurt matters when it turned out that the policewoman who’d come to our rescue was not only a looker but also the heir to a computer fortune. A definite sign from on high. So when Althea insisted on taking credit for handling the whole fiasco, I saw the writing on the wall, and with a little help from the Pierpont-policewoman merger, I started my own agency.

  At first there’d been understandable friction between us. After all, I’d walked away with all Althea’s tricks of the trade, so to speak. But with a little time she’d realized that Manhattan was big enough for both of us and, albeit warily, accepted me back into her circle of friends.

  She wasn’t above twisting the knife a bit now and then, though. And having been invited to the wedding of the century was a coup she’d no doubt lord over me for years to come. It was a first and something I had to admit I aspired to achieve. Not that it was likely.

  This one was a fluke. Matchmakers simply aren’t considered wedding guest material. Too much a reminder of things best forgotten.

  Which explains the reason for celebrating. And though it wasn’t really my triumph, I didn’t have a problem swizzling Bemelmans martinis in Althea’s honor. Of course, I’d brought reinforcements—my friend Cybil Baranski.

  “So I heard that even though the gown cost half a million, the bride still looked like overfed farm stock.” Cybil adjusted her Oliver Peoples frames and leaned forward, eyes sparkling in anticipation.

  Cybil and I have been friends since Trinity, and believe me, her love of gossip was a well-developed art form even then. Just ask Roberta Marston, the first girl in our class to go all the way. And, of course, being Cybil, she’d found a way to capitalize on her talent for digging dirt, getting paid handsomely by the Murdochs to write a syndicated international column that’s become a glitterati must-read.

  The bride in question was Susannah Barker, a long-shot latecomer in the race to secure the hand of multimillionaire Robert Walski. Of course, she had Althea on her team, which meant the odds were upped considerably despite what the rumormongers (excluding Cybil, of course) would have had one believe.

  “Honey,” Althea leaned in as well, her nose almost colliding with Cybil’s. Dirty martinis are hell on depth perception. “When you’re wearing a size twelve at your wedding, there’s just not a lot a designer can do.” We all looked down at the newspaper Althea had brought. In this case the picture was beyond words.

  Judged against the ordinary world, Susannah would be considered attractive, I suppose. But Manhattan is a sea of size twos. I’ve always believed that the reason restaurants open and close with such velocity here is due at least in part to the fact that while most women deign to visit restaurants out of social necessity, they very seldom actually eat anything.

  Anyway, suffice it to say, Susannah holds up her end in the support of Manhattan restaurants. However, her size wasn’t the issue here. Her father’s upstate mills were. And when Walski realized the advantages of merging his assets with hers . . . well, the rest is history.

  But that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Finding someone whose social background and financial assets are equal to or enhance yours? All this nonsense about true love and opposites attracting is ridiculous at the social strata we’re discussing. Marriage is a merger. It’s as simple as that.

  The waiter arrived with our drinks and a fresh assortment of nibbles.

  The only really bad thing about overdoing martinis is that they’re worse than cannabis when it comes to the munchies. At least I can delude myself into believing that wasabi-dipped edamame aren’t going to break the calorie bank.

  I stared down into the smoky depth of my gin, swirled it a few times for effect, then looked across the table at Althea, cutting to the chase. “Did they acknowledge your part in the nuptials?”

  “No. But everyone knew anyway. I mean it’s not a state secret what I do.” She tilted her head in a practiced way, the light hitting her tightened and tucked face in just the right places. Althea couldn’t be considered young by anyone’s standards. But she was well preserved. Thanks in part to good genes. And mostly to her plastic surgeon on the corner of Park and Seventy-third.

  I used to think plastic surgery was only for the aged or repulsive. I think most people in their twenties would agree with that. But I’m not in my twenties any longer. And suffice it to say, I am on good terms with Althea’s doctor. So far only for a little Botox lift; I mean, I haven’t hit forty. But the little wrinkles at the corners of my eyes aren’t exactly getting smaller. You know?

  “I think it says a lot that they invited you at all,” Cybil said, picking up a peanut and then dropping it guiltily back in the silver bowl. “I mean, no one really wants to admit that they need help finding true love.”

  “Well, in point of fact,” I said, waving my martini at her, “we’re not really interested in love—true or otherwise. It’s all about combining assets—two parts making a more productive whole.”

  “You make it sound like a corporate merger.” Cybil wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  “And you, my friend, are entirely too sentimental.” I frowned at her over the rim of my glass. It was an old argument. Cybil, for all her sophistication, was a hopeless romantic. Which meant that when it came to men, she invariably chose losers. Case in point, her current lover, Stephen Hobbs. But I won’t go there.

  “I’m not sentimental. I just believe marriage should be about more than just bank accounts.”

  “Well, of course it’s more than that.” Althea reached over to pat Cybil’s hand. “There’s the sex.”

  I almost choked on an olive. Althea was overly proper by nature. You know, the type who never curses and uses words like “bedroom frivolity” to talk about doing it. Obviously, the martinis were loosening her inhibition.

  “And how exactly do you think an arranged marriage guarantees good sex?” Cybil either hadn’t noticed Althea’s slipup or just wasn’t interested. She’d leaned forward, eyes narrowed in concentration. Or maybe just so that there’d only be one Althea.

  I mean, we were on martini number four.

  “Because—like attracts like,” Althea intoned, as if the words held the key to all wisdom.

  “Um, I think you mean opposites,” Cybil said, still squinting.

  “No, I mean like. Two people of the same background, the same financial circumstances, and the same ideology will invariably be happier than two people who simply respond to chemical combustion.”

  “Maybe in a merger. But in the bedroom, I’ll take combustion.” Cybil sat back, sipping her martini.

  “In the short run, possibly,” I said, picking up on Althea’s theme. I did say she was my mentor. “But when the combustion fizzles—and it will—you need the bedrock to maintain the marriage. And besides, pleasure isn’t limited to the perfect partner.”

  “That’s why there are affairs.” Althea nodded in agreement.

  “Actually, I was thinking of vibrators. But that’ll work.” I smiled at her through my gin-induced haze. />
  “You two are entirely too cynical to be in your line of work,” Cybil said, her glasses shining in the candlelight. “I mean, Vanessa, you even call your business Happily Ever After. How in the world can one have that without love?”

  “I think,” I started to lean forward, propping my chin on my hand, “that the two terms are mutually excusive, actually. Love generally does not lead to happily ever after—happily short-term maybe—but not ever after. Unlucky in love is the norm, not the exception. And for the record, my business is called HEA.”

  “That’s just semantics.” Cybil waved her hand, and the waiter hustled over, quite possibly for fear that she’d topple over. She shook her head at him and he moved back discreetly. “You’re a matchmaker, for God’s sake. That means you arrange for people to find true love.”

  “Only in fairy-tale land, darling,” Althea said, sipping her martini. “This is Manhattan.”

  “So you’re saying that no one in Manhattan marries for love?” Not only is Cybil a practicing romantic, she’s stubborn as all hell.

  “Not once you’ve reached a certain social status.” Althea shook her head. “It simply wouldn’t last.”

  Cybil opened her mouth to argue, but I cut her off. “There are socially prominent married people who are in love, Cybil, but it’s just a perk. An added bonus. Not a necessity. And certainly not the norm.”

  “So you’re saying that in order to have a successful marriage, love doesn’t have to be part of the equation?”

  “Exactly.” I nodded to emphasize the point. “In fact I’d go so far as to say that more often than not love is a detriment to the process, not an asset.”

  “And your clients know you think this?” Cybil asked, her expression mutinous.

  “Know it? Darling, they demand it.” This from Althea, who was almost two-thirds of the way into her martini. The woman might be repressed sexually, but she can drink like a fish.

  “Well, maybe not demand it.” I believed what I was saying wholeheartedly, but in all honesty most of my clients needed a little convincing. “But they usually come ’round to my way of thinking.”