A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles)

by Dee Davis

  Stanley harked an order, and actors and crew moved back into position. According to the digital device keeping track of takes, this was number twenty-six. Stanley hadn’t gained success by slacking off.

  Maybe it wasn’t such an easy gig after all.

  I think I mentioned that Stanley is a director/producer. His Mean Streets series has put a new spin on “must-see” TV. Currently television’s highest-ranked crime drama, Mean Streets: NY had spawned equally successful spin-offs including MS: Cincinnati, MS: Houston, and MS: Seattle. A twice-divorced workaholic with bad instincts where women were concerned, Stanley had jumped at the opportunity to break the pattern and find someone worthy of his money and success.

  That’s where Belinda came in and, if I couldn’t manage some real damage control, where she’d be exiting stage left. As the bustling set testified, Stanley was a busy man. Fortunately, we’d already arranged to meet. And so now it was just a matter of waiting. And trying not to think about the business card burning a hole in my pocket.

  It had taken every ounce of self-control I possessed not to make the call the minute I’d ditched my mother and slid into the relative safety of a taxi. But as I’d told Lindy last night, playing hard to get could be an asset—especially in business. So I didn’t want to seem too eager. I’d managed that only too well last night. There was always the possibility that Althea would find a way to worm her way in first, but I trusted my instincts and intended to wait until after my meeting to call.

  Heck, maybe I’d even wait until tomorrow—then again maybe not. Self-control is obviously a good thing, but in truth I don’t have a whole lot of it.

  A man in a pair of jeans and a grungy letter jacket jumped from a rocky outcrop into a clearing, shooting at the two men in hot pursuit behind him. It looked so realistic I actually took a step backward, but almost at the same time Stanley yelled, “Cut.” And the action stopped, only to rewind and start again. The process was repeated enough times for me to consume three tapas, four crostini, and a couple of fabulous slices of Stilton.

  It wasn’t until I was reaching for a simply scrumptious-looking éclair that I heard Stanley utter the word everyone was waiting for: “Print.”

  Waving good-bye to the tiny choux pastry, I turned to wait for Stanley. But, as you know, chocolate is seductive and before he could say, “It’s a wrap,” I’d popped the cream puff into my mouth. Of course that’s the precise moment when he came over to talk.

  “Fabulous food,” he said, his voice still tinged with director’s authority. “Only the best for my people.”

  Chef & Company was definitely at the top of the heap, and their presence here only added to the aura of success surrounding Stanley. “It’s amazing,” I mumbled, struggling to swallow the last of the little éclair.

  “Only the best,” he repeated, draping an arm over my shoulder as we walked toward the roped-off area marking the perimeter of the set. Grips or best boys or whatever they’re called were packing up equipment that looked more complex than something one would find at NASA. And in some ways I suppose it was more marvelous. After all, machines like that made nighttime bright, rain on a sunny day, and New Paltz look like Paris in the spring. The magic of the media.

  “I’m glad you made it,” Stanley said as he brushed past the crowds gathered outside the ropes. He might be one of the most powerful men in television, but the beauty of his position is that he is still relatively anonymous. The crowd was far more interested in the rock-jawed stars who played the detectives. “Do you mind walking?” he asked, nodding toward a narrow pathway leading off the meadow and into the park.

  “Not at all,” I answered, as if there’d really been a choice. He was the client, if he’d wanted to go rock climbing I’d have gone through the motions.

  “Did you talk to Belinda?” The fact that he led with Belinda was an indication of just how much he cared. I took it as a good sign.

  Stanley Barrow is not handsome by any conventional standards. He’s a little too tall, a little too lanky, and there’s a David Letterman-style gap between his two front teeth. His hair staged a massive coup and lost, the resulting exit leaving only a small island on the crown of his head, but he’s got an innate sparkle that sort of overrides all of that.

  It’s not exactly charm, he’s too much the geek for that, but he’s also got a way of putting his finger on the pulse of the nation and calling it exactly the way they see it. Which explains the phenomenal success of his television shows.

  He started as a writer, but abandoned that years ago to become an idea man, passing off the mundane in favor of the high-rolling pressure exerted by the network execs. To say that he’s a player is an understatement.

  But like Belinda, Stanley has never been able to find his stride in his personal life. His first wife was a bimbo—and I’m being kind—and his second was a gold digger of the first order. Both of them were blond and beautiful, and both were shrewd in the time-honored way of a sex that has had to become devious to survive.

  However, the most interesting thing about Stanley is that despite everything he’s been through he’s still out there looking.

  In the wrong places most of the time, granted, but there’s something to be said for his optimism.

  A friend of a friend introduced us, and although he initially rejected my offer of service, we became friends. And from there developed the trust necessary for him to take the chance on me and my instincts.

  “So what did she say?” He stopped, his earnest expression pushing away my reverie.

  “To be honest she was worried she’d offended you.”

  He opened his mouth to protest and then closed it with a shrug. “I don’t like being reminded of my divorces.”

  “It’s not like she did it on purpose, Stanley. I mean, you did ask her about what she was working on.”

  “I know.” He at least had the decency to look contrite. “I shouldn’t have shut her out like that, but she’s not exactly what I was expecting.”

  “What you think you want and what you actually need are two completely different things.” I started to walk again, sticking to the paths less traveled. “That’s why you hired me, remember?”

  Part of my job is being tough when it is necessary—like a bossy aunt or something. I genuinely care about my clients, and Stanley more than most, so I have to be honest. Without that, the whole thing would fall apart in an instant.

  “I know. And she really did seem great. I just panicked when she started talking prenup—my life flashing before my eyes, you know?”

  “Well, she wasn’t referencing anything personal. In fact, she’s only handling this case as a favor to another partner. Her expertise is in corporate law, not divorce law.”

  “I guess I overreacted.” His smile was sheepish and charming all at the same time. “Any chance I haven’t blown it completely?”

  “Two-date rule—remember?” I smiled back, silently congratulating myself for getting things back on track. “Why don’t you send her a little something to let her know things are all right.”

  “Flowers?”

  “Too boring. You need something that’ll prove you’re interested, despite your digression into the past.” I pulled out my BlackBerry and paged through several entries. “I’ve got just the thing.” I scribbled down a name and phone number and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “Girlshop on Washington. She saw a pair of earrings there yesterday.”

  “Kipepeo?”

  “That’s the designer. They look like really intricate snowflakes. Gold on brass. If you tell the clerk, I’ll bet she’ll remember. They talked for a bit.”

  “Won’t Belinda realize the idea came from you?”

  “Possibly, although she only mentioned it in passing. But even if she does, she’ll know you cared enough to consult with me. I promise it’s the thought that counts most.”

  “All right.” He reached over and grabbed my hand, engulfing it in his. “I don’t know w
hat I’d do without you.”

  I sighed and pulled back, feeling suddenly awkward. “Well, you won’t have to find out—we have a contract, remember?”

  It was probably rude of me to pull things back to business, but I was more comfortable there, and quite frankly, so was Stanley.

  “So,” he said using the word as a segue. “I heard about last night.”

  “I’m surprised it didn’t make the eleven o’clock news.” I sounded snarky, but really, wasn’t there something more interesting to obsess about?

  “It was past deadline,” Stanley said with a laugh, ignoring my undertones. “Anyway, I just wanted to say that for my money he made a mistake.”

  I clutched the business card in my pocket, wondering whether I should share the latest episode. It certainly had the potential for a better ending, but I’d learned from experience that it was better to keep things close to the vest until a deal was finalized. And although Mark Grayson had opened a window, I was fairly certain he was more than capable of slamming that sucker down quicker than I could snag a Louis Vuitton bag at a downtown sample sale.

  If you want the God’s honest truth, I hadn’t the slightest idea what would happen next, but as my grandmother always said, perseverance wins the day. And believe me, the woman had a doctorate in persistence. She was married four times, after all—talk about keeping hope afloat.

  We stopped in front of the statue of Balto, the wolf looking on with something akin to amusement, I swear. “In retrospect it probably wasn’t the best approach. I hadn’t planned on the bet making Page Six.”

  “Unless you made your wager in an underground bunker in the middle of the desert, my guess is it was bound to get out. And Bemelmans is a far cry from the Sahara.”

  “I know. And martinis have a way of bolstering self-confidence.”

  “That’s one of the main reasons I stopped drinking.”

  “Well, that seems a bit extreme to me. I was thinking more along the lines of limiting my martinis to two and having a firm no-betting-while-drinking rule.” We started walking again, heading toward the Dairy. It’s one of my favorite places in the park. There and the Ramble, especially in the fall. Actually I love all of Central Park in the fall, but any time of year the park is peace in the middle of chaos.

  And just at the moment that appealed to me.

  “Well, as far as I’m concerned,” he said, “Grayson missed out on a good thing.”

  “I don’t know about that. It ain’t over . . . ,” I said, repeating Richard’s words from the night before.

  “That’s my girl,” Stanley said, a smile lighting his craggy face. “Poor bastard doesn’t have a chance.”

  I suppose some people would have taken that as an insult. But me, well, it made my day.

  Unfortunately it didn’t give me courage. Three hours later, I still hadn’t made the call. I know you’re thinking I’m a total putz. And maybe I am. I mean, the man had given me an opening. But I needed more than that. I needed a plan of action. A proposal—if you’ll excuse the pun.

  So I called Cybil. I figured two heads were better than one. And because heavy thinking needs fortification, we were drinking cosmopolitans. I know, not very original. I mean, Carrie and the girls had the corner of the market on the things. And I’ll be the first to admit I’m a die-hard Sex and the City fan. (Mr. Big is my idea of a hot steamy night.) But in reality the drink is surprisingly good. So while I’ll admit the idea started with the TV show, we’d long since adopted cosmos as our own.

  Cybil reached for the pitcher to pour a second glass. At my house you get paper cups, at Cybil’s you get crystal. “What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why you haven’t called already. I mean, for all you know he extended the offer to Althea, too.” The idea had occurred to me. “Well if he has, he’ll wait to hear what I have to say before he makes any decisions. And I figure it won’t hurt to make him wait.”

  Cybil shrugged. “Might work. But it might also backfire. I’m not sure it’s a good thing to give him time to reconsider.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. Still, better to stick to my guns. “Well, the decision’s been made for me.” I glanced down at my watch to confirm the fact. “It’s after hours. I can’t call until morning.”

  “I’ll bet a brow wax at Fekkai that he’s still at work.” She sat back with a self-satisfied smile.

  It was tempting. Manana was a miracle worker when it came to brows. But I swallowed desire and held fast. “Nope, I’m waiting until tomorrow. Besides, he said I was supposed to talk with his secretary. And even if he’s burning the midnight oil, I’m betting she’s long gone.”

  “You’re making excuses.”

  “Probably. But even so I’m not going to call.”

  “You’re scared,” she said, with a self-satisfied smirk.

  “I am not.” I poured more cosmopolitan, trying for disinterest.

  She waited, not saying a word, the silence telling in and of itself.

  “Okay. Maybe I’m a little afraid.” I’m not big on admitting weakness, but Cybil sees right through me so there isn’t much point in pretending.

  “Of Grayson?”

  “Surprisingly, no. I mean, when I’m not goading him he’s actually kind of nice. I think I’m more afraid of failing than anything else.”

  “Vanessa, I’ve been your friend for a hell of a long time, and I’ve never known you to worry about failing.”

  “I just hide it really well. And besides, this time the stakes are really big.”

  “Well, it’s not worth freaking yourself out over,” she said, shaking her head.

  “I know, but this is about a lot more than just marrying off Grayson. It’s about proving to myself that I can do this on my own. That I don’t need Althea.”

  “But you’ve made successful matches since you left Althea.’’

  “I have. But all of them were based on connections I’d forged when I was still with Althea, or they were easy matches that didn’t really say anything about my abilities.”

  “I think you’re selling yourself short. But I understand what you mean. You just can’t let it get to you.”

  “I’m doing all right. I got the man to crack a window.”

  “Thanks to your mother.”

  “Which is pretty damn amazing. She’s the last one I’d have expected to help me. She hates what I do.”

  “She doesn’t hate it. She just doesn’t understand it. But in her own don't-hug-me-I’m-wearing-couture kind of way, she loves you, and she wants you to succeed.”

  We were getting perilously close to sob sister territory. I drank from my glass, letting the bittersweet taste of cranberry, grapefruit, and vodka bolster my courage. “All right. I’ll call.” Cybil smiled, knowing full well that I’d been working myself up to it all along.

  I pulled out the business card and my cell phone and dialed.

  One ringy dingy . . .

  Two ringy dingies . . .

  Four more and the answering machine picked up. I listened as a clipped British voice explained that the office was closed for the day. The beep sounded, and my heart slammed into gear beating loud enough to echo in my ears. All cognizant thought fled, and I shot a panicked look at Cybil, silently begging for help.

  Unfortunately she was choking on her laughter.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, flipping the phone closed, feeling like an adolescent who had just called the cute boy in class. “He’s probably got caller ID.”

  “It’s a cell phone. Maybe it’ll just show the number.”

  “He’s a big boy. He’ll probably work it out. Now he’s going to think I’m an idiot.”

  “Why? He told you to call. If he does check the number, he’ll just think you were following through. No big deal.” She paused for a moment, her lips still twitching. “Unless, of course, the answering machine caught the heavy breathing.”

  “Shut up,” I snapped, wishing there was a way to rewind the last few minutes.

  “This is
really important to you, isn’t it?” Cybil asked, sobering.

  “Yeah. But not just because of the bet. You know?” I blew out a long breath. “I know it sounds stupid, but I really think Mark Grayson needs someone.”

  “Everyone needs someone.”

  “I agree. But some people need it more than most. And I want to help.”

  “Even if he doesn’t see the need?”

  “Maybe because of that. I don’t know. The cosmos are making me philosophical.” I smiled, trying to lighten the moment. “Anyway, it’s a good thing he wasn’t there. Before I can meet with him, I really need to come up with a pitch.”

  “You know your pitch backward, forward, and sideways.” Cybil said, sipping her cosmo. “Does ‘like attracts like’ ring a bell?” She waved a hand through the air to emphasize the point—or maybe to dismiss it.

  “Yeah, but with Grayson I need something concrete. I need a woman.” From anyone but me that would have sounded illegal. But in my business it was the key to success.

  “Well, you have a pretty extensive roster, surely one of them . . .”

  “No,” I waved my glass, “none of them. I’ve been over the list a million times.”

  “But a girl would be crazy not to be interested in Mark Grayson. He’s got everything. Looks. Charm. Money out the wazoo. I mean, God, he’s the catch of the century.”

  “Believe me, I’ve been fending off calls since the bet hit the paper. Finding a woman is not the problem. Finding the right woman, that’s the key.” I took a long swallow of cosmopolitan, considering the matter. “I need someone with an impeccable background. Someone beautiful and talented. Someone secure and accomplished. Good with social niceties, and well connected.”

  “You’re not asking for much.”

  “It gets worse. Grayson is savvy and smart, and he’s got a sense of humor. Which means our girl has got to have a razor-sharp wit as well as a good mind.”