A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles)

by Dee Davis

  “Douglas, you begged me to find a match for you. You said you were ready for commitment.”

  “I was wrong.” He looked so pathetic I almost felt sorry for him. But the engagement had already been announced—in all the best papers. Presents had been bought, invitations responded to. And in all honesty, if it fell apart now, so did my reputation.

  Besides, Douglas and Maris belonged together. So there was simply no way I was going to let cold feet get in the way. “So now you want to spend the rest of your life alone?”

  “When you put it like that, not so much,” he said with a frown, tilting his head from side to side, trying to focus. “But when I think about it rationally, then I suppose the answer is yes. I’m just not ready to take the risk.”

  Considering the amount of Pilsner Urquell he’d consumed, I wasn’t at all sure he was capable of being rational, but I wasn’t about to mention the fact. Better to keep trying to get through to the part of him that wasn’t drowning in alcohol.

  “But you’ve already done the hard part, Douglas. You’ve found the girl.”

  “Actually, you found her,” he said, still channeling Eeyore. This was going nowhere fast.

  “Look, Douglas, I can’t make you get married. But I can tell you that you’re making a huge mistake if you let Maris go. The two of you are a good fit. Your strengths play off of hers.”

  “They do.” He shook his head, clearly not completely with the program. “But that’s not enough.”

  “Of course it is,” I snapped, trying to hang on to my patience. There’s nothing more annoying than trying to reason with an inebriated friend when you’re sober. And in all truth, Douglas barely qualified as a friend.

  “Douglas, what you need right now is to go home and sleep it off.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, waving his beer in the air to underscore the fact. Unfortunately, beer sloshed over the sides, showering the table. I pulled the laptop to safety and watched as he used a cocktail napkin to try to blot up the mess.

  It was sort of like using a spoon to drain the bathtub. Not particularly successful. I signaled the waitress for a rag and the check.

  “I’m not ready to go,” Douglas protested.

  “I think you are,” I said, already plotting how I was going to get him outside and into a taxi. He didn’t weigh all that much, but he still had the advantage over me. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “But I still have beer.” He waved at his glass.

  “Finish it, then.” Two more sips wasn’t going to make much of a difference. I glanced at the bill and pulled a wad of twenties from my purse.

  “You shouldn’t pay. They were my beers,” Douglas insisted, trying valiantly to find his wallet, but not quite managing to access the pocket.

  “No problem,” I said. “It’s my treat.”

  He drained his glass, and then pushed back from the table. For a moment he was actually on his feet, then almost as quickly, his arms windmilled frantically, and he fell backward against the wall.

  The bar was still fairly empty, but a burly guy at an adjacent table stood up to help. I shook my head and shot him a smile, moving at the same time to wrap an arm around a jelly-legged Douglas. “We’re fine.”

  I didn’t want to make any more of a spectacle than necessary. The White Horse was not part of the celebrity circuit, but you never know when some yahoo with a camera is going to see his chance at making Page Six.

  “Okay, Douglas, we can do this.” He shot me a confused look, and I tightened my grip. Douglas wasn’t much of a drinker, and based on the tab, I figured he’d had something like eight beers. “Just put one foot in front of the other.”

  It was slow going, but we were definitely making progress. “I’m sorry, Vanessa,” Douglas said. “Didn’t mean to do this.”

  “No one ever does,” I commiserated. He was a bit morose, but beyond that he was a fairly decent guy—when he was sober. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  “I blew it, though.” He shot me a baleful look with Eeyore eyes. “With Maris.”

  “Yes, you did.” I nodded, pulling to the left to counterbalance his listing to the right. “But it’s not too late to fix things.”

  “Maybe I should call her.” He stopped so suddenly, I almost fell over. “Got my phone here, somewhere.” He patted his pockets and then frowned. “Where’s my computer?”

  “I’ve got it right here.”

  “Good.” He started forward again, stumbling over the leg of a chair. “Phone’s in the pocket.”

  I grabbed his elbow, just managing to keep him upright. “You don’t need to call anyone right now.”

  “But I should talk to Maris. Try to make things right.”

  It was exactly what I wanted him to do, but not in this state. “It’ll keep until the morning. Right now we need to get you outside and into a taxi. Think you can help me do that?”

  He nodded and shot me a crooked smile. “Sorry to be such trouble.”

  “You’re not any trouble,” I reassured him. Actually trouble was an understatement, but there was no sense in making the situation worse. “Come on. Just a few more steps.”

  We walked out into the street, and I propped Douglas against a lamppost while I tried to hail a taxi. It was the tail end of rush hour, and the cabs that passed by were either occupied or off duty.

  “We could walk,” Douglas said, pushing off the lamppost. He staggered a couple of steps, then frowned. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” He swayed to the right and then alarmingly to the left. I closed the distance between us, barely managing to keep him on his feet.

  “Just hang in a few more minutes. You can do it.”

  He nodded, but closed his eyes. I shook him. “Douglas, stay with me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a taxi and lifted my free arm to flag him down. The driver pulled over and I walked Douglas to the curb. Leaning against the taxi, I managed to hold on to Douglas while opening the door.

  “Thank you . . .” His mouth kept moving, but nothing else came out. And then he closed the distance between us faster than I’d have thought possible. His lips hard against mine. “You’re the best.”

  If someone had told me that Douglas Larson’s kiss would make me see stars, I’d have laughed out loud. But that’s exactly what happened.

  One minute he was kissing me, and the next the world was filled with light—the cold, harsh flash of a camera.

  Shit.

  Chapter 13

  Marie’s Crisis. 59 Grove Street (between Bleecker and Seventh Avenue), 212.243.9323.

  Formerly Marie s, this dark, dive-y piano bar is decorated with Christmas lights strung across a low ceiling and with red, cracked leather barstools. It takes its unusual name from the original owner, Marie Dumont, who. after being diagnosed with cancer in the 1960s, felt it appropriate to memorialize the bad news forever.

  —www.nydailynews.com

  ∞∞∞

  The name says it all. I had a potential crisis on my hands, and I needed help. Fast. Richard was the best person to help me. And thanks to proximity, and Richard’s penchant for show tunes, Marie’s was the choice du jour.

  There are some who claim the bar, originally the home of Thomas Paine, was named for his revolutionary rabble-rousing pamphlet of the same name. I prefer the other version. But either way, the joint has a wonderful, shady past. These days, however, the only rabble-rousing comes from patrons fighting over which Broadway standard to sing next.

  It was still early by Manhattan time, and the bar was relatively empty—one table filled with noisy tourists, and an additional two or three occupied by the over-forty set settling in for a cheerful night channeling Julie Andrews.

  “I’m doomed,” I said, staring down into my bourbon. Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures. Or at least generous ones.

  “Well, you’re not in a good position, I’ll grant you that,” Richard said, “but it might not be as bad as you think. Maybe it was just a tourist. Or maybe no one will buy the shot.”


  I glared at him over the rim of my glass. “It was definitely paparazzi. And while I may not be A-list, I’m turning into B with a bullet, thanks to the damn bet.”

  “I was just trying to be supportive,” Richard said, with a shrug.

  “Thanks. But right now I need unvarnished truth.”

  “All right. You’re screwed.” He shrugged and took a sip of his Irish whiskey. Bushmills Black Bush. With Richard, even drinking was about the best of the best.

  “Okay, maybe I meant slightly varnished truth?” I sighed, drained my drink, and tipped my head at the bartender for another. “So what am I going to do?”

  “Damage control. Have you told Maris?”

  “I’ve called her cell and her home number, but she’s not answering.”

  “But you left a message?”

  “Can’t. She doesn’t believe in voice mail.” When she’d agreed to work with me, I’d asked her to get a machine, but she’d flatly refused. Little did I know that I’d be the one who desperately needed the damn thing. “I even went by there. But no luck. She’s obviously out for the night.”

  “Maybe she went over to Douglas’s?”

  “I thought of that. But no go. He’s at home sleeping it off. I checked.”

  “Well, you’ll track her down before morning.”

  “And when I do?”

  “You tell her the truth. That Douglas was drunk and appreciative. She’ll understand.”

  “Maybe if it stayed a private matter. But if that picture hits the papers, she’s going to land in the middle of a personal PR nightmare.”

  Okay, I know what you’re thinking. But honest to God, this is Manhattan and we move in a very small social circle at the end of the day. This is the kind of thing that provides years of cocktail party fodder. No one appreciates that kind of attention, but people like Maris avoid it like the plague. Black mark on the family name and all that. I couldn’t have planned something more damaging.

  And Douglas—well, suffice it to say, the university wasn’t going to be keen on him having his picture in the tabloids. Not to mention the man himself. I mean, he didn’t even have his photograph on the jacket of his books. To call him private is an understatement.

  Of course, on the other side of the coin, if he valued his privacy so bloody much he shouldn’t have gotten drunk and kissed me in the first place. Never mind the fact that it was on a public street. This wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t. I couldn’t possibly have seen it coming.

  But that didn’t change the fact that it had happened, and now, thanks to photo jerk, there was a very real possibility that the business I’d worked so hard to build was going to be killed quite literally with a kiss.

  “Oh God,” I said, sinking my head into my hands. “I’m dead.”

  “No, you’re not,” Richard said, loyal to a fault. Bless him.

  “What about a lawsuit?” I asked, reaching for something— anything—that might save my ass. “Anything to be gained there? I mean, it wasn’t my fault. The man was drunk. If the tabloids claim differently, don’t I have a case?”

  “Possibly,” Richard shrugged. “But it takes time and money to win. And after the dust settles, all you’ll warrant is a single paragraph buried in the sports section. By then the damage has already been done. Better to figure out how to spin it.”

  “I was caught on film kissing a client’s fiancé. There is no way to spin it.”

  “Everything can be spun. The truth is that he was thanking you for helping him out with his concern over getting married.”

  “Sounds good, but the real truth is that he was so drunk he didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “Vanessa, when a man kisses a woman, he knows what he’s doing, I don’t care what state he’s in.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Because I’m a man.”

  “A gay man.”

  “All right I should have said that when a man kisses anyone, it’s because he wants to. It’s part of the genes, hetero or homo. Got it?”

  “So now you’re telling me that Douglas has a thing for me?” The idea was horrifying. He was a client. And he was engaged to marry someone else. Someone I quite liked.

  “In some way, yes.” He held up a hand to stop my protests. “But it doesn’t mean he’s ready to chuck Maris. Only that he, in some way, is attracted to you.”

  “You’re supposed to be making it better.”

  “Look. He was drinking.”

  “Heavily.”

  “So everything was exaggerated. I’m sure he truly meant to thank you. It’s just that he chose an inopportune moment to show it.”

  “He’s got the hots for our girl, if you ask me.” Anderson slid onto the barstool next to Richard, his eyes dancing. “I wouldn’t have thought Douglas capable of it.” I’d left an SOS on Anderson's machine at work. Obviously he’d gotten it. “So when’s the wedding?”

  “That’s not funny. Unless you’re talking about Maris and Douglas. In which case, thanks to the sleazeball with a Nikon, maybe never.”

  “Surely she’s been around enough to realize that almost nothing in the tabloids is based on reality.” Anderson waved down the bartender and ordered a cabernet.

  “She hasn’t been anywhere, Anderson. That’s the problem. And even if it isn’t real, a picture is worth a thousand words, true or not.”

  “So what’s the worst that can happen?” Richard asked.

  “Maris will dump Douglas before he has the chance to un-dump her. She’ll hate me, and my career as a matchmaker will be over before it even has a chance to begin.”

  “Or people will be lining up to sign on with the notorious Vanessa Carlson,” Anderson laughed.

  “By people, I’m assuming you mean crazies. This isn’t funny.”

  “I know, sweetie, but this too shall pass. The press has the attention span of a two-year-old.”

  “You’re right, but it’s the five-second span that has me worried.”

  “Maybe you should be more worried about Douglas.” Anderson was grinning again.

  “Stop it.”

  “Sorry.” He actually managed to look contrite.

  “Look. This is serious. There’s got to be something we can do. You said I should spin it.” I looked over at Richard. “How?”

  “Well, you could fight fire with fire. Call Page Six and just tell them your side of it.”

  “But then if they haven’t got the picture, I’ve added fuel to a fire that wasn’t lit.”

  “Can you do that?” Anderson asked. I frowned. Usually I found his wit amusing, but at the moment, nothing was funny.

  “You know that I mean,” I snapped, and was immediately sorry. Anderson hadn’t done anything except ride to my rescue. Again. “Sorry. I’m just worried.”

  “I know. And I understand why. But trust me, even if it’s bad, it won’t be as awful as you’re imagining.”

  “I just feel so helpless. And I hate that. I need to do something. Take action.” Okay, I was all girded up with no place to go. “So what do I do?”

  “Well, I think the most important thing is to make sure Maris isn’t blindsided. So talking to her tonight is important. Second, if you can pull it off, you need to be sure that the two of them get back together. If the press figures out there’s trouble in paradise, it will only add to the innuendo. And third, I meant what I said. You need to talk to Page Six and tell your side of the story. But hopefully if you’ve handled the happy couple, then you can spin it, so that it’s all about a grateful client.”

  “Maybe I could just get Cybil to run something?”

  “Where is she anyway?” Anderson asked. “I’d have thought you’d want her in on the powwow.”

  “She’s at a board meeting. The New York Women’s Foundation. I’ll fill her in later.”

  “She’ll love this,” Richard said. “But you can’t use her. You’re too close. People know that. And they’ll suspect her of slanting things your way. Not good for either of you.”


  “You’re right.” I sighed, wishing I could just turn the clock back before Maris’s call. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you all could pull strings and make this go away?”

  “I haven’t any left to pull,” Richard said, with a shake of his head. I shot a hopeful look at Anderson, even though I was pretty sure he’d already used all his allotment of fairy godmother dust.

  “Sorry. I’m afraid I called in all my markers when I helped you with Grayson.” Anderson managed somehow to look apologetic and amused all at the same time.

  “Grayson.” My heart fluttered to my feet. “Oh, my God, I forgot all about him.” I glanced at my watch. It was ten to nine. He had said a late dinner. But I couldn’t imagine meeting with him now. I had more pressing fires to put out.

  “What’s to forget?” Anderson asked. “The last I heard you’d hit a dead end. Are you holding out on us?”

  “No. Well, sort of. I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit preoccupied with the Maris-Douglas situation.”

  “So spill it. Have you talked to him?” Richard asked, sizing me up like a star witness about to be deposed.

  I nodded numbly, my stomach dropping down to join my heart. “He called to ask me to lunch, but I said no.”

  “You turned him down?” Anderson asked. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I had clients in crisis. Paying clients, I might add.”

  “Well, I admire your work ethic, but maybe if you’d said yes, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  “Thanks. That really makes things better.” Sometimes Anderson was just too damn honest. Of course, he was also probably right. But it was like telling a hit-and-run victim that if they’d turned left instead of right they probably wouldn’t be in the hospital right now.

  ‘"I'm just saying—”

  I waved him quiet. “He did say something about a late dinner.

  “So what are you doing here?” Richard scowled. “This is your chance.”

  “Right. And then in the morning the photo runs and he, along with the rest of my client list, will never talk to me again.”

  “Well, if you wait for tomorrow and the picture runs, then it’s a sure thing. But right now you still have a shot at working your magic, and then maybe the photograph won’t mean that much.”