A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles)

by Dee Davis

  “Of course you didn’t,” I soothed. “But that’s not enough to take away Douglas’s fear. And if it helps, he told me that he knew he’d made a mistake.”

  “Really?” The hope was back.

  “Of course. Just before he left, he even said he wanted to make things right. Unfortunately he wasn’t in any shape to do it tonight.”

  “And that’s why you wanted to talk with me?” she asked.

  “That’s part of it.” I blew out a long breath. “The best of it, actually.”

  “What else is there?” She leaned forward, her hand tightening on the stem of her glass.

  “Nothing horrible. Just a bit of a faux pas on Douglas’s part.” That sounded innocuous enough. “After we talked, I walked with him outside—to make sure he was okay.”

  “Because he’d been drinking.”

  “Right.” Dead drunk was a better description, but I’d leave that for Douglas to tell her. “Anyway, he was grateful that I’d come to talk to him. I think he just needed someone to assure him that things were going to be okay.”

  “Of course. That’s your job really, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, wishing I could leave it there. “But he chose a rather intimate way of saying thank you.”

  “What do you mean?” She frowned.

  “Well,” I started, and then stopped. How in the hell had I gotten myself into this mess? “The thing is, Douglas thanked me with a kiss.”

  “A kiss?” She was still frowning, but it was with confusion, not anger.

  A big fat wet one. But I could hardly say that. “Yes. On the lips.”

  “Well, lots of people do that. I’m not sure I see why you’re worried about it.” She sipped the martini again, the wheels turning in her brain. “You surely didn’t think he meant anything more by it?” Her face cleared as she laughed, and if I hadn’t been so relieved, I’d have probably been insulted.

  “No, of course not. It’s just that”—I sobered as I prepared to drop the bomb—“the paparazzi was there.”

  “They photographed it?” This time she was fully with the program.

  “Only one. But believe me, that’s more than enough.”

  “Oh, Vanessa, I’m so sorry.” She was apologizing to me?

  “For what?”

  “For the trouble this is going to cause you. Douglas will be beside himself when he finds out what he’s done.”

  This was not the reaction I’d expected. “You’re not angry at me?”

  “For being caught by a jackal with a camera? No. It wasn’t your fault. But the fallout is certainly going to have an effect.”

  “Not just on me.”

  She scrunched her nose in thought. “Well, I suppose there’ll be talk. But we’ll know that it doesn’t amount to anything. If anything, it should make Douglas even more contrite. And at the end of the day, I’ll take anything that makes him more inclined to forget this silly notion of our breaking up to avoid, well, breaking up. It’s ludicrous, really.” She tilted her head with a smile. “I suppose, really, the photog did us a favor.”

  “But what about the university?” I really wasn’t at all prepared for her total lack of concern. I’d thought she’d go ballistic. Clearly I’d underestimated Maris Vanderbeek. “Won’t they be angry about the publicity?”

  “Actually it’ll probably increase book sales, which in turn will boost Douglas’s reputation as a novelist, which will no doubt raise his value with the university. All in all, with the right spin, it could be considered a blessing.”

  To say I was impressed was an understatement. In truth I was floored.

  “But there’s still the negative impact for you.” She reached out to cover my hand with hers. “That’s a very real problem. And I’m sorry to have been a part of it.”

  “You weren’t, really.” It had been 100 percent Douglas. “Well, you wouldn’t have gone to talk to him, if it hadn’t been for me. And if you hadn’t been there, then he couldn’t have kissed you. So at least in part it is my fault.”

  “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is. You’re right, it isn’t going to play well in the press for me. I can see the caption now— ‘Matchmaker Makes Own Match.’ Or something more insidious.”

  “ ‘Playing with Matches a Girl Could Get Burned’?”

  “Don’t give them ideas.” I glanced at the other patrons of the bar, well aware of the dangers of being overheard.

  “No one is listening. And I was just kidding. Maybe it won’t even make the papers.”

  “Normally, I’d agree with you. I mean, I’m not really celebrity material. But considering the buzz surrounding the bet. . .”

  “Oh, right. I’d forgotten that.” Her tone was commiserative. “That does put a different light on things.”

  “Right. ‘Matchmaker Tastes Her Own Success.’ I’m screwed.”

  “Well, I’ll talk to Douglas first thing tomorrow.”

  “Even if you get there at the crack of dawn you can’t guarantee that someone won’t get to him first.”

  “Yes, I can.” She glanced down at her watch. “Look, I’ve got a key to Douglas’s place. I’ll just go over there and let myself in. If you’re right about Douglas, he’ll be in no shape to complain. And if the phone rings, I’ll get it. That should take the wind out of their sails. Especially if I laugh it off, and say that of course he kissed you, you’re single-handedly responsible for getting us together. That should play well, shouldn’t it?”

  It actually sounded like a plan. In fact, I was impressed with Maris’s quick thinking. “You’d do that for me?”

  “Vanessa, I wasn’t spinning when I said you got us together. You did. And on top of that, you made Douglas realize that he was wrong to have killed our relationship simply because he was afraid. The least I can do in return is deny the ridiculous notion that you and Douglas are an item.”

  Again I had the sense that I should be insulted, but I wasn’t. I was grateful. “But you haven’t resolved things between you yet.”

  “I know. But thanks to you the door is open. And I’ve had a little time to think myself. I really do love Douglas. Every insecure inch of him. And I’d be a fool if I let him dictate our lives based on his fear. It’s not that easy to run me off. So if you’re right and he still loves me—”

  “He does.”

  “Then it will be fine.” She stood up. “And the sooner I’m off, the more likely we are to be able to nip this thing in the bud, so to speak.”

  I stood up, too, fighting a desire to hug her. Sure as I did, a guy with a zoom lens would jump out from behind the potted palms. “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem,” she said, already heading for the door.

  It was a full minute after she’d left that I realized she hadn’t paid her tab.

  But considering the trade-off, it was a small price to pay.

  “I thought that was you.”

  I turned around, pasting on my best social smile, but relaxed when I recognized Richard standing there. “How was the party?”

  “You know the Montgomerys—excess rules. It was entertaining, I suppose, in a gaudy sort of way.”

  “Where’s Anderson?”

  “Begged off. He really does hate these things. Especially when Tod Whitman is involved.”

  Tod was a party planner and an old flame of Anderson’s. Tod still hadn’t forgiven Anderson for choosing Richard, and once he’d had a couple of glasses of champagne he wasn’t shy about speaking his mind—usually at the top of his lungs. If his skills at arranging hadn’t been so fabulous, his loose lips would have tanked his career years ago. “I can see his point.”

  “Me, too.” Richard grinned, then sobered. “Did you talk to Maris?”

  “Yes. Thanks to your SOS. She was just here.”

  “And things are okay?”

  “Well, there’s still the storm to weather, but she was really very pragmatic about the whole thing.”

  He sat down and motioned for me to sit next to him. “I can’t say that
I’m surprised. Her father was something of a card. I suspect, in her life, she’s had to deal with more than her fair share of bullshit.”

  “Well, she was very understanding with me. Actually almost insultingly so.”

  “Didn’t think Douglas was making a pass?” He was smiling again.

  “Not even a drunken one.”

  “Says something for their relationship.” Richard slid an arm around me to give me a hug.

  “Yeah. It does.” Said a lot, actually. She trusted Douglas even when he’d been a total shit. People never ceased to amaze me. Still, even though I didn’t understand it, I certainly was grateful for it. “She’s going over there now.”

  “I thought you said he was down for the count?”

  “He was. But she’s got a key. Figures she’ll cut things off at the pass if she’s answering his phone tomorrow.”

  “Not a bad idea, actually. But what if Douglas objects?”

  “He won’t.”

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself.” Richard reached for an almond.

  “He knows he’s made a mistake.”

  “Kissing you?” He popped the almond into his mouth.

  “No. Although that was clearly a mistake, I doubt he even remembers it. I meant, in dumping Maris.”

  “So he wants her back.”

  “That’s what he said, and I’m thinking that if she’s there when he wakes up, it’ll be that much easier for him to make it all right.”

  “Sounds like you’re off the hook.”

  “Well, not completely. No matter how well Maris and Douglas handle it, there’s still going to be fallout if that picture runs. I mean, I do have other clients.”

  “But they know you.”

  “Some not as well as others.”

  “We’re not talking about an almost-client, are we?” Richard asked, waving off the hovering waitress. “Say, one named Grayson?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  Richard smirked.

  “All right. A lot. But it’s not just because of the bet. He’s a really great guy.”

  “This is getting more and more interesting.”

  “You didn’t let me finish. He’s a really great guy—for Cybil. Honestly, I think they’re perfect.”

  “So did you warn him about the kiss?”

  “More or less.”

  “Which is it?” he asked.

  “Well, if you want to be technical, I’d have to say less. But he’s been alerted.”

  “Then you should be okay.”

  “Fingers crossed. Are you ready to go, or were you planning to stay a while?” I shot a look around the bustling bar. There were several tables of people we knew. Some of them clearly coming from the gala.

  “No, I was on my way out when I saw you. Shall we share a cab?”

  “Actually, I think I’d prefer to walk. Clear my head and all that.”

  “Want company?”

  I smiled up at him, thanking God for such a perceptive friend. “Please.”

  “Listen, Van, if Grayson’s got any sense at all, he’ll realize that there’s no way you’d kiss a client.”

  “I know. What I don’t know is why it matters so damn much.” I sighed, grabbing the check before Richard could. “Too much wine, I suppose. What I need is to go home and go to bed.” After all, tomorrow looked like it was going to be a banner day.

  Go me.

  Chapter 16

  Payard Patisserie & Bistro. 1032 Lexington Avenue (between Seventy-third and Seventy-fourth streets), 212.111.5252.

  Francois Payard’s “museum-quality” pastries are so “insanely good” you could eat yourself into a “sugar coma” at his East Side bistro/patisserie, but then you’d miss out on Philippe Bertineau’s “marvelous” cooking, which easily “holds its own”; the “elegant” bi-level space has a feel that some find reminiscent of the old Schrafft’s chain, but better.

  —www.zagat.com

  ∞∞∞

  The smell of something wonderful made its way into my bedroom like a cartoon finger, summoning me from sleep with an almost hypnotic pull. I pushed back the duvet and tried to remember when I’d moved into a bakery. With an almost somnambulistic gait, I headed for the kitchen, following my nose.

  Since my oven hadn’t been used for anything except shoe storage in nearly a year, I felt fairly certain that it hadn’t suddenly decided to go back into the baking business. That meant that some well-meaning soul had invaded and brought sustenance. Tantalizingly delicious sustenance.

  Since only three people had access to the key to my apartment—Anderson, Richard, and my mother—I figured it had to be one of them. And since my mother had already graced me with her presence this week, I was fairly certain she could be eliminated from the equation.

  Besides, the smell was decidedly carb-laden, and she hadn’t touched anything containing flour in at least a decade. (Which, of course, explains why she’s two sizes smaller than I am. Although I am two inches taller.)

  In truth, I wasn’t sure that I really cared who it was as long as the aroma was attached to something edible. After all, today was most likely going to be trying at best, catastrophic at worst. I needed fortification.

  “Morning, sunshine.” Anderson turned from the coffee-maker with a smile. “I brought croissants.”

  Not just any croissants, mind you. These were Payard’s croissants. It was like Paris had morphed into pastry and presented itself on a plate. I know that New Yorkers are supposed to consider bagels the bread of life. And I’ll grant you that the right bagel and schmear can be a cathartic experience. But putting a bagel up against a croissant is like comparing Fossil to Prada. And face it, given a choice, who’s going to choose Fossil?

  “Don’t you think it’s a little early?” The three LED clocks in my four-foot-square kitchen all attested to the fact that it was seven forty-five. Have I mentioned that I’m not a morning person?

  “I figured I ought to be here before the phone starts ringing.” Anderson moved to open a cabinet, and I saw the stack of papers.

  “Is it bad?”

  “Food first.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Well, let’s just say you look really good in the photo.”

  Not bothering to wait for a plate, I reached for a croissant and bit in, letting the buttery flakes of pastry seduce my tongue and soothe my soul. “Is it in all of them?” I asked, daring another look at the stack of newspapers.

  “Every last one, I’m afraid. And these are just the dailies.”

  “You think it’ll go beyond that?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised to see it in the regionals.”

  “Oh God.” I seemed to be saying that a lot.

  “Take this,” Anderson handed me a mug and a second croissant, “and go have a shower.”

  “But it’s not even morning yet.”

  “Honey, for most people the day is already waning. Besides, you’ll feel better once you’ve had a shower.”

  What I wanted was to rip off the bandage and find out just how bad it all was. But Anderson was right, if I went that route I might never get to the shower, and hiding under the bed in my pj’s wasn’t going to accomplish anything. Still, the newspapers were calling my name.

  Literally.

  “I want to survey the damage.” I put my cup on the counter and moved toward the papers.

  Anderson shifted to block my way. (Which wasn’t at all hard to do in my kitchen.) “You really should get dressed first.” He handed me back the coffee. “And have a little caffeine.”

  I started to protest, but the doorbell interrupted.

  “I’ll get it,” he said. “You go and put some clothes on.”

  I glanced down at the Hello Kitty-dotted cotton I insisted on sleeping in. The cartoon image might be hip (I mean, even Judith Leiber is in on the craze), but my jammies really weren’t presentable. “All right. I’m going.” I grabbed the second croissant and headed for the bathroom.

  Twenty minutes later, I walke
d back into the living room, feeling a whole lot more human and a heck of a lot more awake. Anderson was sitting at the table with Cybil, the two of them enjoying the last of the breakfast he’d provided. The newspapers were stacked neatly in the center of the table.

  “Come to share in my humiliation?” I quipped, trying for a flippant smile.

  “I didn’t have anything more pressing,” Cybil returned, pushing her glasses up on her nose. As always, she looked fabulous, the green Ralph Lauren frames on her glasses matching the shade of her silk sueded tank exactly. “Besides, I knew Anderson would have Payard’s.”

  “The big guns,” I said, sliding into a chair. “Okay, so I’m clean, caffeinated, and well-fed. It’s time. Any particular order?”

  “Actually, they’re fairly interchangeable,” Anderson said, sliding the stack of papers over to me.

  I really didn’t want to touch them. In fact, part of me wanted to go straight to the ceremonial-burning part of the equation. I know that sounds extreme, but it’s easier to accomplish than you think. I live in Manhattan, remember? And my building still has an incinerator. All I had to do was walk down the hall, open the little metal door, shove the suckers in, and fifteen seconds later—whoosh.

  But that was the coward’s way out.

  Better to face the problem head-on. Then I could run screaming from the room.

  I have to admit the picture was actually a good one. And if I’d been in love with Douglas it would have been a keeper. But Douglas was engaged to Maris, and I was supposed to be a professional. And believe me, none of that was reflected in the photograph. And, of course, a column wouldn’t be a column without pithy captions. Mine ranged from titillating to X-rated.

  “It could have been worse,” Cybil said, cutting through the silence.

  “It’s not good.” I shook my head as I perused Newsday and then a supermarket tabloid I hadn’t even heard of. More of the same. “At least I got to Maris before these came out.” I pushed the papers away. “She was amazingly practical last night. I’m just hoping that with reality staring her in the face, she doesn’t change her mind.”

  On that thought, the phone rang. At least we’d made it to almost nine o’clock.

  “Do you want me to get it?” Anderson asked. I usually try to fight my own battles. Really, I do. But it was still early, and I hadn’t even had a second cup of coffee.