A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles)

by Dee Davis

  We stopped in front of a small case containing a flawless yellow diamond on a delicate white gold chain. The diamond was the size of a walnut. Almost gaudy, and yet not.

  “You still haven’t told me what’s going on,” Mother prompted with a frown, ignoring the mesmerizing spell of the glittering necklace.

  “I guess I’m confused, more than anything.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.” The frown deepened, but only at her eyes, so somewhere out there a plastic surgeon got his wings.

  “I know. That’s the problem. It isn’t like me at all. I mean, everything is going great. You wouldn’t believe the week I’ve had.”

  “Well, actually, I seem to recall there were a few major bumps in the road.” She pointed to a bracelet with three rows of diamonds set in platinum. The clerk didn’t even hesitate. He just brought it out on its little velvet bed and stepped back for my mother to have a closer look.

  “That’s the point,” I said. “I somehow managed to dodge every bullet. I mean, I came through it all unscathed. I finally proved to myself I can operate on my own. Without Althea.”

  “But you’ve always known that.” She shook her head and handed the bracelet back to the clerk, turning her attention to me. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

  What a laugh. I’d actually managed to fool my own mother. “I’m totally afraid of everything. Especially failing.”

  “Everyone’s afraid of that, darling.”

  “I suppose so.” I stared down at a necklace and earring set. The kind that would make even an off-the-rack dress look amazing. Not to mention the girl inside the dress.

  “Well, if everything’s worked out, you should be elated.”

  “I know. But I’m not. I don’t feel anything, really.”

  “Well, then we’ve come to the right place.” She signaled another clerk, and in less time than it takes to say “twenty karats,” I was wearing the earring and necklace set. A fairy princess in Seven jeans and an Abercrombie and Fitch pullover.

  But I wasn’t a fairy princess and these weren’t my diamonds. I took them off and handed them back.

  “Maybe you’re just tired of helping other people fall in love.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” It was my turn to frown, and, believe me, there were wrinkles.

  “Just that maybe it’s time for you to stop pairing off other people and find someone of your own.”

  I thought we’d finally gotten past the go-forth-and-have-grandchildren speech, so her comment left me scrambling for words. “I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of commitment.”

  “No one ever is. Not really. It’s more about taking a leap of faith. Isn’t that what you tell your clients?”

  I started to say no. But then stopped. Maybe she was right. Not about the marriage-for-me part. About the leap of faith. No matter how many points of commonality two people shared there was always that element of risk. Maybe part of my job was to make them realize it wasn’t as scary as it seemed.

  “I suppose you’re right,” I answered. “Although the key is to make sure the leap isn’t too much of a stretch.”

  “Likes attract likes,” she said. “I know.”

  Actually I had no idea she’d ever really listened.

  “Well, it works.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know, it’s been a crazy week. I guess I just needed some moral support.”

  “Well, that’s what mothers are for.” We stopped in front of a case full of dinner rings. Diamonds mixed together with rubies and emeralds and sapphires to stunning effect. “Try one on,” Mother urged.

  I pointed to a simple circle of emeralds with a round-cut diamond at the center. The clerk held it out for me to put on and I slipped it into place. There was just something magical about well-cut stones. “It’s beautiful.”

  “So what’s up next?” Mother asked, segueing nicely away from the schmaltz of the moment.

  I tipped my hand in the light, admiring the ring one last time, and then slipped it off and handed it back to the clerk. “Mark and Cybil.”

  “He’s agreed to be a client?” she said, looking confused. “Just like that?”

  “Well, not exactly. At first the fates did seem to be conspiring against me. I mean, you know about the disaster at Bungalow 8, and then the luncheon that ended before I could close the deal. Of course, he said to call. And I did. Twice. But he wasn’t there and I wasn’t holding my breath, you know, waiting for him to call back. But then he did.

  “Only I was with Maris and had to hang up. And that should have been that, but he said to call him if I wrapped things up, and since Douglas finalized things a little too personally, I called. And we had dinner, but I hadn’t talked to Maris about the kiss and so when she called, I cut things off again.”

  “The man either has infinite patience or is a glutton for punishment.”

  “I know. I was kind of surprised myself when he called again. But the point is he did. You were there—at Barneys.” We sat down on a banquette by the window.

  “Right.” She nodded. “He asked you to dinner.”

  “Well, instead he took me to the Waldorf. You know, the Philharmonic benefit. But I told him I couldn’t go in. I mean, not with that photo on everyone’s mind. But he insisted. Said I should face things head-on.”

  “Smart man.”

  “I suppose so. But I could never have done it without Mark. He was a rock. He even took on Althea.”

  “She was there?”

  “Yes. And she was throwing passive-aggressive digs at me about the photograph. About my chances for success, actually. And just as it was getting really uncomfortable, Mark told her that he was my client. Right there in front of everyone. Talk about a triumph.”

  “Sounds to me like he was bailing you out of a bad situation.”

  “He was, actually. For the second time. But the important part is that he agreed to let me find him a match.”

  “Definitely a triumph, darling.” She reached over to pat my hand.

  “So why aren’t I more excited about it?” And there it was in a nutshell. I’d accomplished the impossible. I’d convinced Mark Grayson to sign with me. To go out with Cybil. My best friend in the whole world and one of the nicest men I’d ever met. It was perfect.

  My stomach apparently didn’t agree, and I groaned.

  “What, darling? What is it?” Concern flashed in her eyes and her hand tightened on mine.

  “Nothing. Really, it’s nothing.” I smiled. “Just qualms about Mark’s date with Cybil tonight.”

  “I’m sure it will go smashingly. Cybil’s wonderful, and from what you’re saying, so is your Mr. Grayson.”

  “He’s not my ... oh well, I suppose in a legal sort of way he is.” I was still trying to grapple with the awful thought that had planted itself in my mind. You know, with the tenacity of trumpet vine or kudzu.

  A clerk materialized beside my mother and handed her a credit receipt. She signed it and exchanged paper for a little blue bag. I shouldn’t have been surprised. She wasn’t exactly a window-shopper when it came to Tiffany’s.

  “So what does Cybil think of all this?” she asked, as the clerk discreetly withdrew.

  “She was really enthusiastic about the idea.” There it was again—that sickening lurch in the stomach.

  “She was or you were?”

  “Both of us, really. I mean, who wouldn’t be enthusiastic about Mark?”

  “I see.” She nodded, but I got the distinct feeling that she was off on her own train of thought. Not that unusual, really. “What about Stephen?”

  “He’s not part of the picture anymore.”

  “How can you know that for certain?” she asked.

  “He’s dumped her three times. Besides, Cybil has nothing in common with him. She’s successful. Stephen’s not.”

  “Do you have any idea how hard it is to make a go of it in the art world? It takes years to find a foothold
. Let alone success. And even then it’s often only fleeting. Even here,” she waved her hand at the sparkling cases in front of us. “This year it’s Elsa Peretti, next year it will be someone else.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re defending Stephen.”

  “I’m not. I don’t even know him, really. If I’m defending anyone, it’s Cybil.”

  “What?” Okay, this conversation had taken a really weird turn. “You’re not making sense.”

  “Darling, every time you put down Stephen, you’re putting down Cybil. She chose to take Stephen back. Not once, but twice. So unless you think Cybil is an idiot, there has to be something good about Stephen.”

  “Hot sex.”

  “Vanessa.” Her tone had me sinking into the velvet seat. “Okay. I see what you’re saying. There has to be something redeemable in Stephen, or Cybil couldn’t have fallen in love with him.” I tried to sound as if I meant it, but I sounded more like Natalie Wood in Miracle on 34th Street. You know the line—“I believe, I believe . . .”

  “Exactly. You just need to give Cybil more credit.”

  “But I do. I think she’s the most amazing person on the planet.”

  “With really bad taste in men?” she coaxed.

  “No. I mean, well, yes. She does sort of seem to have a knack for picking losers.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “Yes. But after all I know what I’m doing.” I sat back, feeling sort of smug.

  “Do you?” she flung back. “Then why are you sitting here at Tiffany’s with me? Shouldn’t you be out with your friends celebrating?”

  “They all have someone else.” The minute it was out I wanted to take it back. It sounded so lame. Or desperate. Or something. I thought about Stephen. His voice on the phone. He’d sounded desperate, too. And I’d blown him off. Maybe I should have at least tried to listen. After all, I was supposed to be the expert. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m delighted everyone is so happy. Especially Cybil. She deserves someone like Mark. It’s just that. . .”

  “Now that everything’s so neatly arranged you feel empty.”

  I nodded.

  “Have you considered that there might be another reason?” It was like she was reading my mind.

  “Stephen called.”

  “What?” She looked almost as confused as I felt.

  “Cybil’s not taking his calls. So he called me. He wanted to talk. I think he wants her back. I blew him off.”

  “And you haven’t told Cybil.”

  “No. If I do, she might not go out with Mark.”

  “And that would be a bad thing?” There was something in her voice that I didn’t quite recognize. Or maybe I just didn’t want to.

  “Well, yes. I mean, no. I mean, oh God, I don’t know. I’m always so certain about these things. I have to be. Maybe it’s because it’s Cybil.” I sighed, my heart feeling sort of like it had lost something important. Only I had no idea what. Maybe if I talked to Stephen. Maybe that’s where the answer lay. Or at least maybe I’d feel better for giving him the chance to say whatever it was he had to say.

  Only problem was, I hadn’t the slightest idea where to find him. I obviously couldn’t call Cybil. I glanced at my watch. She’d be getting ready for Mark about now. My stomach flipped again. I was always nervous when a new client had his first date. But this was ridiculous. Maybe I just needed to concentrate on something else, like Stephen.

  “Mother, would you mind terribly if I took off?”

  “Dare I ask why?” Her eyes glittered with something I couldn’t quite put a name to.

  “There’s just something I need to do.”

  “Well, take this, then.” She held out the blue bag. “For luck.” I opened the sack and pulled out the blue box. Inside was the little ring, its diamond and emeralds winking at me in the light. I felt tears sting the back of my eyes. “Thanks, Mom,” I said, sliding the ring onto my finger.

  Her smile said it all.

  And so, armed with my mother’s love, I headed out to find Stephen.

  Which turned out to be a whole lot easier than I’d imagined. He was waiting for me in the lobby of my building. Harry tried to apologize, but I waved him away with a smile. “It’s okay, Stephen is a friend.” It probably served me right to see Stephen so surprised, but, in truth, I hadn’t ever gone out of my way to get to know him. I made a living on first impressions, and Stephen just wasn’t the kind of man a mother would choose for her daughter. You know what I mean?

  But with my mother’s admonishment ringing in my ears, I thought maybe I ought to try to see him the way Cybil did. We took the elevator in silence and were still fighting awkwardness as we sat across from each other in my apartment. Waldo, on leave from parental duty, watched us both from his perch in the window. Stephen stared at the floor, and I stared at Stephen.

  He looked tired, but he’d had his hair cut, and his clothes were free of paint stains. Okay, I know that sounds judgmental, but I don’t mean it that way. There’s never been any question about Stephen’s looks. He’s hot. I can admit that. But that’s not enough. There has to be more. Right? I mean, a good body doesn’t guarantee a good relationship.

  Case in point.

  “I didn’t know where else to go,” he said finally, his gaze meeting mine.

  I try to maintain a neutral place when I deal with clients. They’re the ones on the emotional roller coaster, and they expect me to be the voice of reason. But Stephen wasn’t a client. And it was almost impossible not to react to the pain in his eyes. It was so palpable, even Waldo recognized it, jumping from his perch to rub against Stephen’s legs, offering his own specialized form of comfort.

  Stephen automatically reached down to pick Waldo up, scratching him behind the ears. Clearly, my cat had no reservations about the man. He wasn’t usually big on sitting in strangers’ laps. But with Stephen, he seemed right at home. Two peas in a pod, maybe.

  Or maybe he was seeing something I’d simply refused to acknowledge.

  “I’m sorry I cut you off earlier. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “It’s all right. I probably deserved it. I’ve hurt Cybil more times than I care to count.” An understatement surely. But there was no questioning his regret, it showed in every pore. “I didn’t want to hurt her.”

  “But you have,” I found myself saying. “Deeply.” Now I’m not altogether sure that this is what Cybil would have wanted me to say. I mean, something snarky seemed a much better way to go, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. It was part of his charm actually, his little-boy-lost appearance. “I shouldn’t be here.” He started to rise, but I waved him back in his seat.

  “You’re here. So you might as well say what you came to say.”

  He nodded, swallowing awkwardly, and I realized something else about Stephen Hobbs. He was shy. Painfully so, if I had to call it. Which explained a lot of his previous social faux pas. What was surprising was that I hadn’t noticed it before. I mean I’m good at reading people.

  Unless I’d already categorized them.

  I felt the hot stain of guilt and jumped to my feet. “Would you like a drink? I’ve got pretty much everything.” Thanks to a rather intoxicating New Year’s Eve party last year.

  “A beer, maybe?” Okay, so I didn’t have everything.

  “I’m sorry. That’s the one thing I don’t have. How about some wine? Or a scotch or something?”

  “I’ll have scotch, then. On the rocks.”

  I walked over to the little table that served double duty as a bar and pulled out the bottle of scotch. It was nothing special, a bottle of Cutty Sark, but in my mind’s eye I saw the bottle of Chivas Mark had been drinking at Bungalow 8. With that thought, I glanced down at my watch, the time snapping me sharply back to reality. Mark was probably getting ready to pick Cybil up about now.

  I poured some of the whiskey into a glass for Stephen and a double
for myself. It had been a long day. I deserved it. Turning around I noted my purring cat, contentedly kneading Stephen’s leg. It’s really hard to dislike a man who loves cats. And I didn’t even know he liked them.

  On and off, Stephen had been part of Cybil’s life for almost three years. So why the hell didn’t I know him better?

  Because you prejudged him and wrote him off as not good enough for Cybil, the little voice inside my head admonished. Well, said another slightly louder voice, it’s not as if you weren’t right. After all, he did dump her three times. I shook my head again, this time to dispel the voices before I turned into Sybil—with an S.

  “Here you go.” I handed Stephen the glass and returned to my inquisitioner’s seat. “So I take it you’re having second thoughts.”

  “And third and forth and fifth ones,” he said, taking a long sip of scotch. “I . . . ,” he started and then stopped, staring down into his drink. “I made a huge mistake.”

  “Yes, you did,” I agreed, not at all inclined to gloss over the truth. Better that he face it and move on.

  “But I had the best of intentions.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I said, staring at him now as if he had two heads. “You broke Cybil’s heart because you thought it would be good for her?” Again I’d said more than I meant to, but the idea that this man had hurt her on purpose absolutely made me cross-eyed. I drank half of my scotch, and then slowly pulled in air until I was calm enough to look at him.

  If he’d seemed wounded before, he was positively crestfallen now. “You don’t think I’m good enough for her.”

  It was an odd segue and caught me off guard. “I . . .” It was my turn to stumble. “I don’t think the two of you work as a couple. No.” There I’d said it. And it was nothing more than the truth. So why did I feel like I’d kicked a puppy?

  “Well, that’s what I think, too.” If his earlier admission had surprised me, this one floored me.

  “Say what?”