A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (15 page)

Caffe Buon Gusto.
236 Hast Seventy-seventh Street (between Second and Third avenues), 212.535.6884; 1009 Second Avenue (between Fifty-third and Fifty-fourth streets), 212.755.1476.

Caffe Buon Gusto is an authentic Italian restaurant with classic, home-cooked dishes. The service is friendly, the prices reasonable, and the atmosphere inviting ... I’ve dined in Italy, and stepping into this charming restaurant is like dining with the locals. Wonderful!

—www.slayyourdemons.com

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Continuing on my carb quest, pasta ranks right behind pancakes as comfort food. And my absolute favorite restaurant in this city is a little restaurant on Seventy-seventh. Perfect for a romantic evening, a boisterous group of friends, or just a quiet evening of the some of the best homemade pasta in Manhattan. I mean, their lobster linguini is to die for. Really. And fortunately for Cybil and me, they also have a midtown location—that delivers.

So I ordered sustenance while Cybil picked her jaw up off the floor.

“You’re out of your freakin’ mind.” This was actually about the sixth time she had uttered the phrase, each time with a little more emphasis than the last, but I’d known her a long time, and underneath the denial I could see a spark of interest in her eyes.

“Don’t you see? It’s perfect.” Honestly, when I’d originally said it, it had been on impulse, but in the intervening fifteen minutes or so I’d grown quite attached to the idea. There were all kinds of commonalities. Both were wealthy. Both had graduated at the top of their college classes. Both had broken away from their families to make their own success in the world.

Okay, not exactly in an Oprah way, but still, they’d both made a name for themselves in their respective industries. And, of course, there was the matter of societal ties. Grayson might pretend to be a loner, but at his level he had to have made alliances along the way. And Cybil’s lineage assured that there were very few doors her name couldn’t open.

And more important, I just had a feeling that they were perfect for each other. In the beginning, before Althea, before HEA, before any career aspirations at all, I’d trusted my gut. That’s what it was all about, really. That’s why I love what I do. I mean what could be better than helping two people find each other?

Cybil crossed her arms over her chest in the same way she’d been doing since the first grade. I told you stubborn was her middle name. “What about Stephen?”

Now there was a question that begged an answer, but not the first one that sprang to mind. I took a long sip of my cosmo, working to formulate a more politically correct answer.

The doorbell rang, and I delayed the moment, jumping to answer the door instead. After paying the delivery man, I followed Cybil into the dining room and began unpacking the divine-smelling food. “This looks fabulous,” I said, opening a container of pesto-covered penne.

“Don’t change the subject,” Cybil said, dishing some lobster linguini onto a plate. “What about Stephen?”

“I know he was important to you. But he’s gone. And there’s no time like the present for moving on.”

“By marrying someone else?”

“No.” I shook my head emphatically, while helping myself to both dishes. “By dating again. And what better way to make a start than with someone like Mark Grayson?”

“Vanessa, you’re asking me to let you set me up as a potential mate for the man. I hardly call that rebound dating.”

“Well,” I said, following her hack into the living room, “if you think about it, all dates are basically preludes to possible commitment. Otherwise, why go out in the first place?”

“For fun. For hot sex. To see and be seen?”

“Yeah, maybe, but you have to admit that somewhere in there every time we go out we’re all thinking this could be the one.”

“You don’t think that. You don’t even want to get married.”

“I don’t date. If I did, I swear to God I’d be sucked into the same quagmire.”

“How can you possibly talk about dating as the doorway to marriage and quicksand all at the same time?”

She’d walked right into it. I smiled and set my plate on the table. “Because most people don’t have someone like me to help them sort through the possibilities.”

“And choose the right one,” Cybil said, with something less than enthusiasm.

“Exactly,” I said, gracing her with a beaming smile. “I can’t promise that a first date will lead to anything other than a second.”

“Two-date rule.”

I nodded. “But by doing my homework and trusting my instincts I can give people a chance at finding the right kind of relationship.”

“It just sounds so cold.”

“Okay. Look at it this way. What have you got to lose? I mean, if Grayson agrees to this, then you’ll have a couple of dates with what you yourself described as the catch of the century. And so, worst case, you have a good time and cocktail party stories for years. It’s win-win.”

“And you really think the two of us might hit it off?” Despite her resistance to the notion, she was intrigued. And that was half the battle.

“Absolutely. Look, Cybil, I love you like a sister. There’s no way I’d set you up with someone I think is wrong for you. If nothing else, blame it on professional pride.”

This brought a muffled laugh as she swallowed a mouthful of pasta.

“And you’ll be helping me out. Giving me one up on Althea. Because trust me, there’s no way she can produce someone as wonderful as you. And if I’m right, and you and Grayson really do hit it off, then that’ll be icing on the cake.”

“But to win the bet, I’d have to marry him.”

“Okay, there’s a limit to how much I expect you to help me. And marriage is one them. All I want you to do is go out with the man. Then let pheromones do the rest.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in that sort of thing.”

“I’m not denying sexual attraction exists. I’m just saying that if certain other factors aren’t present you should run for the hills. So you’ll do it?”

There was a beat of silence and then another, and I almost thought I’d misjudged her interest, but then she sighed and drained her drink. “I’m in.”

I opened my mouth to thank her, but she waved me quiet.

“There are certain limitations. If he’s not interested, then it’s off before it starts. And if I go out with him and don’t like him, then no pushing for a return engagement.” I started to object, but again she motioned for me to shut up. “I’ll do the two-date thing. But only if he’s in agreement. In addition, I’m not making any promises about where it goes from there, even if we do like each other. All right?”

I nodded, knowing damn well that if I could get Grayson to accept my help and set him up with Cybil, it would be a success. Cybil was the kind of woman men adored. She’d have been married a long time ago if she hadn’t insisted on choosing boyfriends like Stephen. A small niggle of worry blossomed at the thought, but I squelched it before it could go any farther. I was a professional, after all. And I had a good feeling about this.

From what I’d seen, Mark Grayson was a stand-up guy. Even angry, he had a quality about him that commanded respect. And today, in his own way, he’d sort of been charming. All of that with a woman he clearly couldn’t stand. Just think about how much better it would be with someone he actually liked.

“So how does this work?” Cybil asked, anxiety cresting in her eyes.

“Easy. I just have to convince Grayson to give me a chance. Then tell him about you, and from there we’ll let nature take its course. He’ll ask you out. You’ll say yes. And before you know it I’ll be dancing at your wedding.”

“Let’s just take it one step at a time. Okay?”

“All right.” I grinned, feeling like I had just brokered a deal with the axis powers. Of course, I was only halfway there. But that beat where I had been this morning. I had an opening with Grayson, a fabulous woman to recommend, and, for the first time since the bet, an actual shot at winning. Or at least getting in the game.

I grabbed the pitcher and headed for the kitchen. “I’m making another round,” I called over my shoulder. “I feel like a celebration.

Unfortunately, I have a bad habit of always getting the cart before the horse. Or in this case the woman before the man. By noon the next day, I was beginning to think Grayson’s interest in meeting with me had been feigned.

I’d called again at precisely nine thirty only to be told in a not so warm and fuzzy way that Grayson wasn’t in. To add insult to injury his assistant also informed me that she was more than aware of who I was and that she very sincerely doubted her boss had anything at all to say to me. I tried to explain, but was cut off without even being allowed to finish.

Maybe the woman had designs of her own. Hard to say, but whatever the problem, the phone wasn’t ringing. I picked it up and listened to the dial tone, feeling all of about fourteen. It was about the twenty-seventh time I’d tried the maneuver, the result always the same—the empty hollow buzzing of the dial tone.

Waldo sat in the window observing my antics with the dispassion only a cat can achieve. “It would serve you right if I got you fixed.” The threat rolled right off his silky back as he lifted a paw and gave it a languid lick of his tongue.

Maybe cats had the right idea. Maybe we should all operate as if we didn’t give a damn about anything. As if there was nothing more exciting in the world then a sponge bath and a nap in the sun.

But just at the moment the idea wasn’t flying. Patience has never been my strongpoint. Although I talk a good game.

I thought about calling Cybil, but decided against it. One, it would tie up the phone and, two, she might have changed her mind. Better to just wait for Grayson to call. I think I hate being held hostage by the phone more than anything in the world.

I know it’s my own fault. Call it a personality quirk, but I can’t put it out of my mind. Not even with cell phones. I’d given the icy assistant my cell number, too, but I didn’t have the courage to count on it exclusively. By staying here at home, I was doubling my options. Landline and cell phone. Stupid, I know. But then I’ve never claimed to be rational.

I walked into the kitchen, dumped my tepid coffee, and poured a fresh cup. I’d been doing the same for the past couple of hours, never actually drinking any of it. But going through the motions made me feel good.

I sighed and stood looking out the window. One of my favorite things about living in Manhattan is watching the world through nineteenth-floor windows. You’re close enough that you can still see details, but far enough above that they can’t see you. The ultimate voyeur.

I once watched a movie shoot through binoculars. Spent most of the day actually watching as they turned the clock back to the 1950s. Pretty cool. Even saw Nicole Kidman. I know, I shouldn’t be so easily impressed. And in truth, it’s the everyday people I enjoy watching more. The mom with her kids. The old man and his wife. The delivery men, the taxi drivers . . . you know the drill.

Today the street was fairly quiet. Off in the distance I could see the green of Central Park, and directly across from me the streaming sheets of water as they coursed down a courtyard wall.

Manhattan is full of secret beauty. Places that can only be seen when you’re above them. It’s like a world of secret gardens. I never get tired of looking at it.

Behind me the shrill ring of the phone broke through my reverie and I jumped, dashing across the apartment with shaking hands. Counting to three and breathing deeply, I picked up the phone and said hello in what I hoped was a calm and sensible voice.

“Vanessa, you sound sick.”

Mother.

“I’m fine,” I snapped. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Mark Grayson,” she said with the self-satisfaction only a parent can achieve. “I knew it was a good idea to seat the two of you together. Did you call him?” I’d filled her in on the conversation yesterday after the lunch. And to be honest, in face of her general disapproval of matchmaking, I was still surprised she’d facilitated things.

“I called,” I said, not really wanting to go into the humiliating details.

“And?” Mother prompted.

There was a moment of silence and then I caved. You know as well as I do that no matter what age you are, your mother can take you back to sniveling child with just a word. And my mother was a master.

“I got his assistant and left a message. And he hasn’t called back.”

“He will. You just have to be patient. He’s a busy man.” Actually she was probably dead on. It’s just that when something is important, patience isn’t as easy to come by.

“Anyway,” I paused, taking a deep breath, “thank you for yesterday.”

I know what you’re thinking. My mother helped me. And so I should be more grateful. But you have to understand a couple of things. First, my mother and I have perfected our relationship over the decades—it may not be perfect, but it’s ours. And second, my mother never does anything out of the goodness of her heart, there’s always a secondary motive. Always.

I just hadn’t figured this one out yet.

“I’m just glad I could help.” Modesty didn’t suit my mother. And I wished I knew what she was up to. Maybe she was setting me up to fail. Although that seemed a bit extreme even for her.

“I really should get off the phone.”

“That wouldn’t be a problem if you had call-waiting.” It was an old argument. I hate call-waiting. It just facilitates rudeness. And as such, I bullied my phone company until they agreed to drop the feature from my phone.

The fact that it annoys my mother was an added bonus.

“Well, I don’t have it. So I really should hang up. All right? I promise I’ll call you the minute I hear from him.” Fat chance.

“I’ve got a better idea,” my mother said. Of course she did. She was the queen of “I’ll top that.” “I’m having lunch with your father. He’s taking me to Mark’s.” Mark’s is a lovely restaurant in the Mark Hotel on Seventy-seventh near Madison. An elegant staple for the over-sixty set. “Why don’t you meet us?”

An invitation from my mother was one of life’s impossible situations. She simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. But the idea of spending a couple of hours with her and my father grilling me about the bet and Mark Grayson wasn’t my idea of fun. I looked around the apartment, searching for an excuse. Nothing presented itself.