A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (35 page)

Mark came closer, and I swallowed nervously before tipping my head up to meet his gaze.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked.

“I didn’t even know you were invited to the wedding,” I said, playing the part of brilliant conversationalist.

“Well, Cybil thought I ought to come. I mean, I did play a rather major role in the engagement.”

“Oh, God,” I said, going from bad to worse. He took my hand and led me out onto the dance floor. Of course, the band immediately launched into a Frank Sinatra standard. “I’m not a good dancer,” I squeaked, as his hand found my waist.

“No problem. I’m leading this time. All right?”

The question wasn’t about dancing at all. And all I could do was nod, numbly, my voice finally deserting me altogether.

My memories of that dance are limited to the way Mark moved, and looked, and smelled. The million different sensations that connect between a man and a woman. Oh yeah, and one other thing. I remember seeing Althea watching us as we danced. She was standing with my mother, who was grinning like she’d won the freakin’ lottery.

I smiled at them both, and then nestled my head against Mark’s shoulder.

Un-fucking-believable.

It looked like Althea just might win the bet after all.

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An excerpt from
Setup in SoHo
(the second book in The Matchmaker Chronicles)

"Don’t you think that dress is a little— revealing?” Althea Sevalas stared down the end of her nose at me, her withering glance serving as simultaneous judge, jury, and executioner. It was the quintessential mother’s condemnation, except that Althea isn’t my mother. She’s my aunt.

“It’s Alice and Olivia,” I said, as if that explained everything. “From Bergdorf s.”

“Well, I don’t care where you got it, it’s practically obscene.” Althea sighed, sipping her martini. “You might as well take out a personal ad in a gentlemen’s magazine. I can almost see your—”

“But you can’t,” I interrupted, flipping up the hem of the red silk bubble dress to reveal a pair of black boy shorts. “See, all covered.”

“
Andrea
," Althea protested.

I tried not to smile, but really, her look was priceless. “What? You thought I was pulling a Britney?” Okay, so I was probably overplaying my hand, but can you blame me? The dress was gorgeous. And short. But hey, it’s the style. And I say if you’ve got it—well, you know the drill.

“I don’t know, Andi,” Vanessa Carlson laughed, emerging from the party’s fray to join us, “flashing everyone might have livened things up a bit.”

Vanessa and my aunt used to work together, but Vanessa— showing a great deal of wisdom, I might add—had decided to strike out on her own. The move created a bit of a rivalry, but then a little competition never hurt anyone.

“Poor Stephen probably wasn’t expecting his first showing to be such a staid affair,” Vanessa said, taking a glass of champagne from the silver tray of a passing waiter. “But then my mother doesn’t know how to do anything without an excess of decorum.”

Actually, Anna Carlson was the epitome of Upper East Side. Everything she did simply reeked of money and propriety. A combination I can do without, thank you very much. Although, considering my lineage, it’s kind of hard to avoid. Anyway, despite her pre-Lagerfeld Chanel tendencies, she has a good heart— and a checkbook that guarantees that anything she attempts will be a fabulous success.

All of which boded well for Stephen’s opening, even if the party was a bit dull. Most of Manhattan’s elite had made their way to The Gallery in SoHo, and judging from the red dots decorating the paintings’ placards, they were in a buying mood.

Stephen Hobbs is an abstract artist with a lot of talent and the sheer luck to have married into one of Manhattan’s royal families. Not that it wasn’t a love match. Cybil Baranski Hobbs is crazy for her husband. And despite Vanessa and Althea’s sticking their noses into it (did I mention that they’re matchmakers?), love prevailed and Cybil and Stephen are sublimely happy.

This was his first official showing. A social coming out, if you will.

“Well, I think the show is a rousing success,” Althea said, echoing my conclusion if not the reasoning behind it. “Although Stephen looks a bit mystified by the whole thing.”

“He’s not used to all the attention,” I said, grabbing a canape from a passing tray. Shrimp in puff pastry. Pedestrian. But edible. It’d be better with a little cilantro and maybe a hint of cumin.

I probably should insert here that I’m a bona fide foodie, complete with a successful cable show called What’s Cooking in the City. The concept is Martha Stewart meets Entertainment Tonight. Dishes from Manhattan’s finest restaurants served up alongside gossip about who’s eating where and with whom. Some of the biggest deals in Manhattan are struck over the perfect osso buco. And more than one tiramisu has been witness to illicit affairs of the heart. Inquiring minds and all that, but I digress. . . .

“I’ll admit Stephen’s a bit rough around the edges,” Vanessa was saying. “But he’s a good man. And he and Cybil belong together.”

“Like you and Mark.” Althea smiled. Mark Grayson was considered by some the catch of the century. And, quite understandably, he’d fallen for Vanessa. But she’d been a bit slow to read the memo and, as is often the case, things sort of got all mixed up. But in the end true love, as usual, had won the day, and they’d found their way together again.

Althea, naturally, was taking all the credit. She and Vanessa had made a bet about who could marry Mark off first—it had been Page Six fodder for months. But I suspect Mark would have managed without their interference. He was a “take no prisoners” kind of guy. Not the sort to give up, even with two meddling matchmakers standing in the way.

“So where’s Dillon?” Vanessa asked.

“Here somewhere.” I waved at the room with my champagne glass. My third. Staid parties call for serious libationary intervention.

“He’s over there,” Althea said, disapproval dripping from her voice like melting ice sculptures. “Flirting with Diana Merreck.”

Dillon Alexander is my boyfriend (although saying it like that makes me sound all of sixteen). We’ve been semi-living together for a couple of years. I say “semi” because, although we invariably end up staying together at one of our apartments, despite pressure from Dillon I just haven’t been able to commit to the idea of giving up my own personal space.

“He always flirts,” I said with a shrug. “It doesn’t mean anything.” Truly, it didn’t. Flirting was like breathing with Dillon. It was part of what I loved about him. Althea just liked the idea of getting in a dig. She can’t stand Dillon. Thinks he isn’t good enough for me. Which translates to “not of the right breeding.” Dillon’s California. His money’s new, which in certain circles makes it completely suspect. And, according to Althea, he’s got no ambition. Which is totally untrue. He’s just got his own ideas about how to do things.

Which I find admirable.

Althea, not so much.

“It’s not the first time I’ve seen him with her,” she sniffed, taking a swig of her martini. Well, “swig” probably isn’t the right word. Althea is nothing if not ladylike. Still, she can put away alcohol with the best of them, especially if it’s served with olives. “And the truth is, I think you deserve better.”

“Old song, same verse,” I reminded her, wishing suddenly I hadn’t felt so strongly about supporting Stephen. It’s not like he needed me, and this was certainly not my idea of a good time.

“I just think you need to open your eyes and recognize the truth. Dillon isn’t the marrying kind.” She scowled at me over the rim of her glass, arched eyebrows zooming up into her hairline.

“You don’t know that. And besides, maybe I’m not the marrying type, either.” We stood toe to toe, voices rising with each word. I knew better than to let her draw me into battle, but the champagne had loosened my tongue—and dulled my brain.

“Of course you want to get married, Andrea. You just have to find the right person. And Dillon simply isn’t the right one.”

“And I suppose you have someone in mind? Someone you’d like to fix me up with?” It was an old bone of contention. Althea was constantly trying to set me up with what she considered the perfect suitor.

Althea opened her mouth to respond, but Vanessa—God bless her—was faster. “Isn’t that Bethany Parks over there? With Michael Stone,” she inserted, neatly turning the conversation away from more dangerous ground. “I didn’t know they were dating.”

“This is the first,” I said.

Bethany and I have been friends since our NYU days. We’d even roomed together for a while. Which is a huge undertaking, since she owns enough couture to open a Madison Avenue boutique. She needs one closet just for her shoes. Believe me when I say that Bethany lives by the adage “dress for success.”

She’s the kind of woman who takes the idea of Meals on Heels literally, delivering food to the apartment-bound elderly decked in her favorite Jimmy Choos. The idea of her tottering up five flights of stairs with a stack of Styrofoam containers would be laughable except for the humbling fact that she is also the kind of person who always puts others first.

Her date with Michael had come as a surprise, since she wasn’t usually interested in trust-fund types. Not that there’s anything wrong with Michael. He’s just a bit stuffy for my taste. And, I’d thought, for Bethany’s.

“Actually,” Althea said, shooting me a triumphant glance, “I introduced them.” So much for Vanessa’s diversion.

“You set up my best friend?” I sputtered, trying to hang on to some semblance of composure. To say that I disapprove of Althea’s meddling profession would be an understatement. Marriage— and love, for that matter—is not something that can be manipulated by facts and figures. It’s a basic principle of science that like does not attract like. And making matches based on financial benefits and social commonalities is like throwing mud in the face of thousands of years of romantic tradition.

Not that I’m a romantic. Exactly. I just don’t believe that people need intervention to find a relationship.

And I sure as hell didn’t want Althea meddling in my friends’ lives. Her manipulations had already cost me my mother. And I was still dealing with the fallout.

“I thought we had an agreement,” I said, draining the last of my champagne.

“We had nothing of the sort. Besides, they’re perfect for each other. And Bethany was just lamenting the fact that she wasn’t meeting the right kinds of men.”

“So you stepped in and made a match?” I swallowed, trying not to choke on my indignation.

“Not officially. I mean, Michael isn’t a client. He’s more of a friend. And I knew he was looking for the right someone, and Bethany’s perfect. So I introduced them.”

“It’s still a setup. And when it goes south, I’ll have to pick up the pieces.”

“Who’s to say it won’t work out?” Vanessa asked. “I mean, Althea does know what she’s doing. Michael’s a good man.”

“Spoken like a true matchmaker.” I shrugged. “And I’m not saying Michael isn’t good enough for Bethany. I don’t even know him, really, except by reputation.”

“Well, his background is impeccable,” Althea assured me. “That’s just the point. Bethany’s not going out with his background. She’s going out with him. And wouldn’t it have been better if they could have found each other on their own?” I sighed, realizing the futility of my words almost before I got them out. “Never mind. Stupid question, considering present company.”

“Of course it’s not stupid,” Vanessa soothed. “It would be nice if the right people could find each other. But the truth is that it usually doesn’t happen that way. And so we’re here to help.”

I sucked in a breath, and grabbed another glass of champagne. Vanessa was a good person, and I really wasn’t trying to insult her. I just didn’t believe in matchmaking. Particularly when it involved Althea and my friends.

“I just wish you’d keep your nose out of my life, Althea.”

“But it isn’t your life, Andrea. It’s Bethany’s.”

“She’s my friend. And you’re my aunt. Which means her love life should have been off-limits.”

“You’re being ridiculous. Besides, it’s not like I forced it on her,” Althea said.

“She came to you?” I asked, surprised. Bethany knew my feelings about Althea’s profession, and I’d thought she shared them.

“Not exactly,” Althea said, not looking the slightest bit repentant. “I called her. But it didn’t take much convincing.”

“So you reached out to her, even though you knew how I felt?”

“Like I said, it wasn’t about you.”

“No. It never is, is it?” I sucked down more champagne and, with a tight smile, excused myself. I knew better than to get into it with Althea. There was no winning. I should never have engaged in the first place. But setting Bethany up crossed a line. An arbitrary one, to be sure. But still a boundary.

Not that Althea would recognize one of those if it hit her in the face.

Anyway, there you have it. My wonderful dysfunctional life.