A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (34 page)

“Well, I haven’t changed that much,” Richard snapped.

“Oh, stop sulking,” I said. “You don’t really care anyway. It’s just your pride hurting.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said, still sounding grumpy.

“Of course she is,” Anderson said. “The man was obviously an idiot. Trust me, you’re not the sort of man one forgets.”

The two of them moved away, Richard laughing at something else Anderson had to say.

“They look so happy,” I sighed, caught up in the prevailing mood of the moment.

“Well, they love each other, and at the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about.” Mother shrugged, the ice in her vodka tonic tinkling with the gesture.

If nothing else, that much I’d come to accept. Despite all my theories to the contrary, it seemed that in more cases than not, love did win the day. I just had to look at Belinda and Stanley or Maris and Douglas to know that. Even Lindy and Devon seemed to be building their relationship based on the power of the emotion. I might have been the catalyst that brought them all together, but it was love that kept them that way.

Thank goodness for my successes, because quite frankly to hear the papers tell it I was more a catalyst for disaster than anything else. Even after three months the buzz hadn’t died. Apparently Stephen had made quite a spectacle at Per Se. The maitre d’ had refused him entrance without a reservation. Not to be outdone, Stephen called the man on his cell phone and requested one.

But the maitre d’ was made of sterner stuff. This was Per Se, after all, and apparently he informed Stephen there were no tables available until August. Nonplussed, Stephen made the reservation, hung up the phone, and reapproached the maitre d’.

When the man insisted that Stephen couldn’t come in without a reservation, Stephen informed him he had one. The man was flummoxed just long enough for Stephen to slip by him and begin searching among the restaurant’s tables.

His first circuit did not yield success, and by the time he’d started the second, the maitre d’ had collected his wits and called security. By now most of the restaurant’s patrons were glued to the floor show, following a now determined Stephen as he moved from table to table. The arrival of the security guard didn’t faze him at all, he merely gave the man a shove and continued searching.

A second security guard had more luck, impeding Stephen’s progress by grabbing him from behind. However, again they’d underestimated Stephen’s tenacity, and in a move worthy of the World Wrestling League he managed to shake the guard, sending the man sprawling into a neighboring table.

With a quick apology to the couple sitting at said table, Stephen started his search again in earnest. This time calling Cybil’s name at the top of his lungs. By now, the police had been called, and things were getting rather heated. But fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on which side of the story you fall on, Stephen found Cybil—and Mark.

Not realizing who Stephen was, and understandably believing him to be a madman, Mark leveled a punch that sent Stephen crashing into a second table. All hell seems to have broken loose at that point, with patrons taking sides, to the point of fisticuffs.

The police arrived, and not able to sort out exactly what had happened they arrested Cybil, Stephen, and Mark. It wasn’t until they reached the station house that Stephen got a chance to explain why he’d barged into Per Se in the first place. Suffice it to say, Cybil was overwhelmed, and Mark was furious. But he handled it all with decorum, explaining things to the judge (yes, they were arraigned) and managing to square things with Per Se.

The story made the front page of the newspapers of something like seventeen cities in five countries. Along with the three major networks. Mark’s face—along with Cybil’s and Stephen’s—was splashed everywhere. And, of course, my part in the sordid little tale was gleefully bandied about in every tabloid from New York to L.A.

As a result, I lost Mark as a client, my reputation was in tatters, and I still hadn’t fully recovered from all the bad press. However, none of that mattered in comparison to what was accomplished.

Cybil and Stephen.

As if on cue, the happy couple burst into the ballroom, Cybil looking resplendent in Vera Wang. She’d changed from her wedding gown to a fabulous cream beaded halter dress. She’d never looked more beautiful. Stephen had eyes only for his bride, but he, too, looked fabulous, his Paul Smith suit fitting him like a glove. But quite honestly, it wasn’t their clothes that made them beautiful. It was their happiness. It was almost a tangible thing. Like the cake, or the flowers, or the ballroom itself.

Mother reached for my hand, giving it a squeeze. “You did the right thing, you know.”

“I know.” I smiled at my mother, and then reached out to hug Cybil, who’d managed to make her way over to where we were standing. “You look amazing,” I whispered.

“I feel amazing.” Cybil pulled back, her face glowing. “I just never imagined I could feel like this. And we owe it all to you.” Of course they didn’t owe me a thing. If it hadn’t been for my meddling, they’d probably have gotten back together sooner. I must have frowned instinctively, because Stephen pulled me into a hug. “She’s right, Van. It was because of you. If you hadn’t set her up with Mark, I might not have come to my senses. So in a backward kind of way you did us a favor.”

He’d said it all before, of course. Several times in fact, but I appreciated the repetition. I figured it’d take about fifty more protestations before I finally forgave myself.

“A toast to the happy couple,” Richard said, he and Anderson moving back into our circle. “Congratulations.”

We all lifted our glasses, clanging noisily. And then we stood for a moment just content to be together on this happy occasion.

“Well, if this isn’t the event of the year, I don’t know what is,” Althea’s raspy voice carried over the crowd as she pushed her way toward us, martini glass in hand. “Everything is just perfect.”

“You look fabulous,” Anderson said with a smile. Leave it to Althea to come to a wedding in a red Valentino.

“This old thing?” She laughed, her glass bobbing as a result. Cybil twisted out of range with a smile, but Stephen wasn’t quite as fast. Clearly it wasn’t Althea’s first martini. “Sorry, Stephen,” she said, sopping at the spot with a napkin.

“It’s fine.” Stephen laughed, waving her ministration away. “What’s a little splash of gin among friends?”

Three months ago I wouldn’t have even called Stephen an acquaintance. He was simply the man who dumped Cybil. But now . . . well, now I really knew him. Saw him through Cybil’s eyes. And I was proud to call him “friend.”

“So when’s the show?” Mother asked, exchanging her vodka for a passing glass of champagne.

“Two months,” Stephen said. “It still seems a long way off.”

“It’ll be here before you know it,” Richard said. “And about time, too.”

Richard had pulled strings with a gallery in Soho. Friend of a friend of a client type thing. And despite the negative publicity, or maybe because of it, Stephen was having his first show. Complete with an opening night party to rival the reception. My mother was in charge of the guest list. Which meant there’d be booze and money flowing—a fabulous combination when it comes to art.

“Well, right now we’re concentrating on this party,” Cybil said, lifting their joined hands, her solitaire sparkling in the light. “Capisce?"

We all nodded solemnly, and then burst into laughter.

Mrs. M. emerged from the crowd, a dapper-looking man in pinstripes at her side. “I wanted to congratulate you,” Mrs. M. said, her red lips moving into a smile. She’d been doing that a lot more frequently of late.

“Thank you,” Cybil said, linking her arm with Stephen’s. “We’re very happy.”

“It shows,” Mrs. M. said and then introduced us to her companion. Morgan Baxter. A New York Supreme Court judge of some notability. No wonder she’d been smiling so much.

“So what happened with the last kitten?” my mother asked.

The kittens had gone like Gucci bags on a half-price table. All except the littlest one. N°. 5, coincidentally. She was too scrawny for anyone to fall in love with. More Waldo than Arabella, bless her heart.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Mrs. M. said, her smile broadening. “I’ve decided to keep her. I’ve kind of gotten attached to the little thing. And so has Arabella.”

Waldo, too, if truth be told. But I wasn’t going to press my luck by mentioning the fact.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Althea said. “The perfect little family.”

“We’ll see how long it lasts,” Richard whispered in my direction.

But somehow I had the feeling that Mrs. M. was changed for good. Blame it on the judge, or the kittens, or maybe even Waldo, but any way you looked at it, Mrs. M. seemed to have shed the curmudgeon once and for all.

Across the room I spied Belinda and Stanley. Belinda blew me a kiss and winked, and I smiled. Maris and Douglas were here somewhere as well. I’d seen them at the wedding. Maris’s family and Cybil’s went way back. Devon and Lindy moved in a different circle, but I’d talked to Lindy just yesterday and Devon was still playing the role of reformed rake. Time would tell, but I thought they had a good chance.

“Oh, there’s the band,” Richard said. “Aren’t you supposed to have the first dance?”

Stephen swallowed nervously. “I’ve been practicing.”

“Stop it,” Cybil said, her eyes on her husband. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

“She just doesn’t know any better,” Stephen said with a laugh. “Fred and Ginger we’re not.” He held out his hand. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” They walked to the center of the now cleared floor, and the band struck up a waltz. I don’t even remember the tune, but it was lovely. Stephen and Cybil starting their new life together by dancing.

“It’s perfect,” I whispered, to no one in particular. But Anderson heard me.

“You done good, kid.”

Suddenly I felt like crying, but popular myths withstanding, weddings were not the place to cry. At least not your best friend’s wedding. The song finished and another started, more people moving onto the dance floor. I saw Douglas and Maris, their dancing amazingly graceful. Then Richard and Anderson, and even my mother and father.

Everyone was paired off. Leaving me alone with Althea. The two matchmakers, without a match.

“At least we were invited to the wedding,” Althea said, with a chuckle, clearly following the direction of my thoughts. “That’s a step forward.”

“I suppose so,” I said, still watching the dancers.

“And your business is going to be just fine,” she said. “The talk is already dying down. Someone else will provide the story du jour before you know it. And you can go back to what you do best—matchmaking.”

Which, of course, is exactly what I wanted to do. Although I have to admit, the idea appealed less than it might have a couple of months ago. Not my career per se, mind you, that I still loved, but I’d realized somewhere along the way that it was important to have something more in my life than just my job. My friends and Waldo topping that list.

“Your business seems to be booming,” I said to Althea, still watching the dancers, now gyrating to an old Buddy Holly song. “I saw that you’d made a match for Brendon Walker.”

Brendon Walker was a infamous bad boy with more money than sense. Unfortunately, he was an aging one as well, and he’d decided it was time to settle down and produce offspring. Talk about marriage as a merger. Definitely not an easy man to find a match for.

Althea had pulled it off, though, finding just the right woman to capture Brendon’s attention—permanently.

“I was getting a little nervous about it all. But I took a page from your book and kept after them. It worked, too.” She smiled over at me, and for the first time I felt like maybe she saw me as an equal. It was a sobering moment, except that I was on my third champagne and enjoying the buzz—thank you very much.

“Well, I’m glad it all worked out,” I said, watching as Stephen twirled Cybil underneath his arm, and then out and back again. Fred Astaire would be proud.

“Which brings me to something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” Althea said. There was something in her voice that made me abandon the dancers and turn to look at her.

“Something bad?”

“Good heavens, no. At least I don’t think so. It’s just a bit awkward.” She swallowed the last of her martini and I’ll be damned if a waiter didn’t appear with another one almost before she’d finished. “Thanks,” she called in his direction, and then turned back to me. “So, here’s the thing. I have a client, who has . . . well, who has expressed an interest in you.”

“One of your clients wants me to represent him? I’d never do that.” I frowned up at her, trying to figure out where all of this was going.

“No. No. It’s not that. He wants me to fix him up with you.”

“Are you serious? You want to make a match for me? Is that even legal? I mean, shouldn’t a matchmaker make her own match?”

“Look, I told him I’d broach the subject with you. See if you had any interest. No pressure at all.”

“Well, thank God for that,” I said, waving my champagne at her. “Glad to know there’s no pressure.”

“Look, Vanessa, I’d never do this if I didn’t think maybe my client was right. I mean, you would be perfect for each other. Honestly. Besides, a married matchmaker is a lot more credible than an unmarried one.”

“Oh please,” I spat, beginning to feel a little cornered. “You’re not married and you’re the best I’ve ever seen.” Not that I’d really seen that many matchmakers in action, but there’d been a couple, and I’d read about a few more, and none of them had Althea’s class and integrity.

“Just give it one chance. For me.”

“Do I know this man?”

“You’ve met him,” she said, pointing. “He’s right over there.”

I turned to follow the direction of her finger and froze.

Mark Grayson was standing on the edge of the dance floor, looking absolutely fabulous in a gray suit the exact color of his eyes. Not that I’d ever really thought about the color of his eyes or anything. Really. My stomach lurched and I reached for Althea, but she’d disappeared into the crowd.