A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (20 page)

Of course, that was the hardest part.

“I’m not sure what to say. I don’t know that anyone has ever called me passionate. In fact, my best friend thinks I’m so dispassionate that I’m in the wrong business.”

“Why?” he asked, reaching for the bottle of wine, topping off our glasses.

“Because I don’t believe in hormone-driven happily ever after. Which to Cybil’s mind means I’m incapable of passion.”

“There are all kinds of passion. And they aren’t all physical.”

I considered the idea, and then nodded. “I think I agree. I’d never really thought about it in those terms. But you’re right. And I think you can apply that to relationships as well. If couples share more than a physical passion—if they share other interests, business, or causes, or even hobbies, then they’re going to be bound more closely together over the long haul. In fact, even without physical attraction, I’d submit that the union can last, as long as there are other crucial commonalities.”

“Don’t underrate physical passion.”

“I’m not. I’m only saying that on its own it can’t support a relationship. At least not indefinitely. And sometimes, it can even undermine one that seems to be on relatively stable ground.”

“You’re pretty young to be so cynical.”

“I’m not as young as I look, believe me. And anyway, Cybil says I’m an old soul. I’ve always taken that as a compliment, but I’m not sure that’s how she meant it.”

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Cybil.”

Perfect opening, now all I had to do was bait the hook. “She was with me the other night. In black lace?” I waited for him to mentally retrieve the image. I knew he’d seen her. Cybil had looked amazing.

He nodded. “Dark hair? Slow smile.”

“Exactly.” He was a quick study. Well done. “Cybil Baranski. We’ve been friends since grammar school.”

“I didn’t think anyone called it that anymore.”

“Guess I just dated myself. Anyway, suffice it to say, she’s been my best friend as long as I can remember.”

“That’s nice.” It could have been a throwaway, but he sounded like he really meant it. “I’ve never really cultivated that kind of friend.”

“I’m not sure you can. It just sort of happens. You know, you meet someone and bam . . . you just know you’ll be friends for life.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in that kind of relationship?” The question gave me pause. But I wasn’t about to let him know it. “A friendship is a far cry from a long-term coupling. And besides, the kind of connection I’m talking about is exactly what I think makes a good marriage. Two people who have a shared past and mutual respect for one another.”

“So your mate, if that’s the right word, could be your best friend.”

“Well, if I were to marry Cybil, there would be problems. I mean for one we’re both into guys. But more seriously, although our relationship is deep, the footing is totally different from the kind of intimacy I’d expect from marriage. Does that make sense at all?”

“So you can’t marry your best friend?”

“That’s probably putting it too simply, but yeah, I tend to think that there needs to be a different kind of connection in a marriage than simply best friends.”

“Okay, I’m not saying I disagree with you, but what you just said seems to be at odds with your stance against physical attraction.”

“I said it before. I’m all for physical attraction. I just don’t think it should be the primary basis for a union between two people. It’s just a setup for failure. Once the passion fades, there’s nothing left to sustain the marriage. You see it all the time.”

“What if the passion never fades?”

“That’d be a romance novel. And I don’t think it’s possible. Relationships go through cycles, Mark.” His name just fell off the end of my tongue. And the minute it did, I wanted to take it hack. Using it was like crossing a boundary I wasn’t sure I wanted to cross. But then I always overanalyze things. “And so when you’re in the off cycle you need something else to keep you together.”

“And you believe that a third party is better able to find those commonalities?”

“Well, again that’s overstating. But I do think that our culture puts too much emphasis on the physical. And because of that, a man, in particular, tends not to see the right woman, even when she’s standing right under his nose.”

“Enter the matchmaker.”

“It’s a time-honored profession.”

“That died out with the concept of arranged marriages.”

“Actually in some countries the idea is still going strong.”

“And women’s rights activists are having coronaries trying to stop them.”

“Yes, but the divorce rate in countries like ours has more than tripled.”

“Point taken.” He sat back and took a sip of wine. The second one I’d seen him take. Obviously Mark Grayson wasn’t a heavy drinker. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but overall it meant Cybil would always have a designated driver.

“Look, it can work.” I sat forward, pushing aside my plate. “I’ve got the couples to prove it. We live in busy times. And we’re conditioned to want instant gratification.” He started to smile, but I waved my hand to stop him. “I didn’t mean that kind of gratification and you know it. I’m simply saying most people don’t want to take the time to find the right person. Especially when you’re talking about our social set. And so one of three things happens. A person acts on pheromones and makes the wrong choice, or he just ignores real intimacy altogether and settles for brief meaningless encounters, or—and of course I think this is the best—a person calls in an expert and lets them do all the legwork.”

“Enter Vanessa Carlson.”

“Exactly.” I smiled at him, feeling as if I’d won the point.

“And I suppose you’d put me in group two.”

“Well, if the shoe fits.”

“But what about people who make the right choice on their own? I mean, you have to admit that sometimes true love wins the day.”

“Sometimes.” I thought about Richard and Anderson. “But unfortunately that’s the exception and not the rule. You’d be amazed at how many people don’t marry their true love, simply because they know it wouldn’t have worked.”

“So don’t you have a lot of miserable people out there?”

“No. Because at the end of the day, most people will choose comfort over kaboom when it comes to the long haul.”

“And simply because you’re not part of the hormonal equation, you’re able to recognize who someone should be with?”

“Not that specifically. No. I just sort of have a feeling when I think two people suit each other. And I surely don’t advocate that there’s only one person out there. It’s just that I can quickly identify from the people I work with who might fit the bill. Sometimes it takes more than one match. But most of the time I get it right the first time.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Mainly because I do my homework. But also because for some reason my natural instincts about people tend to be right. I can’t explain it. But I’ve always been a busybody when it comes to my friends’ relationships. And I also think it has to do, in part, with the fact that when someone comes to me, they’re truly open to finding the right relationship. That’s half the battle really.”

“And what if someone is determined to pursue the wrong person?”

I shrugged and drained the last of my wine. “Then I can’t help them.” Suddenly I realized I’d walked into a trap. All he had to do now was tell me he wasn’t interested in finding the “right” type and the trap was sprung.

But instead he only nodded his head and refilled my glass. “I will say you’re not like any other woman I’ve ever met.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Which left me, uncharacteristically, without anything to say. Fortunately, salvation presented itself in the form of my cell phone ringing.

I pulled it out of my bag and checked the screen.

Maris.

“I’m sorry,” I said, snapping the little phone open. “I’ve got to take this.”

“Another emergency?” One eyebrow shot up in amusement.

“Same one,” I whispered, as the phone connected. “Maris? Is that you?”

“How’d you know?” She asked, astonishment coloring her voice.

“Caller ID.”

“Right, I always forget about that.” I think I mentioned Maris has a thing about keeping her phone service minimalistic. She’s only had a cell phone for about a year. And that was at my insistence. “Anyway, I’m at the St. Regis. The Montgomery gala. I ran into Richard and he mentioned you were looking for me.”

“Did he say why?” I asked, and if possible Mark’s eyebrow rose even higher.

“No. Just that it was important.”

“Well, it is. How long are you going to be there?” Assuming I could grab a cab, it wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get to Fifty-fifth.

“Well, actually, I was on my way out. Douglas was supposed to have come with me. And I’m tired of fending off questions.”

“Meet me in the bar.”

“You want me to sit there alone?”

“Grab Richard. He’ll keep you company.”

“Never mind, I’ll go on my own. What’s this all about anyway?”

“Douglas.” She started to ask more questions but I cut her off. “Listen, I’m in a meeting. I’ll tell you about it when I get there, okay?”

“Fine.” She clicked off, and I had the feeling I’d managed to make her angry even before I broke the news. Why was it I always managed to wind up in ridiculous situations?

“I take it there’s trouble in matchmaking paradise?”

I could have been offended, but I was simply too worried about Maris. “Got it in one.”

“Want to tell me about it? Maybe I can help.”

“Not likely, unless you’ve got a straight line to the gossip rags.”

“If I had that. . .”

“I know. You wouldn’t have been fodder of the past few days. It seems I’m facilitating a lot of that of late.”

“I see.” He didn’t, of course, but I had the feeling he got the gist of it anyway.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go. I really would love to take you on.” He grinned. And I blanched. “I mean, as a client. In fact, I have someone in mind. But I’m afraid this is more important.”

“Do you want to me take you? I’ve got a car outside.”

The idea was tempting. It would be faster than hailing a cab. But he had a way of coaxing more out of a person than they’d planned, and I wasn’t in the mood to spill my guts.

“No thanks. I’ll just grab a cab.” I stood up and started for the elevator, my thoughts already turning to Maris.

“Vanessa?”

I stopped, and turned, realizing I’d just been extremely rude. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even say thank you. It was a lovely dinner.”

“I’m sorry it had to be cut short. But that seems to be the norm for you.”

“Well, usually it’s not quite so hectic.” Actually now that I thought about it, he was probably right. But then things did seem to be going particularly badly at the moment. “Call me if you want to talk some more.”

“Don’t worry. I will.”

At least I hadn’t ruined Cybil’s chances. There was still hope. “I’ll look forward to it.” I shot what I hoped was a confident smile and then turned again for the elevator. I’d almost reached the door when I realized I hadn’t told him anything about the photograph. And Belinda had warned me that Mark Grayson was the kind of man who valued honesty above all else.

So after closing my eyes and whispering a prayer, I turned back. “One more thing,” I said as he tilted his head, waiting. I licked my lips and sucked in a breath for courage. “There may be a picture of me in tomorrow’s papers. A somewhat compromising one.” The eyebrow was at work again, and I felt my throat tightening. “I just wanted to say that it isn’t what it seems.”

Blissfully, the elevator doors slid open behind me. And I whirled around and dashed inside, staring at the back of the wall until the doors closed again, the sound of his laughter still ringing in my ears.

So much for suave and sophisticated.

Chapter 15

King Cole Bar, St. Regis Hotel.
2 East Fifty-fifth Street (corner of Fifth Avenue), 212.753.4500.

Located in the St. Regis Hotel, the King Cole Bar is popular with guests and non-guests alike. The Red Snapper (better known as the Bloody Mary) was invented here, beneath the Maxfield Parrish mural depicting Old King Cole.

—www.gonyc.about.com

∞∞∞

The St. Regis is one of the most elegant places in New York. And the King Cole Bar fits right in. It’s one of my favorite places to relax. It’s an oblong affair with a huge Maxfield Parrish mural of its namesake, complete with fiddlers three, over the bar. They serve a wicked martini and the original Bloody Mary, and pretty much anything else your little heart desires.

And so at least the setting was a good one, maybe with enough martinis—for Maris, not me—I’d manage to survive the news I had to impart. She was sitting in a corner at a banquette, a martini and the bar’s signature almonds and green wasabi peas in front of her. Maybe she was already ahead of the game.

We exchanged air kisses and I slid into the seat across from her. “Sorry to take so long, I couldn’t get a cab.”

“It’s always amazing to me how if you don’t want one, they’re literally lining the streets, and when you do want one . . . ,” she trailed off with a shrug. She was wearing a shimmering silver cocktail dress that I’d seen and coveted in Donna Karan. She looked fabulous. If only Douglas could see her in it, he’d realize in a heartbeat just exactly how lucky he was.

Unfortunately, Douglas was passed out in his apartment. Maybe he was dreaming of Maris. That might move things along more quickly. Of course, if Anderson was right, he was dreaming of me. What a nightmare.

“Did you talk to Douglas?”

I nodded, holding my story until after the waitress had offered libation. I was in definite need of fortification, but held myself to a glass of red wine.

“Where was he?”

“At the White Horse.”

Maris gave a delicate little shudder. She wasn’t the pub type, no matter how infamous it was. In that respect she and Douglas were on different pages. But then favorite bars weren’t exactly on the list of marriageable assets. “Well, I’m glad you found him. Was he very bad off?”