A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (32 page)

Gus is a swimmer. Endless laps back and forth across their pool. He’s even perfected a flip turn. Ida is more of a bobber. You know, like a barrel in water. She sways with the current and watches you watching her. She seems to find us entertaining.

Or maybe she’s just imagining hors d’oeuvres.

I don’t know what it is about them really, but I love to watch them. Gus relentlessly piling on the laps, and Ida placidly going with the flow. They’re the perfect couple.

Which, now that I was thinking about it, didn’t exactly fit into my theories. I mean, they were the ultimate in arranged marriages, but you really couldn’t find two more different bears. Maybe in some cases opposites do attract.

But then we’re talking about polar bears. And while I might enjoy projecting human emotion on them, in the end, they’re still animals. And as such, what applies in my world doesn’t necessarily apply in theirs.

My theories were sound.

And I had the couples to prove it. Of course, the ultimate test was still ahead. I needed for Cybil to see that she was better with Mark Grayson than with Stephen.

Which sounded absolutely self'-centered when put like that.

What I meant was that I wanted Cybil to be happy—and that wasn’t going to happen with Stephen. So my meddling was all for the best. Really.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure I believed myself. And since Ida and Gus were stubbornly refusing to comment on any of it, I decided I needed someone human. Someone who saw the world through the same Givenchy shaded lens.

And I’m not talking about Cybil.

Or Richard, or Anderson, or even Althea.

I’m talking about my mother. As crazy as it sounds, she’s the only one who really knows me. I mean, in that what-the-hell-is-going-on-with-me?-Don’t-worry-I-understand-baby kind of way.

Sometimes a girl just needs her mother.

Even when said mother is mine.

Chapter 23

Tiffany & Co.
727 Fifth Avenue (corner of Fifty-seventh Street), 212.755.8000.

“I don’t want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together. I’m not sure where that is, but I know what it is like. It’s like Tiffany’s. . . . I’m just crazy about Tiffany’s.” (Holly Golightly, Breakfast at Tiffany’s)

—www.imdb.com

∞∞∞

My mother is crazy about Tiffany’s, too. As far as she’s concerned, nothing compares to opening a present carefully placed inside that famous turquoise box tied with the white, satiny ribbon. And I can’t say that I disagree. Since I had my very first heartbreak—Matthew Barrington, seventh grade— my mother has made it a practice to take me to Tiffany’s. And I’ve got the blue boxes to prove it.

So it wasn’t all that surprising that when she’d heard my voice on the phone, she’d insisted on Tiffany’s. I love the store, I really do. But for me it’s not quite the religious experience it is for my mother. But then she was Holly Golightly. Not now, of course, hut once upon a time. Okay, she wasn’t a call girl, but to hear my father tell it, she’d been a rather free spirit in her day. So I guess
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
had struck a chord.

All I know, really, is that she cries like a crazy woman every time she sees the movie, and owns a first edition signed copy of the book. Who knows? Maybe she had a thing for Truman Capote. Now there’s a scary thought.

When I was younger it embarrassed me to think of her that way; now I have to admit I find it amusing. I mean, we’re talking about my mother.

It’s odd, isn’t it? You never really know your parents as people. They’re forever relegated in your mind to the roles of mother and father.

But all that aside, coming to Tiffany’s with my mother had always been special. The ultimate pick-me-up. A moment out of time that was just about the two of us. All heartaches and troubles checked at the door.

So here we were, Mother and I, walking between glittering cases of jewelry, all that gold and silver the perfect appetizer for the main event—the diamond floor.

“Isn’t this divine?” she asked, stopping to look at an Elsa Peretti brooch. It was deceptively simple, gold and silk coming together to form a calla lily or maybe a poppy. It didn’t really matter.

“It’s gorgeous,” I said, picturing it on the lapel of my turquoise coat. “Wish they’d done it in pink.”

“No,” she murmured, still admiring the pin. “It’s perfect in red.”

I nodded and moved on to another case. This one was awash with color. Like a rainbow of jewels, a pair of peridot earrings catching the carefully directed light.

“So tell me what’s wrong,” Mother said, coming to stand beside me.

I waved away the woman behind the counter and blew out a long breath. “I don’t know.”

“But you called.” She linked her arm through mine, pulling me toward the elevator. “There has to be something.”

I suppose it’s a sad state when your mother honestly believes the only time you call her is when you have troubles. But in our case, I’m afraid it’s the truth. I sort of have this thing about maintaining my independence. Maybe it’s just a personality quirk, but I don’t like admitting I’ve got problems unless the situation’s dire.

Which meant I must be really screwed up, because theoretically I should have been on top of the world, yet here I was, standing in an elevator with my mother. The doors slid open and we stepped out onto the diamond floor. It’s an elegant room, with understated lighting designed to highlight the glittering cases filled with the world’s most precious commodity. Diamonds.

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 . . .”