A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (30 page)

It didn’t take more than a block or so for my ebullient mood to evaporate. I was entirely too moody. I pulled out my phone and checked the date. Not premenstrual. But then hormones are a totally fickle lot, striking you down when you least expect it.

I glanced down at my watch. It was still early. Maybe a little shopping would make me feel better. I was only a couple of blocks from Bloomingdale’s. And Dylan’s Candy Bar. Except that if I went there in my present mood, I’d probably consume half the Tootsie Rolls in the place (which is a lot, believe me). Tootsie Rolls have always been a weakness of mine.

Although Bloomingdale’s could be just as dangerous. But better my wallet than my waistline. See, I can justify just about anything. And even though I prefer Saks or Bergdorf’s to Bloomies, a store is a store, and Bloomingdale’s handbag department rocks.

Ignoring Dylan’s, I crossed Third and paused in front of the revolving door. I’ve hated revolving doors all of my life, which is kind of a pain when one lives in Manhattan. Give me a good old push-and-pull door any day. Unfortunately, Bloomies wasn’t giving me a choice, and purses were calling. I sucked in a breath, stepped into the glass-partitioned space, and pushed.

The door swung into motion and I arrived safely on the other side. Just like always. But despite that fact, I was still totally freaked out. Standing in menswear, I waited until my heart stopped pounding and then began the trek across the store to ladies’ handbags. It really is a gauntlet, with overly zealous purveyors of perfume shoving scented cards at you from all angles.

Most of them are out-of-work actors, which means you not only get overwhelmed with scent, but an over-the-top performance as well. The key is never to make eye contact. So staring straight ahead, I managed to get across the store in short order and down the steps that led to the handbags.

At Bloomingdale’s purses are arranged in little boutiques with lower-end bags to the right (when you’re facing Lex), graduating to progressively more expensive ones as you move to the left. I skipped the more affordable ones. They were lovely, but I needed a pick-me-up and only the very best would fit the bill. I stopped at Fendi, but to be honest I’ve never really understood why people like these bags.

Across the way was a little Ferragamo medical bag I’d been eyeing for a month or so. It just had an elegant functionality about it that appealed to me. I put the straps over my shoulder, my mood elevating immediately. But before I had time to reach for my credit card, my cell phone rang.

Saved by the bell.

Literally.

Reluctantly, I returned the bag to its display shelf and flipped open my phone, wondering what new calamity awaited me. “This is Vanessa.”

“Hello, Van, this is Stephen.” Stephen, not surprisingly, had adopted Cybil’s habit of shortening my name. But for some reason, the way he said it grated on my nerves.

“What can I do for you?” I asked, my tone glacial. He’d screwed my best friend—in every possible way. Not to mention the fact that he was interrupting a perfectly wonderful shopping experience.

“I need to talk.” There was a pause, and I actually thought about hanging up, but curiosity got the better of me. “About Cybil.”

Okay, I didn’t want to talk to the guy at all. And I certainly didn’t want to talk about Cybil. “It’s a little too late for that, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not.”

Oh, dear Lord, was he actually thinking about trying to get her back? “I think if you’ve got anything to say, you ought to say it to her.”

“But she won’t take my calls.”

“Well, what did you expect? You broke up with her.”

“I know, but—”

This was going nowhere fast. Best to nip it in the bud. “Stephen, she’s dating someone else.” All right, she wasn’t exactly dating him, but she would be.

“Who?” The word blasted through the telephone so loudly that I actually moved the receiver away from my ear.

“Mark Grayson,” I replied. That ought to give him food for thought.

Again there was silence on the line. I waited, trying to figure out why in hell Stephen had called me. Surely he wasn’t expecting a sympathetic ear.

“I see,” he said finally, and I could have sworn I heard a note of desolation. Served him right.

My phone beeped, signaling another caller. Maybe it was Cybil. “Look, Stephen, I’ve got another call, and I really need to take it. I’m sure you’ll find someone wonderful out there. It’s just not going to be Cybil.” I clicked off before he could protest, switching to the other line.

“Hello?”

“Vanessa, it’s Belinda,” she said, tears threatening to drown out her voice.

“What’s wrong?” It was getting to the point that every time my phone rang, it signaled a crisis.

“It’s over,” she said, between sobs. “I told him to go to hell.” Presumably there was a reason, but it wasn’t the kind of thing one discussed on the phone. Especially in the middle of a department store.

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just been walking. Hang on.” She fumbled with the phone, the resulting static uncomfortable. “I’m at Seventy-eighth and York.”

Belinda lived on the west side, and though walking was a good way to work out one’s emotions, it was a stretch to believe she’d walked all that way. Stanley, on the other hand, had an apartment on East Eighty-first—a fabulous condo with panoramic views of the river and the city. My guess was she’d come straight from there. I scrambled to think of a place on York.

“Why don’t you meet me at the Barking Dog. It’s on Seventy-seventh, I think. I’ll grab a cab and be there in five.”

I shot a last loving look at the Ferragamo bag and headed out the door, dialing Stanley’s number. Six rings and his answering machine kicked in. I disconnected without leaving a message and dialed his cell phone, with the same results. This time, though, I left a brief message.

Then I flagged down a cab and slid inside, telling the driver to take me to York and Seventy-seventh. I could have walked, but time was of the essence. Belinda needed me. I stared out the window at the buildings whizzing by, my thoughts returning to Stephen and his unexpected call. There was just something in his voice. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I opened my phone, thinking that I ought to call Cybil, and noticed I had a text message. Scrolling over to it, I clicked on the message line. Talk about coincidence. It was from Cybil.

Tried to call you, but the line was busy. Mark called, and you were right, he’s amazing. He’s taking me to Per Se. Still not certain I'm doing the right thing. But as you said, it’s only one date. Off to find something fabulous to wear. C.

The churning in my stomach returned with a vengeance. I’d never felt this way about a match. Usually I felt totally removed from the situation. I cared, of course, but not to the degree that I lost sleep over it. I mean, this was a business after all, and I couldn’t allow myself to get personally involved. At least not beyond a certain degree. But here I was on the way to help one client, sick at my stomach for another.

Maybe it was just that Cybil meant so much to me. Or maybe it was the call from Stephen. If he was having second thoughts, I ought to tell Cybil. But he was so wrong for her. And Mark was so right. And I was certain that if I did tell her Stephen had called, she’d use it as an excuse to cancel the date.

But I never kept things from her.

My stomach lurched as the taxi took a corner on two wheels, Mario Andretti at the wheel. I clutched the vinyl strap, trying to decide what to do. Oddly, all I could think of was calling Mark and getting his advice. Which was a totally ridiculous notion.

The taxi slowed as it reached the corner. I handed the driver a five and hopped out of the cab, feeling better immediately. I was just borrowing problems. Stephen hadn’t actually said that he wanted to get back with Cybil. And if she wasn’t taking his calls, then obviously she wasn’t interested in the idea anyway.

So I’d just keep my nose out of it. I had my own problems to deal with. Like Belinda’s crisis. It was sound logic. I should have felt better. But I didn’t. And for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why.

Chapter 22

Barking Dog Luncheonette.
1453 York Avenue (corner of Seventy-seventh Street), 212.861.3600; 1618 Third Avenue (corner of Ninety-fourth Street), 212.831.1800.

This canine-themed luncheonette, with its doggy drinking fountain out front and stuffed animals inside, is a big hit with kids. But adults love it, too, for another reason: The food (all of it made in-house) is the best bargain in the neighborhood.

—cityguide.aol.com

The Barking Dog is the kind of place you go on a lazy Sunday afternoon for brunch. You don’t have to dress up and you don’t have to spend a fortune, but you can while away the hours talking with friends over an omelet or a burger. It’s one step up from the usual diner fare, and, hey, you’ve got to love a place that gives your dog a drink while you sit at a cafe table and watch the world go by.

But I don’t have a dog and just at the moment I didn’t have hours to while away. I could see Belinda inside sitting at a table by the window. I glanced at my cell to make sure I hadn’t missed a call from Stanley. Or another message from Cybil. I knew what I wanted the former to say, but I wasn’t as sure about the latter. Anyway, no one had called, so I went inside and let the maitre d’ lead me to Belinda’s table.

“Hi, sweetie,” I said, taking the seat next to her. “Are you all right?”

“No,” she said, dabbing a Kleenex to her nose. “It was just awful.”

“Tell me what happened,” I said, trying not to jump to conclusions. “Everything was fine when I talked to you yesterday.”

“It was better than fine,” she said. “It was wonderful. Last night we went to dinner, and then afterward—well, it was fabulous. But I had to leave early this morning for a deposition.”

“On the weekend?”

“It was the only time that worked.” She shrugged, still sniveling. “Anyway, the other attorney never showed. So we cancelled it and since it was still early I decided to go back to Stanley’s apartment and surprise him. The doorman had seen me leave so it was no problem going up. But I didn’t have a key, so I rang the doorbell.” With every word she was getting more wound up, tears freefalling now into her coffee. She struggled for composure, but clearly it was a losing battle.

“It’s going to be okay. But I need to know what happened.”

She nodded and sucked in a deep breath. “I heard voices, and then the door opened. But it wasn’t Stanley. It was a...woman,” she paused, fighting her tears, “and she was naked.”

“Totally naked?” I asked, not sure exactly what I was supposed to do. I’ll say one thing for Stanley, when he screws up, he does it really well.

“No. Not completely naked. She had a towel.”

“And Stanley just let her answer the door?” Something about this didn’t sound quite right.

“I don’t know. I didn’t stick around to ask. I mean, there was a naked woman in his apartment. I hardly think there’s anything he could have said that would have made it all right.”

“But you said you told him to go to hell.”

“Well, not to his face. I just yelled into the apartment. I heard his voice. I know he was there.”

“Maybe there’s a reasonable explanation?”

“Like what? She just came over to borrow some soap?” She gave me the smallest of smiles, but the amusement was contradicted by the tears.

“Well, it seems a bit contrived to me. I mean, you said you had a wonderful evening. And believe it or not, Stanley really isn’t the type who flits from flower to flower.”

A bubble of laughter erupted from behind Belinda’s Kleenex, and the waiter, who’d been hovering anxiously, arrived with a salad and a glass of tea. He set them in front of Belinda and looked pointedly at my menu. “You want anything?” The restaurant obviously wasn’t interested in table-hogging histrionics.

My stomach was still on protest, so lunch was out of the question. “Just bring me a cup of coffee, please,” I said, handing him the menu. The caffeine wouldn’t do much for the queasies, but at least it would satisfy the waiter.

With a “humph” and a head twist, he huffed off toward another table. It was my fault, really. It was the weekend, after all, and there were probably people waiting. But this was an emergency. They’d just have to deal. And I’d leave a big tip. What can I say? I’m a pushover.

I turned my attention back to Belinda, who seemed for a moment to have gained control of the waterworks. Not that it was much of an improvement. She was listlessly stirring her salad like it was a bowl of Cream of Wheat. I stand behind my matches. Really, I do. But moments like these make me wonder why the hell anyone makes the effort. Caring about someone seems to cause so much pain.

I know you’re thinking that the payoff is worth it. And I suppose I’d have to agree. I mean, in my case the payoff is literal. But still, so much grief just trying to find a partner. And it’s not like riding off into the sunset is a guarantee of anything. Why do you think all those books end where they do? Because it’s not such a pretty picture once the sun goes down.

Okay, I suppose I’m being a little cynical. But think about what I’ve been through in the past few days. And all of it for “love.” I mean, God, it’s so damn complicated. No wonder I get the big bucks.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said, reaching over to stop the stirring. “I promise you there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“I agree. He’s not the type to flit,” she said, looking up at me with mascara-smudged eyes. (I totally swear by waterproof mascara. So what if I won’t have any eyelashes left by the time I’m sixty? It beats looking like a raccoon—in public.) “But, Vanessa, I saw what I saw.”

“Yes, well, there were Christmas presents left under our tree for almost fifteen years, but that doesn’t mean that a fat man in red velvet delivered them, does it?”

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “We’re not talking about Santa Claus. We’re talking about Stanley.” The tears started in earnest again, and I struggled for the right thing to say. My earlier diatribe aside, I really did believe that Stanley and Belinda belonged together.