A Match Made on Madison (The Matchmaker Chronicles) (7 page)

“Oh God, what was I thinking? I must have been out of my mind to have agreed to the bet.” No more martinis—ever.

“No . . . ,” she started, then shook her head and grinned. “Well, maybe a little. But that doesn’t mean you can’t succeed. You just have to play to his weaknesses.”

“Except that I have no idea what they are.” There’d been absolutely no time for anything but the most cursory research. “I Googled him, of course. But even with that, it’s hard to put together a realistic picture. He’s a deal maker. A whiz with property development. If you believe the press he’s single-handedly revitalized something like seven major cities.”

“Twelve, actually,” Belinda interjected. “Three of them in Europe.”

“Right, so the man’s a demigod when it comes to urban real estate. But all work and no play ...” I left the phrase unfinished.

“But Mark Grayson is anything but dull,” Belinda countered. “I’m betting at least half of your Google hits stemmed from mention in the society columns.”

“True enough. But most of it was strictly speculation.”

“Fits with the strong and silent image.” Belinda had started on my straw, the plastic already showing white lines of strain where she’d twisted it.

“But it doesn’t help me.” I’d fallen into quicksand and was sinking fast.

“I think the key is to capture his attention. Intrigue him. Men like him can’t resist a challenge. They thrive on it. Throw down the gauntlet and I’m betting he’ll pick it up.”

“And throw it in my face.” I was being flippant, but the idea actually had some merit. Some men needed to be led to the altar. Some just needed guidance on who to take along for the ride. Some of them had to be tricked into the trip. But with men like Mark Grayson, it was all about seducing them into the game. And letting them think they could win.

I drew in a breath, girding my proverbial loins. “Good advice. Thanks. Maybe you should be the matchmaker.”

“No way.” She waved the dilapidated straw. “I can’t even keep a boyfriend.”

“Well, we’re about to change all that.” I smiled, firmly back on solid ground again. “And in the meantime, I appreciate the insight into Grayson.”

“I read people for a living. Part and parcel of being a trial lawyer.” Belinda shrugged. “But Mark Grayson isn’t going to be an easy mark, and I figure you’ll need all the help you can get. And between you and me,” she leaned in close, glancing around her as if she were sharing state secrets, “I think it’s going to take more than Manolos.”

I opened my mouth to argue. Manolos were the crème de la crème of FMPs. One pair of four-inch heels and men practically crawled behind you begging. I had personal experience with the phenomenon. But before I could formulate a pithy retort, my cell phone rang.

Cybil.

Now, I’m all for business before pleasure, but Cybil trumps everything. We’ve been through too much together for it to be any other way. “Hang on.” I shot Belinda a smile and flipped open my phone.

“What’s up?”

For a moment there was only silence, and then a sort of muffled snuffling that was Cybil’s version of holding back tears.

“You okay?” My heart skidded into overdrive, my mind whipping out all kinds of possibilities. Belinda leaned forward, her eyes questioning.

I shook my head. “Cybil? Are you there?

More sniffing. And then after a moment’s silence. “It’s Stephen.” Another pause. “He’s left me.”

Relief flooded through me. That’s not very kind, I know. But I’ve already made it clear what my opinion of Stephen is. So his leaving can only be considered a miracle. Of course, Cybil wouldn’t see it that way.

At least not without a little help.

Chapter 5

Buttercup Bake Shop
. 913 Second Amine (between Fifty-first and Fifty-second streets), 212.350.4144.

Buttercup Bake Shop is a place to walk into and feel deliciously overwhelmed by display cases filled with cupcakes in every color of the rainbow. . . . With information moving at the speed of light, the bakery lets you slow down and while away an afternoon sipping your favorite beverage and enjoying some delectable, nostalgic treats that spell comfort and love.

—www.buttercupbakeshop.com

∞∞∞

Comfort was exactly what I was looking for. And I knew the best way to ease a broken heart was with chocolate. Melt-in-your-mouth amazing buttercream chocolate. And no one in Manhattan does that better than Jennifer Appel with her fabulous cupcakes. Under the circumstances, it was tempting to just go straight for the chocolate layer cake, but I kept my head and bought a dozen cupcakes instead.

No comments.
It was an emergency.

Cybil lives in Sutton Place. A fabulous apartment with a garden terrace and a doorman who is better connected than most socialites. The apartment had been her grandmother’s and, when the old girl had moved to the family compound in Southampton, Cybil had taken over the residence. It was the kind of place that people kill for. Literally. Six rooms with twelve-foot ceilings, casement windows, a fireplace, and original molding. Add in the completely renovated bathrooms and cook’s kitchen, and you have the stuff of metropolitan dreams.

Just at the moment, however, none of that meant anything. What mattered was the fact that my best friend was sitting cross-legged on her white Berber carpet, surrounded by tissues and cake crumbs.

“So tell me exactly what happened.” We’d been through the story a couple of times, but Cybil’s tears had interfered with coherent discussion and I was a little hazy on the details. And from the little I had been able to glean, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Not even for Stephen.

And for the record, let me be perfectly clear here, I might not have been lamenting Stephen’s departure, but I certainly wasn’t happy about the pain it was causing my friend. In fact, if I could have gotten my hands on the man, well, suffice it to say, I’d be moving from
Page Six
to page one in less time than it takes to say “local artist murdered.”

“I don’t know. It all happened so fast.” She blew loudly into a Kleenex and then sucked in a fortifying breath. Even blotchy and teary-eyed, she looked amazing. Joe’s Jeans, a faded Trinity sweatshirt, and a wonderful pair of red square-framed glasses. “I was a little late.” She shot a glance at the Bergdorf’s bag sitting in the foyer, as if it was to blame for everything.

“I hardly think that’s a reason for walking out. Even when it’s Stephen doing the walking.” She frowned at the last, and I quickly softened the remark with a smile. “I’m only saying he can be a little irrational sometimes in how he reacts to things.”

There was a dinner party once long ago where he’d refused to sit at his assigned place because the table wasn’t angled in just the right way. Bad karma or something. Unfortunately, the hostess was not amused and Cyhil had had to tap dance around the gossip-enhanced story for months afterward.

Not that she’d minded all that much. She’s too sweet for that. But I’m not sweet and I minded for her—a lot.

“I’m just saying there has to be something more than that.”

She nodded, pushing her glasses up onto her head, tears welling again. “He hates me.”

“Did he say that?” Stephen may not be the best when it comes to interpersonal relations, but he’s never struck me as the malicious sort.

“No. Not in so many words.” She took a large bite of cupcake, defiantly ignoring the glob of frosting that landed on the carpet. Her housekeeper was not going to be amused.

“So what exactly did he say?" I folded my arms, ignoring the cupcake calling my name as I leaned back against the overstuffed sofa cushions.

“At first everything seemed fine. He ki . . . kissed me.” There was a pause as she pulled herself back into control. I’ve always maintained that Stephen must be a hell of a lover. I mean for all the grief he’d caused Cybil, it was just easier to believe there was a payout of some kind.

“And then what?” I bit my lip, trying to hang on to my patience. Right now Cybil needed to hear it all out loud, to process it, and hopefully to realize that it was—in the infamous words of Martha Stewart—a good thing.

“We sat down and ordered champagne. It was a celebration,” she reminded me.

“Right, the painting you sold.”

“I didn’t sell it. It sold itself.” From the garbage heap. “Anyway, we didn’t talk about the painting. We talked about you and the bet. And my part in it. He knew I was having regrets.” She shot me an apologetic grimace, but I waved it away.

“I’m assuming Stephen didn’t approve?”

She blew out a breath and shrugged. “What upset him was the manipulation involved. He just doesn’t believe love can be coerced.”

“Who said anything about love?” I’m usually not defensive about what I do. But somehow criticism from Stephen seemed a bit much.

“All right then, matchmaking. Whether you believe it or not, it’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not.” I started to launch into exactly why it wasn’t, and then realized that we weren’t drowning in buttercream because of my career choice. “But that’s not the point. We’re trying to figure out what happened between you and Stephen. Why the preoccupation with the bet?”

“He’d seen the rough draft of the column I was writing.” She waved at the computer console in the corner. Mind you, if you didn’t know there was a computer inside, you’d never have guessed the fact. The armoire itself was eighteenth century. English. Solid cherry. Cybil’s six-greats grandmother’s. The transformation to computer console had been Cybil’s idea. And even though it had been done with elegance of good craftsmanship, no one had had the nerve to break the news to her grandmother.

“You’re not listening.” There was a hint of rebuke in her voice, and I forced my thoughts front and center.

“I am. I swear.” I smiled. “You were saying that Stephen read your article.”

“Rough draft,” she nodded, still eyeing me skeptically. “Anyway, I think it pissed him off that I was aiding and abetting your cause, so to speak. And he’d had the whole morning to work himself up about it.”

“All because he thinks love should hold sway?”

“Pretty much.”

“But I’ve been matchmaking as long as he’s known me. And you and I have always lived in each other’s back pockets, so surely that can’t have anything to do with why he walked out.” Despite the ridiculousness of the notion, guilt washed through me. I might have been secretly delighted with the breakup, but I’d never have done anything to precipitate it.

“Of course it wasn’t because of you.” Cybil’s reassurance was immediate and heartfelt, but I had the feeling there was more to it.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “Honestly.”

“Cybil...” I gave in to the urge and grabbed a cupcake from the box. Hell, wasn’t sugar supposed to be good for a hangover?

She sighed. “Look, Stephen thought you were a bad influence on me. At least with regard to your views on relationships.” I opened my mouth to retort, but she waved me quiet. “I think the real truth is that he knew you didn’t approve of him. And so he worried that you were going to talk me out of our relationship.”

“What relationship?” The words were out before I could stop them, and I stared down at the cupcake, feeling about an inch tall. “God, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“I know you didn’t.” Have I mentioned that Cybil is a saint? “I just meant that he’s the one who walked out on you, not the other way ’round. So it can’t be my fault.” I wasn’t sure how we’d gotten to this—but I sure as hell wasn’t going to take blame for Stephen Hobbs’s inability to commit to a relationship.

“No, of course not. You just asked what we talked about, and that’s where we started. He was mad at me for helping you manipulate Mark Grayson.”

“I don’t think Mark Grayson is the malleable type. But that’s beside the point.” I licked off a bit of frosting and let the chocolate confection melt on my tongue while I studied my best friend. “We’re trying to figure out what happened with Stephen.”

“I know. Believe me, I’ve been over it and over it. But none of it makes any sense.”

“So, what? He just stood up and said, ‘I can’t believe you’re enabling Vanessa’s torrid manipulations, I’m out of here’?”

Cybil almost choked on a cake crumb. I slid to the floor, pounding her on the back, and then both of us dissolved into giggles. Chocolate and misery—it’ll do it every time. After we’d snorted enough to give my mother apoplexy (she doesn’t believe a lady should laugh out loud), we sobered and sat for a moment, staring at the remnants of the cupcakes.

“I don’t think it had anything to do with the bet, Van. I think it was more about the differences between us. I think maybe in his own way Stephen was trying to tell me that you’re right.”

“Say again?” It was as if the pope had just declared a holiday for priests at Scores.

“I said that I think he realized the gulf between us was too big.”

I glanced over at the Bergdorf sack in silent agreement.

Cybil laid her head against the coffee table for a moment, and then sat up, the tears spilling out onto her cheeks. “But you’re both wrong.” The words lacked conviction, and I suddenly felt like I’d shot my best friend.

“Look, maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe he was just looking for an excuse.”

“To dump me.”

“Sorry. I’m not helping, am I?” This was shaky ground. And even though we’d been here before, it didn’t make it easier. Whatever their differences, Stephen had connected with Cybil in a way that was difficult to sever. And the fact that he kept coming back also meant that it was harder to accept his defection as fait accompli.

“What else did you talk about? Besides the bet. Did you talk about the painting?”

“Not really. I mean it was the point of the lunch. And we did order the champagne, but beyond that he didn’t say much about it.”

“Did you tell him how the sale came about?”

“Not exactly. I told him the woman had a friend in the building.” Highly unlikely when one considered that Stephen’s studio was far enough uptown that it was almost the Bronx. “She saw the painting in the hallway. Loved it. And asked around about the artist.”