Chapter 1
“Don’t you think that dress is a
little—revealing?” Althea Sevalas stared down
the end of her nose at me, her withering glance serving as
simultaneous judge, jury and executioner. It was the
quintessential mother’s condemnation, except that Althea
isn’t my mother. She’s my aunt.
“It’s alice + olive,” I said, as if that explained
everything. “From Bergdorf’s.”
“Well, I don’t care where you got it, it’s
practically obscene,” Althea sighed, sipping her
martini. “You might as well take out a personal ad in
a gentlemen’s magazine. I can almost see your—”
“But you can’t,” I interrupted, flipping up the hem of the
red silk bubble dress to reveal a pair of black
boyshorts. “See, all covered.”
“Andrea,” Althea protested.
I tried not to smile, but really her look was priceless.
“What? You thought I was pulling a Britney?”
Okay, so I was probably overplaying my hand, but can you
blame me? The dress was gorgeous. And
short. But hey, it’s the style. And I say if
you’ve got it—well, you know the drill.
“I don’t know, Andi,” Vanessa Carlson laughed,
emerging from the party’s fray to join us, “flashing
everyone might have livened things up a bit.”
Vanessa and my aunt used to work together, but
Vanessa—showing a great deal of wisdom, I might add—had
decided to strike out on her own. The move created a
bit of a rivalry, but then a little competition never hurt
anyone.
“Poor Stephen probably wasn’t expecting his first showing
to be such a staid affair,” Vanessa said, taking a glass of
champagne from the silver tray of a passing waiter.
“But then my mother doesn’t know how to do anything without
an excess of decorum.”
Actually Anna Carlson was the epitome of Upper East
Side. Everything she did simply reeked of money
and propriety. A combination I can do without, thank
you very much. Although, considering my lineage, it’s
kind of hard to avoid. Anyway, despite her
pre-Lagerfeld Chanel tendencies, she has a good heart—and a
checkbook that guarantees that anything she attempts will
be a fabulous success.
All of which boded well for Stephen’s opening, even if the
party was a bit dull. Most of Manhattan’s elite
had made their way to The Gallery in SoHo and judging from
the red dots decorating the paintings’ placards, they were
in a buying mood.
Stephen Hobbs is an abstract artist with a lot of talent
and the sheer luck to have married into one of Manhattan’s
royal families. Not that his wasn’t a love
match. Cybil Baranski Hobbs was crazy for her
husband. And despite Vanessa and Althea’s sticking
their noses into it (did I mention that they’re
matchmakers?) love prevailed and Cybil and Stephen were
sublimely happy.
This was his first official showing. A social coming
out, if you will.
“Well, I think the show is a rousing success,” Althea said,
echoing my conclusion if not the reasoning behind it.
“Although Stephen looks a bit mystified by the whole thing.”
“He’s not used to all the attention,” I said, grabbing a
canapé from a passing tray. Shrimp in puff
pastry. Pedestrian. But edible. It’d be
better with a little cilantro and maybe a hint of cumin.
I probably should insert here that I’m a bonafide foodie,
complete with a successful cable show called What’s
Cooking in the City. The concept is Martha
Stewart meets Entertainment Tonight.
Dishes from Manhattan’s finest restaurants served up along
side gossip about who’s eating where and with whom.
Some of the biggest deals in Manhattan are struck over
the perfect osso buco. And more than one tiramisu has
been witness to illicit affairs of the heart.
Inquiring minds and all that, but I digress…
“I’ll admit Stephen’s a bit rough around the edges,”
Vanessa was saying. “But he’s a good man. And
he and Cybil belong together.”
“Like you and Mark,” Althea smiled. Mark Grayson
was considered by some the catch of the century. And,
quite understandably, he’d fallen for Vanessa. But
she’d been a bit slow to read the memo and as is often the
case, things sort of got all mixed up. But in the
end true love, as usual, had won the day, and they’d found
their way together again.
Althea, naturally, was taking all the credit. But I
suspect they’d have managed just fine without her
interference. Mark was a take no prisoners kind
of guy. Not the sort to give up, even after a major
set-back.
“So where’s Dillon?” Vanessa asked.
“Here somewhere,” I waved at the room with my champagne
glass. My third. Staid parties call for serious
libationary intervention.
“He’s over there,” Althea said, disapproval dripping from
her voice like melting ice sculptures. “Flirting with
Diana Merreck.”
Dillon Alexander is my boyfriend. (Although saying it
like that makes me sound all of sixteen.) We’ve
been semi-living together for a couple of
years. I say ‘semi’ because, although we
invariably end up at staying together at one of our
apartments, despite pressure from Dillon, I just haven’t
been able to commit to the idea of giving up my own
personal space.
“He always flirts,” I said, with a shrug. “It doesn’t
mean anything.” Truly it didn’t. Flirting
was like breathing with Dillon. It was part of what I
loved about him. Althea just liked the idea of
getting in a dig. She can’t stand Dillon.
Thinks he isn’t good enough for me. Which translates
to ‘not of the right breeding.’ Dillon’s
California. His money’s new, which in certain circles
makes it completely suspect. And, according to
Althea, he’s got no ambition. Which is totally
untrue. He’s just got his own ideas about how to do
things.
Which I find admirable.
Althea not so much so.
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen him with her,” she
sniffed, taking a swig of her martini. Well, swig
probably isn’t the right word. Althea is nothing if
not lady-like. Still, she can put away alcohol with
the best of them, especially if it’s served with
olives. “And the truth is, I think you deserve better.”
“Old song, same verse,” I reminded her, wishing suddenly I
hadn’t felt so strongly about supporting Stephen. It’s
not like he needed me and this was certainly not my idea of
a good time.
“I just think you need to open your eyes and recognize the
truth. Dillon isn’t the marrying kind.” She
scowled at me over the rim of her glass, arched eyebrows
zooming up into her hairline.
“You don’t know that. And besides, maybe I’m not the
marrying type either.” We stood toe to toe, voices
rising with each word. I knew better than to
let her draw me into battle, but the champagne had loosened
my tongue—and dulled my brain.
“Of course you want to get married, Andrea. You just
have to find the right person. And Dillon simply isn’t
the right one.”
“And I suppose you have someone in mind? Someone you’d
like to fix me up with?” It was an old bone of
contention. Althea was constantly trying to set me up
with what she considered the perfect suitor.
Althea opened her mouth to respond, but Vanessa—God bless
her—was faster. “Isn’t that Bethany Parks over
there? With Michael Stone,” she inserted,
neatly turning the conversation away from more dangerous
ground. “I didn’t know they were dating.”
“This is the first,” I said.
Bethany and I had been friends since our NYU days.
We’d even roomed together for a while. Which is a huge
undertaking since she owns enough couture to open a Madison
Avenue boutique. She needs one closet just for her
shoes. Believe me when I say that Bethany lives by
the adage ‘dress for success’.
She’s the kind of woman who takes the idea of Meals on
Heels literally – delivering food to the apartment-bound
elderly decked in her favorite Jimmy Choos. The idea
of her tottering up five flights of stairs with a stack of
styrofoam containers would have been laughable except for
the humbling fact that she was also the kind of person who
always put others first.
Her date with Michael had come as a surprise, since she
wasn’t usually interested in trust fund types. Not
that there was anything wrong with Michael. He was
just a bit stuffy for my taste. And I’d thought for
Bethany’s.
“Actually,” Althea said, shooting me a triumphant
glance. “I introduced them.” So much for
Vanessa’s diversion.
“You set up my best friend?” I sputtered, trying to
hang onto some semblance of composure. To say that I
disapprove of Althea’s meddling profession would be an
understatement. Marriage, and love for that matter, is
not something that can be manipulated by facts and
figures. It’s a basic principle of science that
like does not attract like. And making matches based
on financial benefits and social commonalities is like
throwing mud in the face of thousands of years of romantic
tradition.
Not that I’m a romantic. Exactly. I just don’t
believe that people need intervention to find a
relationship.
And I sure as hell didn’t want Althea meddling in my
friends’ lives. Her manipulations had already cost me
my mother. And I was still dealing with the fallout.
“I thought we had an agreement,” I said, draining the last
of my champagne.
“We had nothing of the sort. Besides, they’re perfect
for each other. And Bethany was just lamenting the
fact that she wasn’t meeting the right kinds of men.”
“So you stepped in and made a match?” I swallowed,
trying not to choke on my indignation.
“Not officially. I mean, Michael isn’t a
client. He’s more of a friend. And I knew he
was looking for the right someone, and Bethany’s
perfect. So I introduced them.”
“It’s still a set-up. And when it goes south, I’ll
have to pick up the pieces.”
“Who’s to say it won’t work out?” Vanessa asked. “I
mean, Althea does know what she’s doing. Michael’s a
good man.”
“Spoken like a true matchmaker.” I shrugged. “And I’m
not saying Michael isn’t good enough for
Bethany. I don’t even know him really except by
reputation.”
“Well, his background is impeccable,” Althea assured me.
“That’s just the point. Bethany’s not going out with
his background. She’s going out with him. And
wouldn’t it have been better if they could have found each
other on their own?” I sighed, realizing the futility
of my words almost before I got them out. “ Never
mind. Stupid question considering present company.”
“Of course it’s not stupid,” Vanessa soothed. “It
would be nice if the right people could find each
other. But the truth is that it usually doesn’t
happen that way. And so we’re here to help.”
I sucked in a breath, and grabbed another glass of
champagne. Vanessa was a good person and I really
wasn’t trying to insult her. I just didn’t
believe in matchmaking. Particularly when it involved
Althea and my friends.
“I just wish you’d keep your nose out of my life, Althea.”
“But it isn’t your life, Andrea. It’s Bethany’s.”
“She’s my friend. And you’re my aunt. Which
means her love life should have been off limits.”
“You’re being ridiculous. Besides, it’s not
like I forced it on her,” Althea said.
“She came to you?” I asked, surprised. Bethany
knew my feelings about Althea’s profession, and I’d thought
she shared them.
“Not exactly,” Althea said, not looking the slightest bit
repentant. “I called her. But it didn’t
take much convincing.”
“So you reached out to her, even though you knew how I felt?”
“Like I said, it wasn’t about you.”
“No. It never is, is it?” I sucked down
more champagne and with a tight smile excused myself.
I knew better than to get into it with Althea. There
was no winning. I should never have engaged in
the first place. But setting Bethany up crossed a
line. An arbitrary one to be sure. But still a
boundary.
Not that Althea would recognize one of those if it hit her
in the face.
Anyway, there you have it. My wonderful dysfunctional
life.
But it is what it is. And except for Bethany’s
seeming defection, I wasn’t going to let it get to
me. I had my own life separate from Althea and
honestly our worlds only intersected at the odd social
event. Okay, more than that, but the point is that I
had broken free of all that Althea stands for years ago, and
one little go round was not going to set me back.
I stopped to exchange pleasantries with a couple of old
friends, and to sign an autograph for a fan (which was
somewhat surprising since the ladies who lunch hardly know
where their ovens are, let alone how to tune in the Gourmet
Channel.) Still the woman’s gushing praise went a
long way toward raising my spirits. And what that
didn’t accomplish, the rest of my champagne
did.
I accepted a refill from a passing waiter and ignored the
urge to confront Bethany with her betrayal.
Best to let it wait until tomorrow. Besides, she
really did look like she was having a fabulous time, and
it’s not like I didn’t want her to be happy. So
instead, I went to congratulate the star of the evening, who
was looking a bit dumbstruck by it all.
“It’s a fabulous turn-out,” I said, waving at the
glittering crowd. “And it looks like sales are brisk.”
“I have no idea if they’re buying because they actually
like my work or if it’s just fear of Anna Carlson,” Stephen
laughed. “But I’ll take it either way. And the
gallery has asked if I can extend the show.”
“Well, I’d say that’s an indication that the success is all
yours. I mean, what’s not to
love?” And I meant it. Stephen’s work
speaks to me.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to sell Frenetic on
Fifth?” Cybil said, turning from another conversation
to join us. “I’ve had at least four offers for it.”
“Not a chance. I love that painting.”
Stephen once offered me a painting and I’d chosen Frenetic
on Fifth. And, because I think it’s one of his best,
I’d offered to let him have it back for the show – strictly
on loan. Which I suppose, in a weird kind of way,
makes me an original patroness of the soon to be famous
Stephen Hobbs. (Okay, maybe patroness is stretching
it a bit too far. But I was definitely an early
fan.)
“Never hurts to ask,” Cybil continued. “I suspect you
could get six figures.”
“Well, kudos to Stephen. But no dice.” I
snagged another canapé. This one brioche topped with
goat cheese and what appeared to be a bit of sun dried
tomato, although it better resembled damp
cardboard. Fresh ingredients are the key to any
good dish. And cutting corners is
inexcusable. Especially when playing at this level.
“Don’t say anything to Anna,” Cybil said, eyeing the napkin
where I’d discreetly folded the food. “She’s used
the same caterer for years, and Vanessa says she won’t
consider anyone else.”
“I’d never say anything,” I protested. “Besides it’s
not bad. Just a bit pedestrian. And I’m overly
critical anyway.”
“You’re an expert,” Stephen said, loyally. “And
actually, I agree.”
“Me, too,” Cybil laughed, “but we’ll keep it on the QT.”
“Hey beautiful.” Two arms encircled my waist as the
words tickled my ears. “I’d wondered where you’d
gotten to.”
As more people stepped in to congratulate Stephen, I turned
to smile up at Dillon. “Just mingling. How
about you? Had enough of this party?”
“Hey, I’d had enough before I ever got here.”
“You should have been drinking champagne.” I held up
my half empty glass as proof. “It has a way of making
everything look rosy.”
“Even Althea?” he queried. “I saw you talking
with her and Vanessa.”
“Couldn’t be helped. She’s hard to avoid.
And besides, she wanted to gloat. Seems
Bethany’s gone over to the dark side.”
“Dating Michael Stone, you mean? I always thought he
was a bit too pompous for my taste.”
“Well, you think anyone who lives above fifty-first is
pompous.”
“True. But you agree with me.”
“For the most part.” I reached up to brush a wayward
curl out of his eye. Dillon has the most glorious
hair. The kind that God really should have given to a
woman. But for some reason it never happens that way.
Like eyelashes. Have you ever noticed that guys often
have the most amazing eyelashes? It really isn’t
fair. “Anyway,” I continued. “The relevant point
here is that Althea set Bethany up.”
“With Michael?” Dillon frowned. “I suppose it
makes sense. But I thought your friends were
off limits.”
“Apparently the rules have changed. Only no one
bothered to tell me.”
“Well, there’s no way it’ll last.”
“Exactly what I said. Anyway, what’s done is done.”
“Sounds like you’re taking it all rather well.”
“I wasn’t. But as I said, I’ve had a few of these to
dull my indignation,” I shook my glass again for
emphasis. “Besides Bethany is a big girl. And if
she wants Althea to set her up, I suppose it’s not really
any of my business. It certainly beats the hell
out of Althea trying to set me up.”
“I know she doesn’t like me,” Dillon said, still
frowning. “But I really don’t like her trolling for a
replacement.”
“She hasn’t tried anything in ages. Although I’m
sure she would if she could. You should have heard
what she was saying about you.”
“Anything I should be worrying about?” His expression
was teasing but there was something in his voice that gave
me a moment’s pause.
“Is there reason to worry?” I kept my voice
purposefully light, but my heart had stuttered to a stop.
“Of course not,” he brushed a kiss across my forehead, but
I wasn’t convinced. “So what did the old battleaxe
have to say?”
“Just that you were spending an unusual amount of time
flirting with Diana Merreck.” I laughed, but the
resulting sound wasn’t all that cheerful. I
suppose, in part, because of all the people Dillon could
have chosen to flirt with, Diana was the absolute
worst. She stood for everything I hated about
Manhattan society—a social predator who ranked her friends
according to their breeding. She lived to judge
others, and believe me most of them were found
wanting. To say she’s a piece of work, is an
understatement, and the idea of Dillon spending time with
her quite frankly made me sick to my stomach.
“I always flirt,” Dillon said with a shrug. “You know
that.”
“That’s what I told Althea, actually. But she
implied she’d seen you together on more than one
occasion.” The last bit just sort of slipped out on
its own, sounding much more accusatory than I’d intended.
“Really.” There was definitely an underlying note in
his voice. Not panic exactly but something very
closely kin to it.
“Dillon, what is it?”
“Nothing,” he said with what I considered a forced smile.
“Oh come on,” I said, stomach churning, “you don’t even
like champagne and you just drained your glass.”
“There’s nothing. I swear. You’re just letting
Althea get to you.”
“No. I’m not.” I shook my head, my heart
threatening to leap right through my dress. “I know
you too well. Something’s up. So spill it.”
“I don’t think now is the right time. Why don’t we
head home and…” he started, but I was too wound up to
let it go.
“Dillon. Whatever it is, just say it.”
“I…” he started and then stopped. For a moment
he just stared at his feet, then with a sigh, he lifted his
head, the look of regret on his face making my stomach do
three sixties. “Look, I didn’t mean for you to
find out this way. “
“Find out what?” I snapped, working hard to keep my
tone civil. It’s just that I had the sudden
impression that my carefully ordered life was about to
spiral completely out of control.
His hands slid to my arms, palms massaging small circles as
if somehow his touching me was going to make everything
okay. And quite frankly, five minutes ago, I’d have
agreed with the idea. But that was then and...
“I have been seeing Diana,” he said finally.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms as I
struggled to comprehend the finality of those five little
words. It couldn’t be true. It just
couldn’t. This was Dillon we were talking about.
My Dillon.
We might not have exchanged rings, but we were definitely
committed. This was the man who knew me better than
anyone. My lover, my friend. The person I
trusted most in all the world. I’d shared things with
Dillon I’d never told anyone. Not even
Bethany. We laughed at the same jokes, loved the same
movies, shared a passion for Manhattan and for each
other. Or at least that’s what I’d believed until two
minutes ago.
“It wasn’t like I planned it, Andi,” Dillon was saying, his
words shredding what was left of my heart. “I mean
initially, I was just trying to help. She’s throwing a
party for a friend and she wants to have it at The
Plumm. I have an in there and so she asked if I could
arrange things.”
I sucked in a breath, fighting tears as I swallowed the
retort forming in my head. I needed to take the
high road. I needed to hang onto some semblance of
normalcy.
“So anyway,” he shifted uncomfortably, his hands dropping
to his sides. “One thing led to another…”
“And you were having a private party for two?” Okay,
so maybe I’m not so good at high roading. But it beat
the alternative—completely and utterly falling apart.
“Yeah. But it’s not like I was trying to hurt you.”
He actually sounded apologetic. As if in saying the
last bit, he’d somehow make everything all right.
“Actually, I’m guessing I wasn’t really on your mind at all
in the moment.” The first tears trickled down my
cheeks, even as I struggled for composure. “So, was it just
the once?” It was a stupid question, but you try
being erudite when your boyfriend is telling you he’s been
schtooping someone you loathe.
“No,” He shook his head. “But it’s more than just
sex. At least I think it is.”
Oh my God. Dillon hadn’t just cheated on
me. He’d gone and fallen for the woman. My gut
clinched as I rejected the notion. This couldn’t be
happening. Not here. Not to me. I felt as
if I’d blundered into some kind of alternate world.
One where Bethany needed a matchmaker and Dillon had the
hots for Diana Merreck. And lest you think
I’m being judgmental, you have to understand that
Diana’s all Hermes and pearls, while Dillon is $300 vodka,
and partying until dawn. Like old money and new
money—they don’t mix.
“So what?” I said, fighting to breathe normally, to keep
some semblance of calm. “You’re dumping me for Diana
Merreck?” My heart had stopped beating all together
now. Although I suppose that’s impossible since
clearly I was still standing there listening to Dillon
destroy my life.
“No. I mean, yes. Oh God, Andi, I don’t
know.” Again with the adorable confused look.
Everything about him was so familiar. So much a part
of me. And yet, it was as if I was listening to a
total stranger. Someone I barely knew.
“Well you can’t have it both ways.” The words came out
on a strangled whisper, and I quickly downed the rest of my
champagne in a vain attempt to find my balance.
“Why not?” he asked, his hair flopping onto his forehead
again. To my credit, I resisted the urge to yank it
out of his head. “You’ve always talked about our
having a modern relationship.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean three ways,” I hissed through
clinched teeth, anger finally showing its wonderfully
reinvigorating head. “If you think you’re going to
have your cake and eat it, too, you’re out of your mind.”
“I see,” he said, looking defiant and apologetic all at the
same time.
“So that’s it? Just like that it’s over?” I
half expected Ashton Kutcher to jump out and tell me I’d
been punked. Dillon wasn’t seeing Diana
Merreck. It was all just a big joke. With me
falling for it lock, stock and roasting pan.
“I don’t want it to be. But I can’t quit seeing
her. I just can’t.”
So this wasn’t a joke. Or some God awful dream.
It was real. Dillon was seeing someone
else. He was seeing Diana Merreck. I’d
trusted him with my heart and he’d made a complete and
utter fool of me.
It was over. Just like that. Right
here. Right now. In the middle of a
party in front of everyone we knew.
“Fine,” I said, brushing angrily at my tears. I’d be
damned if I’d let him be the one to cast the death
blow. “Then let’s just end it now.”
Without giving him a chance to respond, I turned and walked
away with as much dignity as I could muster considering the
circumstances and the fact that I was wearing four inch
heels. Okay, there was also the small matter of a
little too much champagne. But hey, I was thankful
for the insulation.
I swallowed my tears, smiled graciously at several
well-wishers, ducked a conversation with a concerned looking
Vanessa and even managed an air kiss for Kitty
Wheeler. Which tells you right there how upset I
was. Normally, I’d have avoided her like the
plague. Besides being generally annoying, she’s Diana
Merreck’s best friend.
Three minutes later and I was out on the sidewalk, hand
extended for a cab. Except of course there wasn’t one
in sight. So I turned and started walking, reaction
setting in, my body shaking as the tears began to fall in
earnest. I still couldn’t comprehend the
enormity of what had happened. In less than two
minutes my life had imploded. Everything I’d believed
to be true proving false.
Tears dripped off the end of my nose and I swiped at them,
trying to keep my pain to myself. Fortunately, it
wasn’t that difficult of a task. In Manhattan, no one
really gives a damn. Which meant my break-down was
going pretty much unnoticed. Except for a guy in a
box on an abandoned stoop.
“Hey, lady,” he called from his cardboard studio. “It
can’t be that bad.”
I shook my head in answer, his words triggering the
floodgates. Tears turned to sobs, and I closed my
eyes, struggling for at least some semblance of
composure. I could fall apart later. First, I
had to get home.
I sucked in a breath, squared my shoulders and moved
forward, my foot landing on—nothing.
Nothing at all.
And, with an inverted jackknife worthy of an Olympian
diver, I fell, butt first, into the abyss.