“Apparently, It was a souvenir from the 1964–65 World’s Fair in Flushing Meadow. She was saving it because, like those angled toothbrushes, it could reach back into every corner of your mouth.”
“Do you mind if I pass judgment on your mother?”
“You could, but she’d one-up you. She’s a civil court judge in Brooklyn.”
Walker cleared his throat, then glanced back at Kathryn’s Six in the City application. “I see here, under ‘referred by whom,’ you just wrote down ‘a neighbor.’ ”
“Yup; our co-op’s very own version of Gladys Kravitz. You know, that nosy neighbor on Bewitched? The woman who sent me to you lives in the penthouse and I run into her in the elevator from time to time. Very red hair—it’s a color not found in Clairol, let alone nature. Wears all her Estée Lauder samples at once, along with various dangly, bangly, jangly accessories that are vaguely pre-Colombian, Pagan, and Pan-Asiatic. Sort of generic tribal. I’ve seen them in mail-order catalogues. And they usually clash with the pink designer cigarettes she smokes. I think she interprets “no smoking” signs as suggestions, rather than state law. Lots of flowy clothes in colors no redhead should wear—trust me. Lavender, fuchsia, persimmon. And don’t let me forget her blood-red nail extensions. Kind of like a Hadassah sister gone Celtic.”
Walker threw back his head and laughed in a fullthroated burst of spontaneous recognition. At the same time, somewhere deep inside his head, a bell went off. She’s like me, it seemed to tinkle, then the sound faded into the recesses of his mind.
“Oh, and take it from me. That woman’s voice could cut corrugated.”
The corners of Walker’s mouth turned up ever so slightly. “And you trusted her referral of a matchmaking agency?”
“Put it this way, every time I see her, she launches into a litany of ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing sitting at home on a Saturday night? No boyfriend? So what’s wrong with you that you wouldn’t make some lucky man very happy?’ She told me she owns a dating service. I should become a client; I’ll meet the man of my dreams. I figured I’d shut her up by actually coming in and filling out an application. I don’t see her—by the way—so my guess that she’s a bit certifiable seems on the money. In any event, here I am. So she’s certainly the pushiest woman on the planet.”
Walker’s smile broadened. “True. And she’s more than a bit certifiable.”
Kathryn felt a furrow breaking out on her brow. “How’s that?”
His grin deepened into full Cheshire Cat mode. “I ought to know. She’s my mother.”
Whoops. Big Whoops.
If Kathryn had been any paler at that moment, the Egyptologists over at the Metropolitan Museum of Art would have rushed over with their mummification paraphernalia. “You . . . shit!” Her complexion flushed from white to rose. “Why did you let me go on like that?”
“I was enjoying it immensely. It isn’t every day one hears one’s mother so eloquently abused. Besides,” he added, “I happen to agree with you.”
It took several moments for Kathryn to recover her bearing. “But she said she owned this agency.”
“She does indeed. I’m her designated hitter to manage it for her when she’s out of town. Which she often is. On honeymoons. She’s somewhat addicted to them. Been married at least six times that I can count, maybe seven, although one of them was a remarriage. Couldn’t seem to keep her hands off of Cyril Haggerty.”
Kathryn looked straight at Walker, not quite knowing what to make of him. “So what do you do when your mother isn’t jetting off somewhere?”
“Ever watch CNN or the Financial News Network?”
Kathryn shook her head.
“Wall Street Week or The McLaughlin Report? C’mon, you must watch PBS. How could a high school drama teacher not be into some of that Masterpiece Theatre stuff ?” He searched for a look of recognition in Kathryn’s eyes. “I’m a guest on those financial shows from time to time. I just thought maybe you’d seen me.”
“You mean while I was waiting for something less boring to come on TV?” Kathryn teased.
They both smiled.
“Exactly!” Walker exclaimed. “I’m a financial analyst. Not as exciting perhaps as trekking through an Amazonian rainforest in search of a rare species of wildlife, but I can’t complain. I’ve made a pretty good living at it. Have you ever heard of The Hart Monitor?”
“Is that like a pacemaker?”
“More like a trendsetter.” Walker grinned. “It’s my own publication—a financial newsletter for people on Wall Street. Nowadays it practically prints itself; I could write my weekly column in my sleep and my staff takes care of the rest.”
“No offense, but your weekly column would probably put me to sleep!” Kathryn quipped. “So how does being a financial analyst fit with matchmaking? It seems like an odd combination. What’s the common denominator?”
Walker leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “Either way, I’m speculating on futures.”
Kathryn let out a warm laugh. She enjoyed his sense of humor. “ The Hart Monitor,” she said, letting the syllables roll over her tongue. “That’s a very clever name for your newsletter.”
“Many thanks. I have to admit it’s much better than what I’d originally come up with, under the circumstances.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Bear Market.” He switched gears, knowing he’d hooked his audience. “By the way, you said you liked Welsh accents on your tape. Were you kidding?”
“Only partially. They have a lilt to them that’s really sexy. Why?”
“Then you and my mother have a lot in common.”
“Oh God, I hope not. I mean, I’m sorry—here I am going to town on your mother, for God’s sake. You can’t be that cavalier about her. That is the woman who gave birth to you.”
Walker leaned back in his chair and changed the subject. “As a matter of fact, she went to Wales a couple of months ago on a whirlwind honeymoon with one of her own clients: a Frenchman at least twenty years her junior. Ludovic de Tournay. But she’s always fancied Welshmen.”
“Poor Ludovic.”
“No. Poor Mom. Actually, it turned out that Ludo preferred Welshmen, too. But it all worked out. He found one named Rhys, and Mom found one who looked like Richard Burton in his Camelot days. So Rushie—my mother—got the marriage to Ludovic annulled and now she’s living out her King Arthur fantasy with the Burton clone. She used to marry them all because she loved parties, but then she went through a spate where she decided she was getting too old for divorces. They depressed her too much. She just believes in happily ever after. Sort of like you, Kitty.”
“That’s a terrifying comparison. It’s pretty interesting to me, though, that the apple didn’t just fall far from the tree—it fell into another galaxy. She marries everyone and you don’t want to marry anyone.”
“Yup, that’s me. ‘A confirmed old bachelor, and likely to remain so,’ my fair lady.”
Cute, Kathryn thought. She smiled to herself.
“And if I hadn’t been that way to start with, the matchmaking business would have done it to me,” Walker continued. “All these people out there scrambling to make connections.”
“So you figured you might as well cash in on our feeble attempts to live happily ever after?”
“No. I figured I wouldn’t let the business my mother built with hope and love go into Chapter Eleven just because I’m a cynic.”
“Bah, humbug to you, too.”
“I didn’t say I don’t believe in love. I just don’t believe in marriage. But this conversation isn’t about me.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“You’re the client. My ambition is to see that you find the man of your dreams and live happily ever after. Especially since I already cashed your checks. Would your sister be interested in deriving any pleasure from Six in the City?”
“I hope not, for her sake. Ellie’s been married to a plastic surgeon for five y
ears, has a marvelously precocious daughter who is two and a half going on thirtyfive, and another kid on the way.”
Kathryn shouldered her purse and extended her hand, mostly because she wanted to see if she would have the same sensation the second time around, when they shook hands. “Well, Bear,” she said with a cocky grin, “I’m pretty skeptical that Six in the City can live up to its claims as advertised. But I’m the kind of woman who takes dares, so I’ll see this through if only so I never have to hear your mother nag me again on the elevator.”
“Don’t worry, Kitty Lamb. I’m the kind of man who doesn’t like to lose.” He rose from his chair and went to meet her, but instead of rounding the curve of his desk top, he ended up trying to walk through it, halted mid-step by the thump of mahogany against flesh. “Ouch! Damn!”
“Does your thigh hurt?” Kathryn asked solicitously. She checked her impulse to reach out and tenderly touch the affected area through his chinos.
“I’m just a big doofus, that’s all,” Walker said. He was clearly embarrassed. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Lamb,” he added, offering his right hand.
For some reason neither of them seemed eager to relinquish their mutual grip.
“Well,” Kathryn said, slightly out of breath.
“Well,” Walker responded, an awkward catch in his throat. “Keep me posted.”
She turned on her heels and left his office with an oddly buoyant sort of confidence, her reddish curls bouncing across the center of her back, her backside swaying seductively in those impossibly tight jeans.
Walker felt a bit of constriction in his own trousers as he watched her leave. Too bad she’s here to find a husband, he mused, as he stroked his jaw, realizing that he’d forgotten to shave that morning.
Kathryn considered looking back to catch another glimpse of Walker Hart, or even returning to his office on the pretext of having forgotten something, like an umbrella; but it wasn’t raining, and she couldn’t think of another excuse before the elevator arrived. Curiouser and curiouser. Too bad he has no interest in a wife, she thought ruefully, as she descended toward the street.
Chapter 2
Eleanor opened the door of her Park Avenue aerie, looking svelter four months pregnant than Kathryn felt after an entire morning on the treadmill. She wiped her hands on an Irish linen tea towel covered with chocolate stains.
“Hey, how’s the jujube?” Kathryn asked her sister.
“Fine. Napping. These days I take the quiet when I can get it. Johanna announced yesterday that she lived in Paris. With Madeline.”
“I wish her well. Did you know Johanna started calling me ‘Aunt Kittycat’? I feel like something out of Gone with the Wind meets Born Free.”
“I’ve stopped being surprised at what comes out of her mouth. The other day, we were passing the Empire State Building and she commented on how it looked like the Eiffel Tower. I guess she remembers the illustrations from the Madeline books.” Eleanor rubbed her nearly flat stomach protectively, as they entered the kitchen. “They’re fun. You should get one.”
“It’s not beyond the realm of possibility, you know. It’s just that I’d rather have the husband first than go the turkey baster route.”
“Ugh. If I never had morning sickness, you’re about to give it to me.” She filled a Williams-Sonoma copper kettle with water and put it on the electric range to boil. “No caffeine for me, but I’ll make you coffee, if you want. Dan is addicted to Starbucks. We’ve got Kenya, French Roast, some ‘girl coffee’—oh, it’s Irish Mist— and we have Andes something . . .”
“No, herbal tea is fine. If you have something like orange cinnamon, I’ll take it.”
“Speaking of husbands first, how did it go at Six in the City?”
“So far, so good. The manager is major-league cute, by the way, but I stepped in it big time. That horrifying yenta that lives in the penthouse in my building—the one who told me she’s the owner of the agency—well, the hunk is her son. It was a total case of open mouth, insert foot, swallow ’til you choke on stiletto, do not pass ‘Go,’ let him cash your five hundred dollars.”
“Huh?” Eleanor removed two porcelain cups with matching saucers from her glassfront cabinets, carefully placing them on the counter.
“When he asked who referred me, I painted a colorful and not terribly flattering portrait of The Yenta. Then he ever so casually happened to mention that she’s his mother. I am happy to report, though, that he seemed to take it rather well and doesn’t hate me. But he does have five hundred of our dollars, so he doesn’t have to like me. Just fix me up with five men who will.”
“So while we’re on the subject of stiletto swallowing, did you also tell him that you were willing to take your chances and skip the five guaranteed candidates for ‘Mr. Kittycat,’ in exchange for him?”
“He’s neither on, nor in the market. The marriage market, I mean. Apparently, he writes about the stock market, when he’s not pinch-hitting for The Yenta. He publishes something called The Hart Monitor .”
Eleanor’s jaw dropped to her chin. “Hold it . . . are you telling me you’ve just spent time in a dark room with no one else but Walker Hart? You’ll be the envy of every single woman in New York! And probably more than half of the married ones.”
“I certainly didn’t feel like it. The upshot of our brief encounter in near darkness was that Walker—Bear— wouldn’t grant me a reshoot of my video. What happened to ‘the customer is always right’? Some big-shot businessman!” Kathryn said with a note of sarcasm.
“You have no idea who this guy is, do you?”
Kathryn shook her head.
“He’s the poster boy for financial freedom. And I do mean ‘poster boy.’ I used to work with women who had his photo from The Hart Monitor tacked up in their cubicles—otherwise rational women—from temp secretaries to VPs. Not only is he ‘major-league cute,’ as you say, but he’s a brilliant financial analyst. Wall Streeters consider The Hart Monitor their Bible.” Eleanor’s tone was becoming practically reverential. “He got his start back when he was in college. What made headlines was that he was an all-American footballer who began playing the stock market for kicks and ended up amassing an amazing, hugely successful portfolio. So, he was invited onto all these financial news shows to tell everyone how he did it and became something of a celebrity. He’s still one of those ‘usual suspects’ they call in to wax rhapsodic about stocks and bonds.”
“I suppose his being a hunk didn’t hurt,” Kathryn interjected.
“Then he started sharing his wealth of knowledge by publishing The Hart Monitor. Walker Hart’s got the Midas touch. He emerged unscathed from Black Monday back in ’87, saw that tech stocks were the wave of the future, and had the foresight to dump them before they all tanked. Before anyone else catches on, Walker Hart writes about all the latest trends and fluctuations in the market. And not just in the U.S. He’s always ahead of the forecast on the European markets, the Nikkei Index . . .”
Kathryn held up her hand. “Okay, Ellie! I get it—he’s a catch, personally and professionally. However, from my conversation with him, he has definitely been avoiding the hook for decades now.”
“But,” Eleanor sighed, ignoring her sister’s comment, “all that was another lifetime ago . . . back in my unmarried yuppie days. Back when I wouldn’t go out on dates on Friday nights because Walker Hart was putting in a guest appearance on Wall Street Week. What do you think of these, by the way?” Eleanor gestured to a Rube Goldbergstyle contraption on her kitchen counter. Tucked into cages suspended from a makeshift metal rack were several water-cooler-style, conical, white paper cups filled with a dark batter.
Kathryn surveyed the rig. “Chocolate dunce caps?”
“Brownie Points. Like it?”
“Very clever. What gave you the idea?”
Eleanor smoothed the batter on the top of one of the cones and gingerly adjusted its position in the rack. “I always thought if Mrs. Fields could do it, so can I. Jo
hanna asked me what I did before she was born. So I told her I invented things. And she asked what that meant. And somehow I got around to telling her some of the ideas I had before I had her. And I told her about Brownie Points. So she asked me to make some.”
“And this is how you do it?”
“It’s the best apparatus I’ve come up with so far. But it’s a bit fragile. I’m afraid the entire structure will collapse like a house of cards when I try to move it into the oven.” The mother of the year brought their tea to the table. “Honey?”
“Don’t patronize me. I hate it when you do that. Only bra saleswomen old enough to be our mother ever call me ‘honey.’ ”
“I was asking if you wanted honey in your tea. Boy, people would think you’re the pregnant one. You’re so touchy.”
Kathryn dragged two Le Corbusier-style straight-backed chairs to the marble-topped table in Eleanor’s breakfast nook. “Sorry. I’ve just been wondering if the whole video dating route was such a good idea in the first place.”
“Isn’t that the way it always is? The good ones are always taken.”
“What good ones? I think I missed something, El.”
“I mean the erstwhile manager of the matchmaking service, Mr. Hart.”
“We actually don’t know whether or not Bear is taken. He’s just adamantly opposed to the idea of marriage. He even quoted Henry Higgins. You know—that ‘I’m a confirmed old bachelor and likely to remain so’ bit. But he made it very clear, verbally and physically, that he’s definitely into women.”
“Physically?” Eleanor’s eyes lit up as she sipped her tea. “Have you ever dipped Pepperidge Farm Bordeaux cookies into hot tea? It’s almost better than sex,” she said with a wink. “Be right back.”
“Well, you seem to be pretty successful with the sex part, so the cookies must be damn good.”
Eleanor returned with the white bag of cookies. “Your train of thought may be easily derailed, but mine isn’t. You said ‘physically.’ You know, I’ve grown so used to spending most of my waking hours with a two-year-old, that I positively crave adult girl-talk.”
Miss Match Page 2
