A Purrfect Romance (6 page)

“I’ve got to be going now,” he said. He brushed off his shorts. “Come on, Scout,” he said.

Her mouth was open and her hand was raised, as though to stop him.

“But—”

She couldn’t let him just leave her like that. Not after dropping such a bombshell on her.

But Mack climbed down the rock with Scout right behind him. As casually as he could manage, he added, over his shoulder, “I think you’d better give that lawyer a call. He has some explaining to do.” He started running down the path, but when he’d gone only twenty yards, he stopped and called back to her.

“Hey, I don’t know your name!”

“It’s Bridget. Bridey. Bridey Berrigan.”

“And I’m Mack. Mack Brewster.”

He turned and started running again, but as he blended into the stream of runners, she heard him call back, “I’ll be seeing you, Bridey Berrigan.”

And then he was gone.

B
ridey was dizzy with confusion. One minute she’d been sitting next to Mack and feeling all warm and toasty, and the next, all the good feelings had been scared right out of her. The lighthearted pleasure of the morning had drained away, and even the glowing sunshine seemed to have lost its warmth.

Work! Work was what she needed. Her project, the most important thing in her life, was now apparently at risk, and it seemed suddenly more important than ever. With a sense of doom looming over her, she jogged the few blocks back to apartment 12A, where
Breads and Rolls
was waiting for her. She showered quickly and, leaving her hair only towel-dried, pulled on a pair of panties and covered up with nothing more than a super-long T-shirt. In the kitchen her bread doughs were well risen, and in minutes she was hard at work, forming loaves, buns, cinnamon rolls. While the first batches baked, she sat down in front of her computer.

She typed out her chapter heading, centering it neatly on the screen:

And then, on the next line she typed:

Her fingers had typed those last words before she realized what she had written. Startled, she sat back and reread the last phrase.

“I can’t believe I wrote that,” she said aloud.

“Meow?”

Silk, who’d been prowling nervously around the kitchen all morning, seemed glad of a little conversation, and Bridey, full of fidgety tension, was glad of a chance to lighten up a little.

“None of your business, Miss Has To Know It All. Can’t a girl keep any secrets around here?” Bridey glared at Silk. “Just because you’ve been as jumpy as a cat lately doesn’t mean everyone else has to be in a state. I’ve got worries of my own, and you don’t see me carrying on, do you? Honestly, if anyone should be prying, it should be me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how loopy you’ve been acting. So what’s up with you these days? And why aren’t you taking your snooze, like Satin over there?”

In his dreams, Satin heard his name mentioned. He twitched one ear, half-opened his eyes and then slipped back into heroic visions featuring himself on the trail of a ferocious mouse.
It’s a dirty job
, his dream self explained to his dream audience,
but someone has to do it!

“Meooww?” Silk was not to be put off. She pawed Bridey’s bare toes insistently.

“Oh, go take a catnap!” Bridey said. “And leave me alone. Sure, Mack Brewster has good legs and a sexy smile, but he’s no hero. He’s got me really worried, and I really have to get this work done as fast as I can, before it all gets taken away from me. So just go away and leave me alone!”

She looked back at the screen, hit the delete button and took out the last words.

And then typed them in again. She couldn’t help it. They seemed to fit.

“. . . the cute guy next door . . .”

She had to admit it—she couldn’t get him out of her head, and it wasn’t only because of his warning of trouble in her paradise. Or because of the strange magnetic field, or whatever it was, that she’d felt when his leg touched hers. There was something more about him, something deep in his eyes, something . . . something about the tone in his voice, a kind of strength that reached out to her, as though he had taken her hand; it stayed with her still.

Do I like this guy?

She sat back in her chair abruptly, as though her spine had collapsed.

The thought appalled her.

Still, there was something . . .

That’s all I need. A major distraction, just when I need to be totally devoted to work! No. I’m not about to give it all away. I’m not going to let myself get derailed. Don’t think about him, Bridey. Don’t.

But it was like telling herself not to think about elephants. She stared at her computer screen, but she couldn’t get past “. . . the cute guy next door . . .”

And just then, as though her thoughts had summoned him, the doorbell rang and, when she answered it, there he was.

He was now in crisp chinos and a neatly pressed denim shirt. His handsome face was freshly shaved, his shower-damp hair was neatly combed and he was wearing a serious, best-behavior expression.

“I was just wondering,” he said. “Could it possibly be cook’s night out?”

He’d caught her completely off guard and she was speechless. She was embarrassingly aware of her super-casual attire, the huge T-shirt and only panties beneath, just this side of decency. With one bare foot she tried to restrain Silk, who was determined to escape through the open door.

Before she could say anything, he added, “I mean, is it safe to ask a professional chef out to dinner?”

His eyes were wandering over her barely clad figure and, realizing her discomfort and recognizing its cause, he was kind enough to focus on a spot in the middle of her forehead. He kept his smile to himself.

Bridey bent to scoop Silk up into her arms, using her as a protective cover across her chest.

“Uh, I’m not sure,” she stammered. “I mean—that is—I guess so. Uh, what did you have in mind?”

His eyes drifted down to meet hers, but he managed not to say what was really going on in his mind.

“I was thinking,” he said, “we really need to talk.”

“Well . . .”

“I feel maybe I should explain . . .”

“Explain?”

“Maybe we could have dinner? Perhaps, if you’d like, the Cote d’Or?” He paused hopefully. “Tonight? At eight?”

“Well, I guess. That is, sure. That would be . . . swell.”

Swell?
She’d never used such a word in her whole life. She knew she was thoroughly discomposed.

“Great!” he said. “See you then.”

“Eight o’clock,” she repeated. He was still standing there, practically at attention, as she closed the door.

Bridey hugged Silk close, burying her face in the sleek fur as she walked aimlessly through the huge apartment, wandering unseeing from room to room.

“Oh, Silk,” she whispered into the cat’s soft ear. “I don’t know what to think.”

Silk reached her soft face toward Bridey’s own silken cheek, encouraging her to tell all.

“He really is the most—”

But her about-to-be-revealed confidence was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. She looked around, only then realizing she was in the library. Marge was already talking as Bridey picked up the phone on Neville’s desk.

“It’s a gorgeous day.” Marge sounded bubbly. “Perfect for shopping, and there’s a super sale going on at Saks. Can I lure you away from your labors for an afternoon?”

“No way, Marge.” She set Silk down onto a burgundy leather chair and watched her jump down onto the Persian carpet and scamper away. “Gotta work. Things may be falling apart here, and I have to finish as much as I can before—”

“Oh, no! Don’t tell me some long-lost relative turned up to claim the inheritance.”

“Nothing like that. But Mack says—”

“Mack?”

“The guy next door.”

“Oho! So you know his name. We’re making progress!”

“Well, yes and no. The bad news is there may be something funky about this job. Mack says it won’t last long, not long enough for me to finish the book. He seems to have some kind of insider information.”

“Uh-oh. That is bad.” There was a moment’s pause. “So what’s the good news?”

“The good news is he’s taking me to dinner tonight. At the Cote d’Or. That’s my chance to find out what’s happening.”

Marge squealed. “The Cote d’Or. Oh, Bridey! That’s fabulous!” Then her voice dropped an octave from girlish glee to conspiratorial seriousness. Seriously serious. Marge’s mental social computer was running at warp speed. “Listen, honey. This man must be really well connected. You can’t get into the Cote d’Or without a reservation months in advance. Do you have time to get your nails done?”

“No, Marge, I don’t have time to get my nails done. And I’m not going to make the time, either. Bad enough I’m taking off time for dinner. Anyway, he’s already seen me looking like a scullery maid. It doesn’t seem to bother him.” Bridey looked at her poor hand with its little burns and nicks and scrapes. An occupational hazard; nothing to be done about it.

“All right, all right. No need to panic.”

“I’m not panicking, Marge.”

“I know. I know, dear.” Marge took a deep breath, audible to Bridey. She was regrouping. “What are you going to wear? Something slinky, I hope.”

“I don’t have anything slinky.”

“I can lend you something.”

“I don’t need anything. I’ll be fine. We’re just going to have dinner, for goodness’ sake. My basic black will do. I’ll wear my Grandma’s locket.”

“Well, think sexy. That’s the best way to accessorize.”

“Oh, Marge, you’re too much. I hardly know the guy.”

“And he hardly knows you. That’s the point. You want to let him know there’s more to you than Danish pastry. God, if I had your shape . . .”

“I’ll keep it in mind. And now I’ve got to go. I’ve got bread in the oven and a chapter to finish.”

“Okay. But remember, think sexy!”

T
he cloisonné clock in the library struck eight, the oven timer went off, and the doorbell rang, all at the same moment. Bridey stopped in her tracks, in mid-kitchen, with pot holders in her hands and cake racks at the ready.

“Omigod!” she whispered to the cats. “He’s here!”

Silk and Satin had been prowling around her feet for the last half hour, getting in her way as she simultaneously dressed for her date and put a low-fat coffee cake to the test. She’d been making a comical spectacle for them as, without missing a beat, she’d brushed her teeth, pulled on panty hose, finished her computer notes, and slipped into her basic black sheath.

“I should have known,” she said, slipping eight hot cake pans onto the waiting racks. “He would be perfectly punctual, of course. He must have been waiting out there with a stopwatch.”

She tossed the pot holders onto the counter, turned off the oven and raced to the door, stopping only long enough to grab one fast look in the foyer mirror, where she patted her hair, checked to be sure there was no lipstick on her teeth and, remembering Marge’s advice to think sexy, ran her hands quickly down the black dress, making sure it lay smoothly over her body.

Then she took one deep breath, slowed herself down, and opened the door.

His suit was dark, his shirt was crisply white, and his repp tie was old school: blue and black stripes on red. His Burberry raincoat was draped over his arm and he carried his umbrella in one hand. He was the very image of gentlemanly propriety. Still, and to her enormous surprise, only one word flashed through her head.

Sexy.

Instantly, she felt a flush rising in her cheeks and knew it would show. With her light coloring, Bridey never had been able to hide a blush. Embarrassed, she saw his eyes do a quick scan of her from top to bottom before coming to rest on her pink cheeks, and she prepared to blame them on the hot stove she’d been slaving over all afternoon. She turned away to hide her face.

“I’ll just get my coat,” she said, stepping back from the door and pushing at Silk, who was trying to scoot past her.

“Mmmm,” he said, sticking his head inside the door. “Smells good in here.”

The aroma from the kitchen was flooding the hallway.

“Coffee cake,” she said as she succeeded in getting the door closed behind her without de-tailing Silk.

“My favorite,” he said as he rang for the elevator. He took her coat from her and, as he helped her on with it, he caught the scent of her hair, which smelled deliciously of cinnamon. Visions of spicy muffins danced in his head.

Which is not to say he hadn’t also noticed the dress. He had noticed the dress. And the flushed cheeks. And the beautiful eyes, and the light from behind her that lit up her hair. Only one word flashed through his head.

Sexy.

The Cote d’Or couldn’t intimidate Bridey. She knew too much about restaurants and what went on behind the fancy fronts. She knew exactly what it took to put on this elaborate show of elegance and sophistication, the enormous displays of fabulous hothouse flowers, the always spotless linens, the perfectly polished brass fixtures, the candles set at each table to cast a romantic glow on the diners’ faces. She understood the costing out of every half-teaspoon of salt and every splash of balsamic vinegar. She knew the frantic activity that was hidden from the public, the mundane mechanics that made the fantasy possible. She knew the unobtrusive signals that indicated special treatment for a preferred diner and his guest, the way their coats were taken to be checked, the maître d’s almost intimate attention, the serious conference with the wine steward, the careful choices of courses for their dinner.

She also knew haute cuisine when she tasted it, and the
escalopes de veau
on her plate were as haute as they could get on their bed of couscous, raisins, and prunes, prepared in the Moroccan style, a combination of sweet and tangy that sang of the Casbah and hot desert sands.

And, while Bridey checked out the veal and couscous, Mack checked out Bridey, looking her over, comparing her to the other women he dated. What he saw was that Bridey Berrigan was totally at ease. She had none of the self-conscious preening and haughtiness that his usual dates brought with them, the preoccupation with their furs and jewels, their hair and nails. Involuntarily, he glanced at Bridey’s hands and saw all the little marks of her kitchen work. For some reason, they seemed very sweet, very appealing.

The realization hit him like a fist in the chest, hard.

This one is a real woman.

It took his breath away. Mack Brewster wasn’t used to being blindsided.

Meanwhile, Bridey had given the first forkful one professional taste of appreciation and now was ready for the real reason for this dinner.

“You dropped a bombshell on me this morning,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes as she lifted a second forkful to her mouth.

What was it she’d said? About a bombshell?

Mack wrenched his thoughts back under control, remembering why he’d asked her to dinner. She deserved an explanation. Of course. But suddenly the explanation seemed harder than he’d expected.

“More wine?” he said, grasping at anything to cover his momentary confusion. He signaled the waiter, who was standing at quiet readiness near the wall.

“You’re not avoiding the subject now, are you?” she asked while the waiter poured the silky Bordeaux into her glass. “You said yourself, we need to talk.”

“I’m not avoiding the subject,” he said, irritated by his own irresoluteness, irritated by how easily this little slip of a girl—this cook!—was getting under his skin, making him nervous. “I’m not avoiding the subject,” he repeated, convincing himself. “Not at all. It’s just that I realized when we talked this morning that you’d been set up for a bad disappointment, and I thought I ought to let you in on what’s happening.”

Bridey lost all interest in her dinner. She was focused now only on Mack, whose face seemed to take on an almost devilish appearance in the candlelight’s glow.

“What’s happening?” She felt her pulse quickening.

Mack sliced his steak and chewed down a mouthful before continuing.

“The thing is,” he said at last, delivering his bombshell as casually as if he was sprinkling salt on his steak, “it’s my intention to buy that apartment myself, as soon as possible. I’m going to break through the walls and take over the whole floor.” He cut through another slice of meat, focusing his attention on it more than on her. “I’ve been planning this deal for a long time—ever since my dad died—and now that old Mrs. Willey is out of the picture, I’ll be able to go ahead immediately. I’d have done it years ago if she’d agreed to sell, but she was such an obstinate, bad-tempered old bat.” He waved his knife above his plate as though he was cutting right through Mrs. Willey. “Oh, she was full of charm and grace when she was being the grande dame. You saw her portrait. That was the gorgeous side of Henrietta Willey. But just let the world not spin in her favor, then you’d see the imperious diva she really was. Then the claws would come out, and if you crossed her, you’d better watch out. And she could hold a grudge forever.”

Bridey’s veal had turned to straw and she couldn’t touch another mouthful. Panic bubbled up in her like a balloon and she struggled to fight back.

“And in those last years,” he continued, “she’d gotten totally batty.”

“But what on earth would you do with so much space? A single man, all alone in that enormous place, just you and your dog—”

“The market is soft right now and I can get that place at a good price. I mean to do it before someone else snaps it up. Anyway, I don’t expect to be alone forever. I’ll get married someday, and I expect there’ll be lots of kids to fill up all those bedrooms.”

“But no one can snap it up. Silk and Satin own it, and I think they like it. It’s been their home for years and—”

A shadow of sarcastic superiority passed over Mack’s face.

“So you talk cat?” he said dismissively, still chewing.

“The cats and I have gotten very close,” she said. Now she was feeling defensive. And ridiculous.

“Yeah. Well, no matter what those cats
think
, I’ve got news for them. They don’t quite own it yet—not while there’s a will to probate. And there’s no way that crazy legacy is going to stand up. The co-op board won’t allow it.”

“The co-op board? What have they got to do with it?”

“They’re not going to tolerate letting a couple of pussycats remain as the sole owners of their prime unit.” His tone was totally sarcastic.

“You mean the board’s going to challenge the will?”

“I think they will. I think I can convince them to do it.”

“You?”

“Sure. I’m on the board.”

“And you have that much influence?”

“I think I do.”

“But that isn’t what Henrietta Willey wanted. Doesn’t her will mean anything?”

“Not if it’s completely nuts. And I mean
completely
nuts.”

He looked so sure of himself, she wanted to punch him.

“And just how long will all this take?”

“Not long. A month or so, my lawyers tell me.”

She was dismayed to find it had gone so far already.

“And then I’d have to leave?”

The bubbles of panic turned into a flood.
He doesn’t get it,
she thought.
He doesn’t get it at all.

“I’m afraid so, Bridey. That’s the only part I’m sorry about. I know it means a lot to you to finish your book.”

“No, you don’t know. You have no idea what it means to me.”

Visions of hundred-pound potato sacks and huge, greasy tubs of boiling soup swam past her.

He saw the tears welling in her eyes, and he looked startled. He reached for her hand. She pulled it away.

“No, you don’t have any idea,” she repeated angrily. “None at all.”

He was totally disconcerted by the sudden twist in the conversation.

“What did I say? Bridey, I wasn’t trying to upset you. I just thought . . . this morning in the park—”

The waiter came and cleared their places to prepare them for dessert. He put a plate of tiny cookies on the table.

Again, Mack reached for Bridey’s hand, this time closing it firmly over hers, feeling its warmth, trying to control its resistance. And again she yanked it forcefully away, determined.

“Please, Bridey. What can I do?” He hadn’t anticipated such a fierce reaction, and he cast about for some way to stop this disastrous development, for some way to make it up to her. Confused, he picked up a fragile Florentine from the plate of cookies and offered it to her. “Here,” he said, “have a cookie.”

It was the last straw. She covered her eyes with her napkin and ran to the restroom, leaving him sitting there totally befuddled.

What did I do?
he asked himself as he ate the cookie himself.
What did I do? What did I say?

The restroom was a pink and white confection. There were mirrors all around, a damask-covered settee against the wall facing the marble-topped washstands and fresh flowers blooming in a crystal vase. Near the entrance, an elderly woman wearing a shiny black uniform and a tiny white apron waited attentively, a cluster of hand towels draped over one arm, ready to offer any assistance. When she saw Bridey’s face, she averted her eyes discreetly and found something to do in the next room, where the stalls were. She’d had this job for six years and Bridey wasn’t the first young woman she’d seen run weeping into the restroom, needing to get away from everyone.

Bridey didn’t even notice the attendant. She dropped onto the settee and stared disconsolately at her image in the mirror opposite.

Oh, that big jerk,
she thought.
He’s ruining everything. My big chance. I need a year at least, probably more. Just when I thought everything was going so well. But what does he care? Just so he can have some huge space to play around in. He’d probably get rid of all that beautiful furniture, all those antiques. Paint everything battleship gray, I bet. I can just see it: he’ll turn the living room into a gym. For a family he doesn’t even have. Just him and his big dog!

And what about the cats? What about those two sweet, beautiful animals? What would happen to Silk and Satin?

She imagined them tossed out into the street like a couple of strays. A tiny laugh broke through her tears.

Silk might get a kick out of that,
she thought ruefully, remembering Silk’s adventure at the fish market.

The thought of Silk slinking around in dark alleys, having the time of her life, restored Bridey’s perspective. Silk wouldn’t go weeping into the ladies’ room just because life tossed a hurdle or two in her path.

Get over it, Bridey,
she told herself sharply. She went to the washstand and dabbed cold water at her eyes and pulled herself together.

“Some
sexy
!” she whispered to her reflection. “He wouldn’t have cared if I’d worn a brown paper bag. Mack Brewster’s only interest is the apartment. He’s got his own plans, and he’s not concerned with anyone else’s.” She sniffled once. “It’s a good thing I didn’t waste time getting my nails done.”

She realized the attendant had peeked around the corner to see if it was safe to return.

She dried her face.

“Let’s just get back there,” she ordered her reflection in the mirror, “and finish up this dinner. Then let’s get out of here as fast as possible.”

Mack rose from his seat as she returned to the table and reached for her chair to hold it as she sat down. He opened his mouth, but she spoke first.

“What about Silk and Satin?” she asked, totally composed, totally chilly.

“The cats?”

“Yes, of course, the cats.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure some provision could be made for them. They’re nice cats; someone would want to take them. If not, they could go to the ASPCA. Or Bideawee, or some such organization.”

“Nice cats? They’re not just nice cats. They’re wonderful cats. They’re special cats. They’re beautiful and sensitive cats. And 12A is their home, the only home they’ve ever known, the home they’re entitled to remain in. That’s what Henrietta Willey wanted for them, and she made very clear and specific arrangements for them. They can’t just be tossed out on the street. Don’t you have a heart?”