A Purrfect Romance

by Bronston, J. M.

  “She grew up in a big family, with lots of pets,” he went on, trying to make up lost points with his partners, “in a small town somewhere upstate. You should have seen how those two cats just snuggled right up to her. First thing she walks in and just stands there looking around with her mouth open—well, you know how that place is, like a museum, with all those carpets and crystal and first editions. And that enormous living room with the sun pouring in through those big windows—and then Silk and Satin are there, nuzzling up around her ankles like she’s their mommy or something. Jeez, I never saw anything like it. She was down on the floor with them in a minute—right there in the foyer—and they were all sniffing noses like they were saying how-do-you-do. They really did make a pretty picture, those two cats with their sleek gray coats and her with this head of red hair. Well, not red, really—”

  Gerald seemed to get distracted momentarily, sidetracked down some mental lane. If I were thirty years younger, he was thinking, remembering the pale dusting of freckles across her short, delicate nose, making her seem very young and innocent—

  “Gerry?” Doug brought him back. “You were saying, Gerry?”

  “Oh, yeah. I was just remembering how nice she looked, real nice, you know? Playing with the cats, like a kid. Pretty girl she is, with all that red hair and big green eyes. Silk and Satin will be in good hands with her.”

  “Young and playful, huh?” Art Kohler was still looking for trouble. “Do you think she’s reliable? There’s a lot of valuable stuff in that place. Will she be careful, do you think? We have to be damned sure nothing happens to those two cats. Anything happens to those cats, we’re in big trouble. You’re sure she understands?”

  “Oh, sure. I made it real clear—absolutely clear—the safety and prosperity of those two cats is her solemn responsibility.”

  “And you checked her out thoroughly?”

  “Of course. And I’m satisfied she’s okay. She’s twenty-four and unattached. Her parents died in a car crash when she was just a kid, and she was brought up by her paternal grandmother and a mob of uncles and aunts and cousins. She has no family here in the city. She’s been living with a girlfriend for the last few months.”

  “Where’d she go to school?”

  “She graduated from the Culinary Institute at Hyde Park. Where, I might add, she took special honors as a pastry chef. I called the dean there and he gave her a first-rate recommendation, said she’s totally steady, dedicated to her career. She’s been working at the Cheval Vert for the last couple of years, but now, with this chance to live rent-free, she’s quit her job and plans to work full-time on a special project—some kind of cookbook, I think. She’s got enough saved to live on, buy her supplies, do her research, that sort of thing. She’s really dedicated a hundred percent to this project and she needs a place where she can test her recipes. That big kitchen in the Willey apartment is absolutely a godsend for her. She was ecstatic when she saw it.”

  Ecstatic was hardly the word for it. She’d been impressed, of course, as Mr. Kinski led her through the vast apartment, through its many bedrooms, through the separate suites for Neville and Henrietta, through the library, the guest rooms, the servants’ quarters, the laundry room, and the sewing room. But he had saved the best for last, and when he opened the swing doors into the huge, virtually professional kitchen, Bridey’s mouth opened in a sudden, involuntary o and her eyes went wide.

  This is spooky, she thought, looking round at the spotless chrome and white tile. The simple ad had said nothing about a kitchen, but the brief notice had jumped out at her as if it had her name on it. She’d taken a chance and now, like magic, a fabulous door to her future was opening, as though divine providence had taken an unexpected shine to her.

  “Mr. Willey had been in the diplomatic service,” the lawyer explained, “and he and his wife entertained on a very lavish scale. You’ve seen the dining room.”

  She was recovering from her first astonishment and, while Mr. Kinski kept talking, she proceeded to walk around the enormous workstation in the middle of the kitchen, trailing her hand lovingly along the impeccable countertop, touching appreciative fingers to the hanging pots and pans, the racks of exotic utensils suspended above the work surface, the drawers below containing every imaginable cooking aid.

  “It’s perfect,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “Just perfect.”

  “The dining room alone seats twenty,” he added, “and the Willeys often had a hundred or more for cocktail parties and fund-raising affairs. Mrs. Willey was enthusiastic about good cooking, like yourself, and because her husband had been posted all over the world, she had developed considerable culinary experience. She was always collecting new recipes. If she had a guest from a foreign country, she’d take him—or his wife—into the kitchen to teach her chef the secrets of some new dish or exotic cooking technique. They might all wind up spending the evening in the kitchen with the cooks instead of in the living room trading small talk. Maybe that was the secret of her social success; guests had an interesting evening at the Willey parties and invitations were highly valued.

  “Unfortunately,” he added sadly, “that all changed when she became a widow. Her husband’s death was very hard on her. She actually went through a severe personality change. She’d always been very high-strung and dramatic, and people put up with her sharp tongue because she was lively and amusing and gathered interesting people around her. But after Mr. Willey died, she turned reclusive and somewhat eccentric. Bad tempered, even. Eventually she drove away all her friends. There were no more parties, no more dinners, no more social life. This extraordinary kitchen,” his hand gestured around the room, “this virtually professional setup, was reduced to providing only the simple meals she took by herself. She had no family, and she wound up, at the end, all alone in the world. So sad.”

  Mr. Kinski paused, remembering the white-haired, stiff-necked old woman, remembering how she’d glower at him during her visits to his office, remembering how immovable she was once she’d made up her mind about anything.

  “However,” he continued at last, “she kept everything in first-class condition, and I think you’ll have everything you need here to do your work.”

  “Oh, yes,” Bridey replied. “Everything. It couldn’t be better.”

  She said a silent prayer for the long life and continued good health and safety of the two beautiful cats.

  “So, if everything is in order,” Mr. Kinski said, “you can take over immediately.”

  He walked to a deep alcove at one end of the kitchen where, on a long table topped in butcher block, a bottle of red wine and two glasses waited.

  “I’ve taken the liberty,” he said, “of preparing for this moment. I opened it before you arrived so it would have a chance to breathe.”

  He poured out two glasses, handed one to her and lifted his in a toast.

  “To the success of your book,” he said.

  She sniffed, swirled and sipped, approving the excellent Bordeaux. Then she lifted the glass again, in a toast of her own.

  “To Silk and Satin,” she said. “Long may they live.”

  Chapter Two

  “Tell me all about it!”

  The excited voice on the telephone pierced the remnants of Bridey’s dreams. She opened one eye just enough to see the clock next to her bed.

  “Marge,” she groaned, “it’s not even seven o’clock.”

  “Yes, it is. Well, practically. And I couldn’t wait another minute.” Marge’s voice was at its usual hypomanic pitch: enthusiastic, endearing, and always irresistible, like a small bell going ding! ding! ding! “Come on, Bridey, tell me all about it. Is it magnificent?”

  Bridey lifted her head and looked around sleepily. Yes, the Queen Anne highboy was still there, between the tall windows that opened out to the terrace. And the thick, pale beige carpeting that contrasted so delicately with the soft rose of the walls. There was the mirrored dressing table, with its silver and crystal accessori
es, and opposite her bed was the enormous dressing room in which her small wardrobe now hung in modest simplicity. It hadn’t all disappeared during the night. It was not all a figment of her dreams. She was really here, on Park Avenue, in the most stunning apartment she’d ever seen, like something out of Architectural Digest. She snuggled luxuriously into the lush bedding that surrounded her.

  “Yes, Marge,” she said dreamily. “It really is magnificent. When I get settled, you’ve got to come up and see it.”

  “I can’t wait! And will you really be able to work on your book there?”

  “Absolutely. The kitchen is unbelievable. It’s huge and totally professional. I’ll be starting this morning. First thing.”

  “Cool! That’s so cool! I want to buy you breakfast, to celebrate. I won’t keep you long. Just a quick cup of coffee.”

  “Well—”

  “I promise I won’t stand in the way of culinary progress, but I just have to hear all about it. Forty minutes. No more. I promise.”

  “Well, okay. As long as we make it really quick. Just give me a half hour to shower and dress. And feed the cats.”

  “Half an hour, at the deli on Lexington and Sixty-Fifth. I can’t wait,” Marge repeated. Her enthusiasm bubbled right through the phone. “Oh, Bridey, I can’t get over how lucky you are!”

  “I know. I’m the luckiest girl in New York.”

  She hung up. In the silence, she let those words resonate in her head.

  The luckiest girl in New York.

  She blinked a couple of times, stretched once—lazily—and smiled into the sunlight that streamed through the windows. Then, as though taking her energy from the brilliance of the day, she threw back the covers and sprang out of bed.

  Silk and Satin were waiting for her outside the bedroom door, sniffing at her toes as she emerged and mewing hungrily around her bare feet, ready for their breakfast. They followed her impatiently through Henrietta’s sitting room and down the hall to a room off the kitchen that had formerly been the servants’ eating quarters but was now devoted entirely to the cats’ care and comfort. Their bowls were on the floor, along with their beds—pink for Silk and blue for Satin, to match their embroidered collars. While they rubbed their heads against her ankles, Bridey washed out the bowls, dried them with a paper towel, and refilled them with fresh water and the special dry cat food that was custom mixed just for them and stored in a large wooden bin. Their litter boxes were in a small bathroom off the cats’ dining room, and Bridey quickly cleaned them. These were her sole chores.

  “Okay, you guys,” she said. “You’re on your own now.”

  She left them to their breakfast and went to the sumptuous bathroom, all marble and mirrors, where she quickly showered and dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and flip-flops. She went through the apartment to the cloakroom just off the parquet-floored, mirror-paneled foyer. Her denim jacket, her lightweight raincoat and her one good topcoat looked lonely hanging on one of the two long, empty rods on which hundreds of hangers waited for the masses of visitors who no longer came. She grabbed the jacket in one hand in case the day turned chilly, slung her large tote bag over her shoulder, and headed for the door.

  “Be good, you two,” she called to Silk and Satin as she left. “I’ll bring you back a fish.”

  No empty promise. Later, as soon as she got organized, she’d be starting on her chapter entitled, Fish: Fast and Mostly Fat-Free, and her mind was already at work, mentally choosing and rejecting. Reluctantly, she’d have to omit one of her personal favorites, a Russian coulibiac.

  Even if I Americanized it, she was thinking, and substituted salmon for the eel, it’s still too complicated for my purposes. All those layers of fish and rice and mushrooms and sliced egg and bean thread, wrapped up in blinchiki and pastry dough. Too elaborate for this book—but I’ll definitely use it in the next one. She made a mental note to include coulibiac in her next book, which was already in the planning stage. It would be titled, The Guy Thing: For Men Only, and it would be a collection of recipes for the man who needs to have one specialty dish, some elaborate concoction, his very own signature dish to dazzle a date with.

  She opened the door, and her thoughts were instantly scattered.

  A large black dog of the retriever persuasion, trailing his leash, filled much of the hall and began instantly to sniff inquisitively at her.

  The dog’s owner, at the door to 12B, paused as the lock responded to his key, and he turned to glare at Bridey. She caught a glimpse of wavy black hair, fierce black eyes, and a very correct dark business suit under a lightweight raincoat. That, and a distinctly military bearing.

  “Scout! Come!”

  The man spoke sharply—angrily, in fact—and the dog responded instantly to his master’s command. They both disappeared without another word as the door closed abruptly behind them.

  Well, hel-lo, she said to herself. So that’s my new neighbor.

  Her fantasy of a gracious, gray-haired old gentleman was embarrassingly silly in light of the man’s brusque snub, and she had to revise the image drastically.

  Drastically!

  Subtract about fifty years, first of all. Though she’d been right about the conservative part. This man looked starchy enough to freeze a bear in its tracks.

  And what was he so mad about? She certainly hadn’t done anything to earn that glare. Talk about your rude New Yorkers! She could almost feel her spine stiffen against the man’s apparent hostility.

  But still, you’d have to give him points for dynamite good looks. Almost took her breath away. What a pity. That such coldness came in such a handsome package.

  “Well,” she said to Silk, who was trying to squirm through the door as Bridey poked a foot at her to make her get back into the apartment, “at least the dog was friendly.”

  Mackenzie Haven Brewster shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, his hand still on the knob.

  “Jeez, Scout,” he said to the dog, who was nuzzling his hand. “Did you get a look at her?”

  He closed his eyes, but the image of her still radiated brilliantly in his head, like a burst of sunlight, fixed in glowing colors on his retinas.

  “I think they’ve thrown us a curve.”

  The dog looked up at him inquiringly.

  “They couldn’t get some little old white-haired biddy to look after those damned cats?” his master said. “Or some out-of-work actor, some guy with wild hair and noisy friends. Oh, no. Leave it to those scheming lawyers to come up with someone who looks like that.”

  It had been only a glimpse as she’d opened the door, but it had been enough. He’d seen the pretty, open face, the flash of coppery red hair with the light behind it, filling it with sprinkles of gold. He’d seen the slim, curvy figure in simple, casual clothes, the cordial smile turned so innocently toward him.

  He took a deep breath, shook his head as though to clear it and opened his eyes.

  “Not to worry,” he announced forcefully to Scout. “She’s not my type.”

  He took a step away from the door and tossed his newspaper onto a chair.

  “No, she’s definitely not my type,” he repeated insistently, as though to head off an argument.

  Mack Brewster liked his women tall, glamorous, and elegant. And the more pampered the better. Pampered and dependent. He liked women who expected to be protected by men.

  He peeled off his coat and dumped it in a disorderly heap on the chair, on top of the newspaper, instead of hanging it up in its proper place in the closet.

  Then he stood there for a long time, right there in the middle of his foyer, with Scout circling around him, trying to figure out what was going on. Mack was a man of careful habits. Even before his years in the Navy, he’d been taught to keep everything around him shipshape. His shoes were always polished to a high shine, his pants were creased just so, and he never tossed his clothes around.

  Scout knew something was up.

  Mack picked up the phone on the hall table.

>   “Gotta call Maudsley,” he said to Scout. He started to punch in the numbers. “Gotta find out—”

  He stopped and looked at his watch.

  “Too early.” He stopped punching. “I’ll get him later, at the office.”

  “Well, you’re looking snarly,” Marge said as she caught up with Bridey, who was just entering the delicatessen.

  “Oh, Marge. New Yorkers can be so hostile.”

  Bridey was still feeling the irritation of her neighbor’s glowering snub.

  “Tell me about it,” Marge said flippantly. She slid over on the leatherette seat and piled up her bag, her coat, her Bloomie’s shopping bag and her Coach laptop case, all in a disorderly stack next to her. She tossed her long dark hair away from her eyes and picked a breadstick out of the basket that was already set on the table. She took a nibble of it, mentally counting the calories as she nibbled. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Bridey said. “Nothing unusual, that is. Just another Manhattan moment.” She pushed her tote bag into the corner of the booth and picked up the menu.

  “You didn’t get mugged or groped or anything, did you?” Marge said absently. She was concentrating on the menu, calculating fat grams and her daily allowance of carbs.

  “Nothing like that. Just a neighbor with an attitude.”

  “Happens all the time,” Marge said. “By now you should be used to it.”

  “I’ll never get used to it, Marge. Back home in Warrentown, people were so different. If someone moved in next door, you brought over a plate of cookies. This guy looked at me like I stole his morning newspaper or something. Too bad, too, ’cause he was really cute.”

  “Oh?” Marge was suddenly all attention. She put down her menu. “A cute neighbor? What else? Married?”

  “How should I know?” Bridey remembered there was only one umbrella in the stand. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, well, well.” Marge licked her bright red lips like a cat contemplating a canary. “So tell me all. Is he tall?”