A Purrfect Romance

by Bronston, J. M.

  She placed it in the center of the windowsill, where the afternoon sun would fall softly on it every day.

  Then, with trembling fingers, Bridey set her work plan on the only remaining open space on her desk. She opened it to her proposed table of contents, took a deep breath and found that her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking.

  Oh, God, she thought. It burst upon her like a lightning strike: the moment she’d prepared for, the dream that had had its birth when she was still little, when she used to bake miniature pies and biscuits and cakes at her grandmother’s side. It was staring her right in the face. She, Bridget Margaret Berrigan, was about to make her own contribution to her chosen profession.

  “I’m so scared,” she whispered into the silent room.

  The enormity of what she’d done washed over her like a bath of pure, cold terror.

  She’d burned all her bridges. Leaped off a cliff, sailed off the edge of the earth, closed all the doors behind her, whatever. She’d quit her job, used up all her savings and committed herself to this daunting task. Now she had to flap her wings as hard as she could and hope to fly.

  She felt as though a flock of horrible demons had suddenly attacked her, appearing from nowhere, out of the corners of her imagination. She needed to catch her breath.

  So she brewed a pot of coffee.

  And while the water dripped through the grounds, she remembered what Marge had said.

  Protection? Did she really need someone to protect her? The memory of the man next door swam through her thoughts, and she wondered why. If anything, he seemed to be breathing dragon fire rather than riding up like a knight in white armor. Not a good candidate if a girl was looking for protection.

  And protection from what? From doing what she loved most in the whole world? From doing the very thing she was really good at? From standing on her own two feet? Marge, of all people, should understand. Marge, the most independent and self-reliant of people.

  No.

  She slapped a dish towel onto the countertop.

  Hah! Protection, indeed.

  No!

  I’ll be okay!

  I’ll have to be okay!

  She squared her shoulders. She filled a mug with the brewed coffee. She paced around her kitchen, blowing on the steaming coffee to cool it, and as she did, the demons began to slink sullenly back into their corners. Her terrors settled down and her fears disappeared in the excitement of the task ahead of her. There was no place left to go but forward, and soon she was hard at work.

  Hours passed and the sun was low over New Jersey, the last rays lighting up the tops of the buildings along Central Park West, and Silk and Satin came into the kitchen to tell Bridey it was dinner time.

  “Oh?” she said, glancing at her watch, surprised at how the hours had disappeared. “Oh? Hungry, are you? In the mood for a little fish flake, are you? Okay, kids. Coming right up!”

  In moments, she had poached the flounder in milk, flaked it into their bowls and, while they ate, changed their water. They were licking themselves clean by the time she had her own dinner ready: a sliced tomato and a boiled egg, some crackers, a glass of milk and a banana. While she ate, she looked over what she’d accomplished. Her workstation was covered with fish recipes. Her flash drive contained her introduction to the fish chapter. Her head was filled with updated ideas for the purchase, preparation and presentation of fish.

  All she needed now was the fish.

  She made a quick call to Charlie Wu, her old buddy from her days at the Culinary Institute. Charlie had his own restaurant now, just off Grand Street in Chinatown, and when Charlie needed fish, he didn’t travel all the way up to the relocated Fulton Fish Market in the Bronx, where the big commercial suppliers now brought their catch. Charlie had his own sources, independent fishermen who continued to bring their fish directly to the old wharfs along the East River, down near the tip of Manhattan. Before dawn, under the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, only a few minutes away, he could meet up with them in the wee hours and get the freshest catch, with no middlemen, and catch up on the latest gossip. There’d be the rapid transactions, the unloading in the dark, the hustle and quick transfer into his van, and Charlie would leave with whatever he needed for the day.

  “Sure,” Charlie said. “Be glad to help out. Meet me dockside at four. We’ll get you whatever you need. Might be chilly that hour of the morning. Bring a sweater.”

  “Thanks a bunch, Charlie. You’re the best.”

  “You betcha.” Charlie’s smile was apparent right through the telephone. “Just be sure to mention me in your book.”

  “Of course. I’ll give the restaurant a plug, too.”

  Bridey began her preparations. She set her big canvas tote bag next to the door.

  “Dockside,” she announced to Silk, who had come to inquire. “Before dawn.”

  From the cloakroom, she took a pair of waterproof boots and put them into the bottom of the bag. On top of that she added a sweater.

  “It may be cold and wet,” she said to Silk.

  And a small, collapsible umbrella.

  “You never know.”

  Then she went into the kitchen to get her laptop.

  And as for Silk? What was Silk doing?

  Silk was contemplating adventure. She knew something was up; she could feel exhilaration in the air.

  She circled around the bag that stood next to the door, her tail tip twitching. She sniffed at the bag. It still carried the scent of the flounder that had been that night’s dinner. She sniffed again and decided to follow her nose. What the hell! She had spent too many afternoons curled up on the outside balcony, observing the passing scene, wishing she could get out to explore. With the arrival of this new person in the apartment, she felt change in the air. Here, at last, was her chance.

  She jumped into the bag and burrowed down into the soft sweater.

  In the meantime, Bridey gathered up her notepad, a pair of warm gloves, her shopping list, and her wallet. She took them to the waiting bag and dropped them in, not noticing that they landed on Silk’s curled-up form.

  Silk didn’t complain; the extra items provided her with good stowaway cover.

  Chefs are used to crazy hours. Four a.m., four p.m., it makes no difference in their workday. Bridey set her alarm for 3:45 and went to the bedroom to grab a few hours’ sleep. And Silk used those hours to do the same. When Bridey’s alarm went off, she washed, dressed and scooped up the heavy bag, unaware that it contained a secret cargo.

  Somewhere deep in Silk’s primal memory there had been a dark ride like this, wrapped in something soft and thick, traveling rapidly over distance. Her neck fur bristled in excitement and anticipation, her adrenaline was flowing. Adventure was upon her.

  Her inbuilt time sense knew it was night, the time for cats to prowl, but the bag in which she was being carried was still in motion. It jolted back and forth, start and stop and then start again, over and over, before finally being yanked up and hoisted out into the night air. Almost instantly, Silk was surrounded by noise and bustle and, oh, sweetest of all, the heavy scent, omnipresent, of fish. Fish enough for a lifetime of dinners. Let that stay-at-home, Satin, sleep in his comfy bed. She, Silk, was out in the real world. Oh, what stories she would bring home.

  The bag came finally to rest, set down on cold concrete. Cautiously, she rose from her concealment, let an exploratory eye look over its top, saw Bridey’s legs next to her, saw Bridey talking to someone, a mountain of cod between them, hands gesticulating, arms waving. This was her chance; no one was looking down at Bridey’s bag. Silk took the opportunity. She slipped quietly out of the bag and in a moment had disappeared, like a gray shadow, into adventure land, where she was quickly engulfed by wondrous aromas, a mix of salt and fish, with quiet, urgent voices filtering through the dark night.

  Some cat radar must have announced her presence: a new cat on the wharf! The regulars were there in a moment, checking her out, making their advances, inviting her to
come and play. But Silk was true to her breeding; only the best would do. She ignored the scruffy toms, the ill-bred, whining, gossipy tabbies, the scroungers, the loafers, the adolescent, belligerent punks.

  Yards away, curled up on the pilings, grooming himself luxuriously, a sleek black cat looked up from his splayed-out paws, and his eyes met Silk’s. Some cat message passed between them. She stayed where she was, ignoring the presence of the others, and waited. Nightwatch—for that was the name given to him by the crew of the trawler on which he ferried nightly down from Nantucket—dropped silently down from the piling. He approached her, they made their introductions, and in a moment Silk had accepted his invitation. Together, they disappeared into the dark.

  Meanwhile, Bridey was buying fish. An hour passed. From the handful of ships cleated up at the dock, thanks to a friendly introduction by Charlie, she selected cod, flounder and swordfish, twenty pounds in all, enough for her first round of recipes. Only the freshest. Only the best. She was satisfied. The first light of morning was beginning to turn the Brooklyn Bridge into a ghostly shadow riding over the shimmer of the East River. The sun would soon be up. It was time to go home. She packed the wrapped-up fish into her bag, surrounding it with layers of newspaper to keep it insulated and cool until she got it home.

  As she bent over to pick up her bag, she chanced to look up.

  And saw Silk.

  “Omigod!” whispered Bridey.

  The little stowaway looked sleeker than ever, with a kind of self-satisfied roll to her stride as she appeared out of the shadows, heading directly for Bridey, like baby to mama, as if she knew it was time to go home and she knew exactly how to get there. The tote bag was her means of transport and she was ready to hop in. Which she did, settling herself comfortably on top of the wrapped-up fish and looking pretty pleased with herself.

  “Omigod!”

  Bridey was aghast. This beautiful, sleek, refined animal, this uptown tourist making an unauthorized visit to the seaport, this totally out-of-place pedigreed puss, could be no other than the $70-million heiress that she, Bridey, was supposed to be caring for. The pink collar around Silk’s neck was the confirmation. It was handmade, unique, and it had her name embroidered on it. This was no mistaken identity.

  If Mr. Kinski found out! If anyone found out!

  Omigod.

  She whipped out the sweater and quickly plopped it down on top of the errant animal, stuffing the edges down the sides of the bag and darting her eyes around to see if she was being observed while trying to look casual and hoping it was dark enough and that the fishermen were too busy with their work to notice the disaster that was going on in their midst.

  With one hand pushing down on Silk’s protesting head, she got herself quickly to the street, lifting her hand from the bag only long enough to hail a cab, and never again moving it all the way home while keeping up a whispered scolding, with herself and the incorrigible cat as alternating targets of her frantic harangue. The cabdriver, who’d seen and heard everything during his years of hacking on the city streets, paid no attention.

  “How could you? Oh, Silk, how could you? You could have gotten me into so much trouble! How could I explain if you’d gotten lost? If you hadn’t shown up right there, at the very last moment, I’d never have known. I’d never have guessed where to look for you. Who would have thought you’d stow away in my bag?

  “And oh, Bridey!” Now she began beating up on herself. “What would you say if she’d disappeared? ‘Sorry, Mr. Kinski. I lost your cat. I know I’m supposed to be a responsible, grown-up woman, but you might as well have left Silk and Satin in the care of a chimpanzee! ’”

  Then again at Silk. “Who knows what could have happened to you? You could have gotten run over! You could have been attacked by stray dogs! You could have been kidnapped! You could have fallen in with the wrong crowd and—” The possibilities seemed endless, and her panic escalated drastically. “All my plans could have been ruined. Oh, Bridey, stupid, stupid, careless, dumb, dumb . . .”

  By the time the cab pulled up to 612, she was a wreck. Theo, the night doorman, got no greeting at all from her as she passed him, for she was in no mood to be seen by anyone who knew her.

  “Good morning, Miss Berrigan,” he said to her back as she swept hurriedly by.

  Oh, if only she could be invisible.

  But there, just ahead of her, someone was waiting at the elevator. His back was toward her, and he was resting one hand against the wall, with his head drooped forward, as though it had been a long night and he couldn’t wait to reach his bed. She recognized that Burberry instantly.

  Oh, rats! she thought.

  Why did this have to happen now?

  Why him, of all people?

  And what was he doing coming in at this hour?

  He turned his head toward her just as Sandor, the night operator, opened the elevator door. He straightened up, pulling himself together in the presence of an observing human being. He said nothing, but his face wore a very small, preoccupied smile, as though something funny was going on in his head. His Burberry coat was unbelted and unbuttoned, and Bridey saw he was wearing a tuxedo. His black bow tie was uncharacteristically askew, his black hair was a bit disheveled, his black eyes looked privately mirthful, and there was lipstick on the edge of his collar. If Bridey hadn’t been in such a distracted state, it would have registered more clearly that her neighbor’s stuffed-shirt demeanor had slipped considerably; he actually looked quite human.

  But she was too distracted. She was struggling to keep Silk under wraps, and to look as though it wasn’t odd that the sweatery contents of her bag kept bobbing about. Her neighbor’s smile broadened, a little crookedly. He was watching her in slightly tipsy amusement.

  Sandor made light conversation while they ascended. “Looks like we’re going to have a good day,” he said. “Lots of sun. No rain predicted. Good day for your run, Mr. Brewster.”

  Nice-looking couple, those two, he was thinking. They should get together.

  And he wondered why the pretty young lady was so stiffly silent, so rigidly preoccupied. The grapevine was already heavy with speculation about the twelfth floor. All the staff knew about old Mrs. Willey’s bizarre legacy, they all knew what Mackenzie Brewster was up to, and they were making guesses as to the future of the two cats. There was even a staff pool betting on Mr. Brewster’s next move.

  His shift was almost over and when Tom came on, Sandor would have some new material to feed into the gossip mill.

  “Have a good day, Miss Berrigan,” he said as they got out at the twelfth floor. “And you, too, Mr. Brewster.”

  The door closed, and Bridey and her neighbor were alone in the little vestibule.

  I don’t dare take my hand away from this bag. How do I get to my key without him catching on?

  On the floor in front of each door lay the morning newspaper, delivered only minutes before. Her neighbor dug into his pocket for his key and bent a little unsteadily to pick up his New York Times. He stood up and saw that Bridey was still standing in front of her own door. She was trying to look nonchalant, making no move to open her door, making no move to pick up her paper, making no move to do anything at all. In his slightly woozy condition, it seemed to him only moderately puzzling. With a broad gesture, an exaggeratedly chivalrous flourish, he picked up the paper that lay in front of the door to 12A and presented it to her.

  “Allow me, madam,” he said, and bowed his head slightly. There was still that little half smile on his face. She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or polite, but she was too panicky to care.

  Oh, please, she prayed silently, don’t let him see what’s in my bag.

  In her effort to be cool, Bridey’s stance remained awkward, with one hand planted stiffly on top of her unruly cargo and the other holding the straps tightly at her shoulder, trying, with her elbow, to keep the bag close to her body. She allowed a couple of fingers to let go of the strap. He placed the paper in their weak grasp. The c
orner of her mouth twitched nervously into a tiny response, followed by a silly sound that wasn’t yes, no, or thank you.

  He raised one eyebrow, gave her—and her bag—a brief, quizzical look and opened his own door. The muzzle of the black dog appeared instantly, snuffling and eager for his master.

  “Hey, there, old buddy,” he said. “Good to be home at last. Did you miss me?” The door closed behind him.

  Bridey relaxed. She leaned her head back against the wall, took one very deep breath and let it out slowly. At last it was safe to let go of her prisoner.

  But Silk was in a perverse mood, and now that Bridey’s hand was no longer pressing her down under the sweater, she lost all interest in pushing back. She merely raised her lovely though slightly mussed head and peered quietly over the top of the bag, while Bridey found her key, got the door open and got her whole disorderly baggage into the apartment.

  Silk immediately ran off to tell Satin about her night on the town and Bridey sank, like a bundle of exhausted nerve ends, into the nearest chair.

  “Oh, boy!” she whispered to the silent room. “Oh, boy, am I in trouble.”

  In the silence it seemed to her the pounding of her heart could be heard ten feet away. She listened to it for a while.

  That stuffed shirt in a Burberry raincoat.

  He saw . . . he must have seen . . . I saw that he saw . . .

  She remembered his little smile as she’d tried to keep Silk quiet in the tote bag.

  Still, why would he tell anyone? It was nothing to him. And if no one found out . . . and after all there had been no harm done, had there?

  She was making herself calm down.

  “Things to do,” she said to the empty room. “Gotta get to work.”

  She remembered the twenty pounds of fish in her bag.

  “Things to do,” she repeated.

  She got out of the chair and carried the bag to the kitchen. As she put the package into the fridge, she steadied her hand, leaning against the top.