“Maybe I’m not really in trouble,” she said to herself.
And behind the door of 12B, Mack Brewster was in his bedroom, peeling off his fancy duds.
“Well, well, well,” he said to Scout. “Looks like our pretty new neighbor had a little adventure of her own tonight.” He sat on the edge of his bed, one patent-leather dress shoe in his hand. “What do you think, Scout? Is mum the word? Or should we spill the beans?”
Scout licked his hand enthusiastically and Mack added with a laugh, “Well, okay. I really ought to turn her in, but I couldn’t treat a lady in distress that way.”
He rubbed Scout’s black head.
“I guess we can keep her secret for a while, anyway.”
Chapter Four
A week passed, and there were no repercussions, no outraged call from Gerald Kinski, no accusations of inexcusable incompetence and unforgivable neglect, no order to “get out, bag and baggage!” Though she couldn’t forget her neighbor’s presence, just the other side of the wall, there were no more chance encounters, and gradually she forgot her fear that she might unexpectedly run into him. As always, Bridey fought off anxiety by concentrating harder on her work, and by the end of the week, she had recovered her sense of security and her customary optimism. Her big scare had been only that, a big scare and nothing more. All would be well. Life was good.
The first draft of the fish chapter was done and, on this lovely Sunday morning, she was eager to begin work on Breads and Rolls. She’d been up early, proofing yeast and kneading dough and, while her first batches were rising, she decided it was time to allow herself a little rest from her labors. She washed up, carefully scrubbed out the dough from under her fingernails, pulled on a pair of tiny red running shorts, knotted up an oversized T-shirt at her midriff, pulled her hair back with a bright red ribbon and headed out for a run through the park.
Central Park was in a spring mood, wearing its new, pale green foliage, just burst from the bud. Bright flower patches made good scampering grounds for bushy-tailed squirrels, and everywhere— on the vast stretches of green grass and in the playgrounds and along the bench-lined walks—little ones played while their mommies, daddies and nannies gossiped with one another or read their newspapers. Streams of cyclists and inline skaters weaved along the paths, baseball players formed up their games on the ball fields and all New York was enjoying the lovely weather.
After a half-hour’s run through the park, Bridey was breathing hard and glowing. It had been a week of worrying, but she was able now, at last, to feel carefree. She rewarded herself with a Popsicle from a vendor’s cart and climbed up on an outcropping of rock. From there she could park herself for a while and watch the action on the Sheep Meadow—the pick-up games of smash ball, the dogs chasing Frisbees, the pigeons strutting about in the grass. The warm sunlight glistened off her damp shoulders and arms. It filled her hair with sprinkles of gold and heightened the sweet dusting of freckles that danced across her nose. In her little running shorts and floppy T-shirt, licking her Popsicle, she looked about ten years old.
She was totally unaware that for the last ten minutes her next-door neighbor had been watching her closely.
Mack Brewster was also out for a run that morning, with Scout loping along next to him, and when he glimpsed the halo of red and gold bobbing along ahead of him, he slowed down, not trusting his eyes.
For several days now, ever since their early-morning elevator encounter, he’d found himself unaccountably imagining he saw his pretty new neighbor. Again and again, everywhere he went, some bit of curly red-haired brilliance, some flash of a lithe young form would catch his eye, some girl going into a restaurant or waiting for a bus as he passed by in a cab, or just turning a midtown corner, or partly concealed in an after-theater crowd. He couldn’t understand this obsessive phantom spotting, and he told himself it must be because she represented a seriously awkward snag in his plans. But would that account for the leap of eagerness that thumped in his chest every time he thought he saw her? Would that explain why every flash of coppery hair, disappearing in the crowd, made him want to follow after?
But the thumping was at top volume and he knew that this time he wasn’t imagining anything. With Scout running beside him, he dropped into a slow jog, waiting for a chance to check her out, and when she stopped to catch her breath he stopped, too, sitting down on the grass about twenty feet behind her, pretending to be just another resting runner, hoping to blend into the great anonymous mass of Sunday recreationists. He rested his arms on his upraised knees and kept his head down so she wouldn’t recognize him, allowing himself only a sideways observation of her from behind his unkempt, sweat-dampened hair. He watched as she bought her Popsicle and climbed to the top of the rock, where the sun lit her up like a spotlight, and he used the moment to enjoy his first good, slow look at her.
What he saw was a vibrant, healthy girl, with long, slim arms and legs, a trim torso, a graceful carriage and an unruly topping of sun-filled, red-and-gold hair.
“She looks like a kid,” he whispered to Scout. “Like an innocent kid.”
His heart bumped around in his chest, doing battle with his cool, disciplined, rational self. His head was telling him to avoid her, to remember that this temporary new neighbor of his, this breezy, sassy, sprite of a girl—not his type at all—stood in the way of his plans, his debt of honor. His mission, almost accomplished now.
But he should have known. Things had been going too smoothly. Just when things were coming together for him, thanks to Mrs. Willey’s death, it seemed that the Fates, those unpredictable, cosmic tricksters, had slipped this unexpected ingredient into the mix. They’d playfully tossed him a confusing, distracting, green-eyed flash of sunlight.
How different she was from the usual New York sophisticates, the tough-talking colleagues who high-heeled their brash way through his offices, the mink-draped, perfumed heiresses who were usually on his arm in nightclubs and at charity events, the trust-fund babies he’d been set up with ever since his prep-school days, the potential trophy wives he’d been programmed to end up with and had been dutifully squiring around town ever since he’d grown into the age of eligibility. He’d assumed one of them would turn out to be the “right one.” He was still waiting for that right one to click into place.
His better judgment was telling him to avoid this girl. But some other totally unfamiliar instinct was sending him a different message.
Don’t let her get away, it was telling him.
“Go over to her, Scout,” he whispered to his running companion, “and just sort of say hello.”
Scout was nothing if not obedient and he promptly loped over to Bridey’s rock, climbed it and planted himself next to her, reaching out an inquisitive nose toward her Popsicle.
Which gave Mack an excuse to follow right behind him.
“Hey, there, Scout!” His voice registered the irritation of an owner whose dog is being obstreperous. “Stop bothering the lady!”
Bridey looked up and saw a dark figure silhouetted against the bright sun, standing above her, tall and gleaming against the background of high-rising skyscrapers that sparkled beyond the rim of Central Park’s massed trees.
“It’s okay. He’s not bothering me,” she said, holding the Popsicle away from Scout’s eager face. She shaded her eyes against the sun’s glare to see the man’s face. “Oh,” she said, genuinely startled. “It’s you.”
And, pretending to be completely surprised, Mack repeated her words.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s you!”
“I guess it is,” she said, disconcerted. All her recovered good spirits began to go shaky again. Just what she’d feared. Of all the people in the world, this neighbor of hers, this “cute guy next door,” could make real trouble for her if he decided to tell what he’d seen that early morning, trying to sneak Silk back into the building.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Mack said.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Still shading her eyes against the sun, she braced herself and took a good look at him, trying to figure out if she was in any danger. But this time, to her surprise, he was actually looking friendly. Maybe she could lighten up a little. After all, he didn’t exactly have fangs or wear the mark of the beast on his handsome forehead.
And there was something else: Marge would be hungry for a report.
She decided to check him out quickly while he remained standing above her, backlighted by the sun. For Marge’s sake, of course.
Good body!
She noted the sharp muscle definition of his arms and legs, the abdomen flat under his black running shorts and gray sweatshirt. He obviously worked out regularly. She also noted wryly that he somehow managed to keep that starchy air of solemn propriety even when he was shiny with sweat in his drenched workout clothes.
Marge would be proud of how she was gathering the data.
“Do you mind if I join you?” he was saying, even as he lowered his long frame down to the rough surface of the rock, taking the place Scout had cleverly vacated by circling around to Bridey’s other side, blocking her from moving away.
“Not at all,” she said, surprising herself, realizing she really didn’t mind. Without the glowering manner and the ultra correct, button-down attire, he was actually a very desirable male, especially in his abbreviated clothing.
As his body came close to hers and there was the lightest brush of his leg against hers, she was startled to feel a palpable connection between them, as though an electromagnetic field had come to life between his body and hers. A good feeling it was, exciting and alive, yet full of safety and comfort. The surrounding temperature seemed to rise by about ten degrees. She felt as though she was melting.
What’s going on?
And Mack was asking himself a similar question. How does she do that?
For he felt it, too, as though some magical switch had suddenly been flipped, sending a powerful message through him. He felt all his faculties focus, all brought to attention, aware and sensitive in a way he’d never before experienced. Again, he asked himself, How does she do that? He studied her glowing face, as though he might find an answer there. Maybe it’s her mouth. So soft, so innocent. Or maybe it’s the perfect complexion. He’d never seen a sunlit feathering of freckles look so sexy. How many girls could look that good in bright sunlight? He knew that the women of his social set avoided the sun’s rays as though they expected to shrivel; their careful makeup was designed to guarantee their nighttime beauty under the subdued lighting of expensive restaurants and Broadway theater houses.
But this girl was unafraid of the light.
The backs of his knees were tingling, and he could feel something tightening in his chest, as though a fist was gripping his heart. The edges of his ears were burning, and he felt a powerful impulse to touch her face with his fingertips, to reach an arm around her, draw her slim body closer to him . . .
What’s happening to me?
His next thought was even more direct.
Am I going to get involved with this woman?
Impossible. No way.
But he felt his usual aplomb swirling down the drain, and he had to use all his well-practiced self-discipline to mask his confused feelings, to force himself to sound casual. He made the only innocuous comment he could think of.
“I’ve been smelling good things coming from across the hall,” he said, as casually as he could. “You can’t be doing all that cooking just for yourself.”
“Oh, no, of course not,” she answered, glad of the turn the conversation had taken. He couldn’t have picked a better topic, guaranteed to bring out the shine of dedication in her eyes, and safely removed from the startling reaction he’d triggered in her. “It’s for a project I’m working on: a cookbook. I donate everything to a service that collects food for the homeless.”
“Most commendable,” he said. And she can cook, too! “So you’re writing a cookbook,” he said. “How long have you been working on it?”
“I just started. But one chapter is already finished. The first draft, at least. With a kitchen like the one in that apartment, I should be able to complete the whole book in a year. If I’m lucky.”
He felt his heart sink. This was getting too complicated.
“A whole year? That’s a long haul you’ve got ahead of you.”
“Not really. I’ve got the perfect place to get it done. That apartment is a dream. And I’ve never seen a kitchen like that, not in a private home. You can’t imagine—”
The fates really weren’t playing fair. But someone would have to tell her. He steeled himself. Might as well get it over with now.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he said, “but someone should have told you.”
She felt the temperature drop suddenly, alarmingly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re not going to be able to stay in the apartment.”
“What are you talking about?” Her stomach went hollow and she gripped the solid rock beneath her, which seemed to turn to knives and spikes, pricking at her.
“Didn’t the people who hired you warn you?”
“Warn me?”
Now he was glowering again.
“They’re really not being fair to you,” he said, “letting you get started on a big project. Letting you get your hopes up.”
The hollow in her stomach spread up through her chest as she heard a threat to all her plans . . . all her work . . .
“Maybe you could explain—”
He suddenly felt rotten. Explain? Explain that, because of him, she could just toss her plans out of the window? He’d seen the color drain from her face and the sudden tension that appeared like a shadow in her eyes. Not that he’d ever been one to shy away from tough confrontations, but all of a sudden he was feeling like a really bad guy, and he didn’t like the feeling at all. He needed to think this over and he couldn’t think very clearly, not with this glowing girl so close to him. He tried to summon up his powers of self-command, but there was a buzzing in his head, as though all his thoughts had turned into a flight of disoriented bees. It was so damned complicated.
His fists clenched, he squinted into the sunlight, keeping his mouth clamped tight.
I need to get out of here, he thought.
Reflexively, defensively, he glanced at his watch. Then he glanced at her. Then back at his watch, as though its face might give him some direction. Then he did an uncharacteristic thing. He chose the path of least resistance. He chickened out.
He stood up, and the dog stood up to join him.
“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.
Chapter Five
Bridey 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 ris
k, 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:
Breads and Rolls
And then, on the next line she typed:
Don’t Panic
Shrinks cost pots of money. So do health clubs and aerobics classes.
But making bread costs practically nothing at all, and it gives you all the benefits of free therapy—plus a good workout.
You get to slam the dough around and hear the satisfying thunk as you beat it into submission, you get to assert your authority, shake the walls and, at the same time, release all those awful “aggression toxins.”
And you produce results that will dazzle everyone: family, friends, even that cute guy next door—
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?”
A Purrfect Romance Page 5