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?”
“Of course I have a heart, Bridey.” He looked befuddled. “And I love all animals, great and small. But I already have Scout, and I’m not going to ask him to share his space with a couple of felines. He might object.”
By now she was getting mad. And madder still, every moment. Her own stubbornness had been aroused by Mack’s air of unqualified self-assurance.
“Well, it’s not his space yet. And it’s not your space either. And you know what? This space is getting too small for me.” She glanced around the quiet room. “I would like to go home now.”
“But you haven’t had your dessert.” He looked dismayed. “At least have some coffee.”
“I don’t want any coffee.” She stood up. “And I don’t want any dessert.” She had her bag in her hand and was already headed for the door.
Mack practically knocked over his chair, digging in his pocket for some cash and signaling the waiter to bring the check. She was out of the door by the time he’d tossed some bills onto the table. By the time he’d retrieved their coats and his umbrella from the checkroom, he had to run to catch up with her.
“Now, dammit, Bridey,” he said, reaching her side as she strode down Hudson Street, looking for a cab. He was trying to assert the control he was so accustomed to. “Now, dammit, I won’t allow you to go off mad.”
“You won’t allow me?”
She turned to flash an outraged glance at him.
“I didn’t mean that.” He said it quickly, awkwardly, like a man stumbling over his own feet. “I only meant I wanted this to be a nice dinner. I wanted us to get to know each other. I only wanted to explain about—”
A cab pulled up and he grabbed the door, holding it for her.
“Oh, just go away!” She was practically snarling.
She yanked her coat out of his hands, got into the cab and pulled the door closed behind her before he could join her. She flounced back against the seat and folded her arms indignantly across her chest.
“Six Twelve Park,” she snapped at the driver.
And then she was silent.
And Mack, left alone in the middle of Hudson Street, with the cars weaving around him, threw his hands into the air and spoke to no one in particular. “What did I do? What’s she so mad about?”
He really didn’t get it.
Was it a guy thing?
Chapter Seven
Bridey needed to calm down and regroup. Slamming the door behind her, slapping her bag angrily onto a chair, glowering fiercely at the hall mirror as she passed it; none of that helped. Anger had been overtaken by anxiety. She kicked off her shoes, plunked herself deep into the pillows of the pale silk sofa and pulled her feet up under her. Silk and Satin jumped up next to her, and she gathered them close for comfort.
“What will I do?” she whispered into Silk’s ear. “If I lose this place, I’ll have to start all over again. I’ll have to find another apartment, go back to a restaurant job, postpone everything while I save my money again. Oh, Silk, everything seemed so perfect.”
The telephone’s ring interrupted her.
As usual, Marge didn’t wait for any greeting. “Can we talk? Are you alone?”
“Of course I’m alone, Marge. What did you expect?”
“Oh, something romantic, I guess. How did your dinner with your uptight friend turn out?”
“Just awful, Marge. Worse than awful. And Mack Brewster is no friend of mine. Just wait till you hear.” She told the whole dreadful story while Marge murmured little gasps of surprise, sympathy and support. “If that man manages to get me out of this apartment, I’m in real trouble. I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“You know you’re welcome to stay with me.”
“You’re sweet, Marge, but that doesn’t solve my problem. Or the cats’ problem, either. But thanks anyway.”
“But it’s so sad,” Marge said, “the way he turned from hero to wicked villain just like that.”
“He was never a hero, Marge, just a good-looking guy who happens to live next door . . . and who also happens to be planning to put me out of house and home. But now at least I understand why he glared at me that first day, like he had something against me before we’d even met. He did have something against me. I was in his way; I was trouble, a nuisance in the way of his plans.” With each word Bridey was making herself madder. “I was just an inconvenient hurdle he needed to jump over. He only took me out to dinner tonight so he could tell me he was planning to get rid of me.”
“Wow, that was real bi
g of him.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” Bridey said sarcastically. By now she was really furious.
“Anyway, did you find out?”
“Did I find out what?”
“Did you learn anything more about him? What’s his business . . . what is he, a lawyer, a politician, an interior decorator? Is he living off a big inheritance? Maybe a playboy with a trust fund? He’s got to be well fixed if he’s got an apartment in that building.”
“I have no idea. It never came up, and I didn’t think to ask. I had other things on my mind. But I’m pretty sure he’s not a decorator,” she said with a little laugh. “There’s nothing at all artsy about him. I can’t imagine him fussing over a bolt of paisley print. Anyway, I can’t worry about that now, Marge. I don’t care if he’s a tinker, tailor, soldier or spy. For me, he’s just trouble. I’m going to have to work at top speed from here on, and right now I have eight cakes to check and a day’s worth of notes to write up.”
“Well, keep me posted. I gotta go now, too. Gotta get my beauty sleep.”
They said good-bye, but Bridey didn’t head for the kitchen right away. Instead, she remained curled up in the corner of the sofa, stroking Silk’s back. There was something deep inside her heart that was stabbing at her painfully, a confusion of anger and anxiety, along with a persistent memory of Mack’s voice, his smile, a sense of his authority that wrapped itself protectively around her.
It made no sense. It made no sense at all.
She let her fingertips feel the reassuring, sensual pleasure of Satin’s responsive movement under her hand as the cat snuggled warmly up against her, purring softly.
Bridey imagined having to leave this wonderful apartment and suddenly realized that in the short time she’d lived here, it had become more than just a wonderful opportunity; she had come to love it for its beauty, its elegance and perfection of taste, for its gracious comfort. Without knowing it, she had allowed it to become her home. Her eyes wandered around the room, as though she needed to store up in her memory each beautiful thing here, the glow of the lamplight on the fine old woods, the silver and crystal objects that decorated the room, the silk upholsteries, the Persian carpets.
And then, and not for the first time, her gaze rested on the portrait of Henrietta Willey that hung above the fireplace. There was something about the portrait that had drawn her, irresistibly, from her first day there, as though it held some special message for her, something loving and magical. The picture had been painted long ago, when Henrietta hadn’t been much older than Bridey herself was now, and in its vibrant, amused expression Bridey could see no resemblance at all to the irascible and reclusive old woman Henrietta had become. The girl in the portrait wore a gown of sea-foam green satin that billowed luxuriously about her, showing off the slim grace of her lithe figure, with a filmy lace stole draped casually off her white shoulders, her long, slim fingers clasping it loosely before her. A cloud of glowing, tawny-blonde hair surrounded her dramatic face, and her expression radiated a lively and gregarious energy and a warmth that invited intimacy. What turn in Henrietta’s life could have soured her into the mean-spirited, isolated woman she’d become?
Even so, I think I would have liked to have known her.
The room was dark beyond the single light next to the sofa, and outside lights sparkled from thousands of windows. They reminded her that there were countless individuals out there, each with their own concerns, each of them unconnected to the other, each untouched by her problems.
She went toward the kitchen, turning on the lights in each room as she passed through.
Two hours later, after recording the results of her day’s work, she was finally ready for bed. It was time to put aside her worries, at least until the morning, and she decided she badly needed some pampering. She logged off her computer and put it to bed for the night.
“A hot bath,” she said to the cats, who were settling into their beds. “A long, bubbly soak in the tub, just the thing to make me forget Mack Brewster and the ASPCA. That and a glass of warm milk.”
But despite a long, relaxing soak in the bubble-filled bathtub, and despite a lavish, all-over application of lotions, the man next door remained on her mind. Even as she snuggled into bed with a magazine and her glass of warm milk, she couldn’t forget him. Her feelings were more complicated than she could understand. Sure, Mack was the heavy in this piece, but still . . . what was it? A feeling of loss that had nothing to do with eighteen rooms and free rent and a fabulous kitchen. What was it about him—was it only his intelligent face, his secure masculinity, his confident, self-assured bearing—she remembered the way the candlelight from the table had softened the rugged planes of his handsome face and added a depth to the texture of his black hair, the way his dark eyes looked into her own . . .
She slammed shut the door on the image.
She turned the pages of her magazine. But her eyes took in nothing of what was on them.
Finally she gave up trying to read. She finished her milk, turned out the light and burrowed her head into the pile of pillows. And in the dark, she realized that Mack Brewster was in the apartment next door, only a few feet away from her.
He, too, she thought, must be in his bed, sleeping nearby, separated from her by only a wall. She wondered what his bedroom looked like. She wondered what he wore to bed—probably an old-fashioned nightshirt, she thought, making herself laugh by adding a floppy nightcap to the image—she wondered if he also drank warm milk before going to sleep, or if he said his prayers, or if perhaps he was thinking of her . . .
She sat up abruptly, grabbed a pillow and threw it hard at the wall opposite her.
“Damn that man!”
Then she slumped down under the covers.
“Damn that man,” she whispered into the dark.
But Mack was not in his bed. For the last hour he’d been sitting in a deck chair on the terrace of his apartment. With Scout sprawled beside him, their two forms concealed by the night, he’d been watching the lights in the windows of apartment 12A. He knew when Bridey finished working in the kitchen and turned out the light, and he could see her shadow behind the drawn curtains of the bedroom windows as she moved about inside, getting ready for bed.
He wasn’t spying on her.
He just couldn’t get her off his mind.
Chapter Eight
It was a cool Monday morning, and Gerald Kinski was just getting out of his topcoat when the intercom on his desk buzzed.
“It’s Miss Berrigan on one, Mr. Kinski.”
He hit the speaker button.
“Morning, Bridey. What’s up?”
He tossed his coat onto the leather sofa, settled into his chair and picked up the receiver. While he talked, he fingered through the stack of weekend mail that was waiting for him on his desk. He frowned as he picked one envelope out of the pile and read the return address. Could this be the reason for her call?
“Would you have a couple of minutes for me to come by this morning?” Bridey was saying. “I need to talk to you.”
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Maybe,” she said. “Would ten o’clock be all right?”
He glanced at his watch. “Sure, Bridey. I’ll be able to fit you in at ten.”
“Thanks, Mr. Kinski. I’ll be there in an hour.”
He waited for the dial tone and then rang his secretary.
“Cynthia, Bridey Berrigan will be in at ten. Give us about thirty minutes. And would you ring Harold Maudsley for me?” He looked at the paper in his hand and read off the phone number to her from the letterhead. “He’s on the Six Twelve Park Avenue co-op board.”
“So, Bridey, what can I do for you?”
Gerry settled back into the depths of his chair and smiled at her. She is such a treat, he was thinking. She brings the springtime in with her.
Her miniskirt was pale green and dotted with tiny yellow buttercups, and her cropped yellow blouse had a row of little buttons marching down the fro
nt. She made him think of a spring flower, just opening up to summer’s sunshine. She carried a darker green jacket and laid that over the arm of her chair.
“Well, Mr. Kinski, I’m not sure how to say this, but I think I have a problem.”
“Yes, you said that when you called. Everything’s okay with the cats, I hope.”
“Oh, sure,” she said nervously. For a moment she thought of confessing to him about Silk’s little adventure at the fish market but decided she’d better not say anything about that. “Silk and Satin are just fine. We’re getting along great. No, it’s about the apartment.”
Gerry nodded his head.
“I know you didn’t make any promises, but I did hope to stay long enough to finish my project. But now something’s come up. I’m worried that this job isn’t going to last much longer. If you can tell me anything, I need to know, because it’s really important to me to be able to finish my work.”
Damn, he thought. News sure travels fast.
“What have you heard?” he asked.
“I met one of my neighbors,” she said. “Mr. Brewster.”
She meant to say no more than was absolutely necessary, so she left out the part about their meeting in the park, their aborted dinner date and his arrogant assumption of his own rectitude—and how his black hair fell in soft waves at the back of his neck, just clearing the top of his shirt collar, and how surprisingly sexy and masculine a man could look in a conservative suit and a casual raincoat . . .
All of that was racing helter-skelter through her head, but she made herself focus on her reason for being there.
“Is it true?” she asked coolly, giving no hint of her distress. “Is the co-op board going to contest the will? Can they do that?”
“Well, it would be unusual, but it looks like they might try.” Gerry picked up the paper from his desk and scanned the list of board members’ names printed on the letterhead. There it was: Mackenzie Haven Brewster. “How do you know Mr. Brewster?”
A Purrfect Romance Page 7