Talk is good. Give him a chance.
He was gazing at her, his black eyes exploring her face, waiting for her to continue, and once again her thoughts and feelings tangled up into a knot of confusion. How could it be that she felt something very comfortable about him, something that didn’t square with her anger and resentment?
And Marge’s words kept repeating themselves.
Talk is good.
Maybe she should try. Maybe he would understand.
But what difference would it make? She was nothing to him. How could her dreams be of any importance to a man so obviously accustomed to getting his own way? Her thoughts were all tumbling around in her head and she didn’t know where to start. It takes courage to bare your soul, and Bridey was hardly eager to expose her vulnerability.
And then she really surprised herself; she chickened out. But only temporarily, she insisted to herself.
“Excuse me,” she said, changing the subject abruptly. “I have to stir a pot.”
She got up, and Satin and Silk jumped down from the sofa to follow her.
“Can I come too?”
Mack stood up.
“If you like,” she said, feeling relieved that she’d deflected the immediate problem. Later, she thought.
He signaled to Scout to come along, and they all trooped down the hall to the kitchen, with the cats keeping a nervous distance from the big black dog.
“It smells wonderful,” he said. “It takes me back many years. I can remember when there was always something good going on in this kitchen. We used to be able to smell it from across the hall.” He pointed to the big stockpots bubbling away on the stove. “What are you making?”
“Stews from around the world.” She had picked up a wooden spoon, ready to stir, and used it to indicate each one in succession. “Szekely goulash from Hungary in that one. Doro wat from Ethiopia there. Mexican chili con carne. Swedish beef with capers and beets and egg yolks. Mongolian mutton stew. And a beef bourguignon from France. Can’t have good cooking without something from France.”
“Aren’t they awfully complicated?”
“Not at all. That’s the whole point. Each one can be made easily. And if you make a big pot, you can freeze individual portions. So if you’ve got a family and a busy schedule, the kids can pitch in on a Sunday afternoon, all the cooking for a few weeks is done in one shot and then everyone can go cruise the mall. Saves a ton of money, lets the family do something fun together and then everyone eats like royalty. Of course, you don’t all eat chili or goulash every night. You can mix them up, just pop whichever ones you want into the microwave, and have something different for each person, something different whenever you want, and you don’t have to order in pizza all the time. Even for singles, who are cooking just for themselves, or if friends drop in.”
She was off and running on her favorite subject, and her enthusiasm made her cheeks glow and her eyes light up even beyond their usual sparkle.
“But that’s not the real point of my book. I’m trying to write for an older generation too. I hear so many mothers complaining that their grown-up kids don’t know how to cook at all, that they don’t turn on their ovens from one end of the year to the other, that they can’t even peel a potato. I want them to see how life has changed for young people today, that a salad bar and a packaged sandwich is about all a tired girl or guy can manage after a hard day at the office. I want my book to be broad enough to reach mothers and their daughters. And their sons too. I want—”
He interrupted her. “You’re making me hungry.” He smiled appealingly, like a kid trying to maneuver an invitation.
And Bridey, who couldn’t be mad at anyone in her kitchen, astonished herself by asking, “Have you had dinner?”
The words had popped out before she could stop them. What am I doing? she thought, realizing her words had implied an invitation.
“I’m so glad you asked.” He grinned suddenly at her. “I’ll set the table. Just point me in the right direction.”
This was not at all what she had planned, but the pleasure of sharing her food overcame everything else. She concealed her confusion by bending her head over a pot and lifting the lid to check the contents, letting the savory steam surround her face like a protective shield. She stirred, dipped up a test spoonful and managed to retrieve her cool demeanor.
“Plates there,” she said, putting the cover back on the pot and pointing at one of the cabinets. “Forks there. I’ll get the napkins.”
She sliced several pieces of bread from one of yesterday’s loaves and set them in a basket on the table. She dropped handfuls of lettuce, already washed and waiting in the refrigerator’s crisper, into a salad bowl, tossed in a splash of peanut oil and a spritz of Japanese rice vinegar, added a few dashes of salt and some twists of pepper and gave it all a quick toss. Then she turned on the light that hung above the table and dimmed the big working lights in the rest of the room, creating a soft glow around the little dining table. Twilight was approaching, and outside the kitchen window the birds were beginning to roost in the magnolia trees on Mack’s terrace, singing their day’s last song. Scout settled down near Mack’s feet. Silk and Satin were drinking from their water bowls. The pots were bubbling on the stove.
It feels like a family dinner, Bridey thought.
The sweetness of it hit her in the middle of her chest with a thump, like the impact of a drumbeat.
Meanwhile, several floors below, another neighbor was in serious need of just such a quiet evening at home. Harold Maudsley was already on overload. What with his busy law practice, his heavy-duty social life and his various civic commitments, his days were hectic enough; the additional duties he’d taken on as president of the building’s co-op board made the “honor” more of a hassle than it was worth. Against his better judgment, he’d allowed the board to prevail on him to volunteer for the position because he’d felt an obligation to make his legal expertise available, even though he didn’t really have the kind of time the job demanded. What’s more, his wife was getting tired of hearing him complain about all his co-op problems. He wished he hadn’t let them rope him into the whole thing. He poured his pre-dinner martini and settled heavily into his favorite chair.
“And now here’s Mack Brewster,” he said, looking at her over his newspaper, “after all that table pounding at our last meeting, after all his insisting that there mustn’t be any delay in challenging Henrietta Willey’s crazy will: now here he is all of a sudden calling me to say there’s really no need to rush. I don’t know what’s gotten into the man.”
Harold had been in court all day and hadn’t picked up Mack’s message—along with twenty others—until he’d returned to his office at six o’clock, too late to reach Mack at work. Now, at almost eight o’clock, while they waited for the cook to get dinner ready, it was among the day’s many irritations he was reviewing for his wife.
Vivien Maudsley didn’t even look up from her Vogue magazine.
“Maybe he’s changed his mind about buying the apartment,” she said absentmindedly. She stroked a languid hand along her sleek, ash-blonde hair, careful not to muss its upswept perfection. She couldn’t care less if Mack Brewster moved into 12A or not. “What in the world does he want with that place anyway? It’s much too big for him alone, and he’s already got that perfectly good space next door.”
She sipped her drink and continued her reading, turning the pages with carefully sculptured nails, causing the gold and diamonds on her fingers to flash a most satisfactory light. As far as she was concerned, letting those two stupid cats occupy the residence was outrageous.
“If you ask me,” she added abstractedly as her eye was caught by a spread of the latest from Givenchy, “I think you should just go ahead and get those cats out of there so some real people can move in.”
“Well, that’s just what I’m doing,” Harold said petulantly. “The whole thing is crazy. Leaving all that money and a whole apartment to a couple of pampered pets when
living space in New York is so limited.” His tone was all indignant righteousness, conveniently ignoring the fact that there was no shortage of multimillion-dollar apartments in the city. “Anyway, he was in such a stew about it at the last meeting, I went ahead and filed the papers right away. It’s all been taken care of.” He looked at his watch and then picked up the phone that lay on the end table. “I’ll just give him a call and let him know.”
But he only reached the answering machine at Mack’s apartment, so he left his message and hung up. With that done, Harold Maudsley poured another martini and settled back to read his newspaper in peace. The cook would have dinner ready in about twenty minutes, and he needed the time to wind down from his exhausting day.
And in the kitchen of 12A, Mack’s steely resolve had vanished he knew not where. He’d intended only to make a friendly, neighborly visit, clear up any questions Bridey might have, lay his plans on the line, smooth any ruffled feathers, and then retreat, skirmish won.
Instead, the evening’s magic was working on him, and here he was, enjoying the best dinner he’d had in a long time and feeling an inexplicable need to share with this bright sprite of a girl the whole, long story, a story he’d never told anyone. Perhaps it was the golden light or the quiet of the evening. Perhaps it was the perfect chili. But he didn’t know how to begin. Perhaps he should postpone—
“About the apartment . . .” Bridey’s words interrupted his thoughts.
There it was; he knew he couldn’t put it off.
“Right,” he said. “About the apartment.” He stared into his chili but found no help there. “I was just trying to figure out where to start.”
“Is it so complicated?”
“Oh, yes. It’s very complicated. Henrietta’s crazy legacy. The apartment. The cats. And now . . .”
He came to a stop, distracted by the play of the light on her fine features, the way it shadowed her high cheekbones and gleamed softly along the delicate line of her jaw.
“And now?”
“And now, you,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t expect—” He stopped himself, feeling as if he was about to say more than he meant to, and he covered it up by adding teasingly, “You should have been a dried-up old crone with a wart on your nose.”
“Sorry about that,” she said testily. “I’ve got a few years yet before I get to cronehood. And anyway, warts don’t run in my family.” She took a bite of bread. “But go ahead,” she said. “I’m listening.”
He took a deep breath. “Well, like I said, it’s complicated. It goes back a long way. Ten, twelve years. Maybe more.”
“I don’t get it,” she said. “Satin and Silk can’t be more than a couple of years old.”
“Oh, it has nothing to do with the cats. They were just a handy vehicle.”
“A vehicle? For what? What do you mean?”
“Her way to keep me from getting the apartment.”
“I don’t understand.” Bridey peered intently at his strong features, the determined set of his jaw, the intelligent, thoughtful depth of his dark eyes. She was touched by the way the lines of humor around his mouth softened his air of authority and command. To her surprise, she really liked what she saw: the conservative cut of his wavy black hair, the understatement of his oxford shirt, the perfection of his well-tailored blazer, all expressing the same comforting sense of solidity, of strength and security she’d felt when they’d sat together on that rock in the park.
He doesn’t exactly have pizzazz. She imagined herself reporting the whole thing to Marge. I don’t exactly know how to describe what it is that he does have. But he definitely has something . . .
He had put down his knife and fork and rested his elbows on either side of his plate, locking his fingers together and leaning toward her, pressing his mouth against his hands. The words were so hard to find.
But, finally, he began.
Chapter Ten
“To begin with,” he said, shifting awkwardly in his seat, “the twelfth floor isn’t divided symmetrically.”
“So?”
Why is he starting way out in left field?
“So, apartment Twelve A is very large.” He waved his hand as though to demonstrate. “Eighteen rooms, including guest rooms, library, servants’ quarters.”
“You seem to know it well.”
“I’ve seen the floor plan.”
“You’ve never been in the apartment?”
“Only twice, but never past the living room. The first time was when I was just a kid. But then, after what happened—” He paused. This wasn’t going to be easy.
“What happened?”
“Well, something happened, but I never actually knew what it was. When we first moved into the building, Mrs. Willey was perfectly cordial and neighborly. She even asked my mother to bring me in to meet her husband. She gave me a lollipop. I remember being impressed by her flamboyant manner; Henrietta Willey sure had a very dramatic way about her. She made a big show of everything she did, even if it was just giving a lollipop to a kid. And, as I said, she was quite friendly. She even asked my parents to several of her parties.
“But then, all of a sudden, with absolutely no explanation, she turned into an iceberg. Suddenly there were no more invitations. No more hellos in the elevator. No more anything. I think my mother tried to approach her about it, but when Henrietta Willey froze someone out, they stayed frozen. She was a terrifically headstrong woman and she would never have lowered herself to anything so ordinary as justifying her behavior. We just didn’t exist for her anymore.
“My folks were plenty mad about getting snubbed like that, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Of course, I was just a kid, so all of this went on kind of over my head. But eventually it became just a fact of life: the Brewsters didn’t talk to the Willeys and the Willeys didn’t talk to the Brewsters, and that was that.”
“But what does this have to do with the twelfth floor’s lack of symmetry?”
“Yeah, I guess I kind of wandered there.” He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Anyway, the way it’s laid out, my apartment, Twelve B, is much smaller. I have a huge terrace instead, but the apartment itself has only six rooms: kitchen, living room, dining room, two bedrooms and a maid’s room. Plus three baths. That’s all.”
“So?” Most people would think that’s a lot. Bridey held her tongue.
“Well, my dad had always said that someday, when I was married and had a family of my own, he wanted us all to live close to each other, with the grandkids right next door. He had these dreams—I don’t know, plans, maybe—of being able to take his grandchildren to the park, buying them ice creams at the zoo, reading to them at night. He saw us all as a big extended family, with children all over the place and himself as the patriarch, seeing to it that everything was under his control, done just right.”
A harsh shadow passed over Mack’s face, and there was a hint of old struggles in the lines of determination that deepened around his mouth. He seemed to be looking into hard, old memories, and when he spoke again, something fierce rode beneath the surface of his words.
“And when my dad wanted something, he made sure he got it.”
Bridey couldn’t tell if he was speaking in pride or anger. She remained silent, realizing this was a story with many levels.
“So when Neville Willey died,” he continued, “Dad decided it was a good time to approach Henrietta about buying the apartment so he could take over the whole floor. He figured this place was so big she’d be rattling around in it all by herself. He didn’t see any reason why, even if she had removed us from her guest list, she wouldn’t be willing to consider a good offer. It was a simple business proposition as far as he was concerned. The way he saw it, he’d be doing her a favor.”
“I gather she wasn’t interested?”
“Wasn’t interested?” Mack laughed briefly. “She practically threw him out. She carried on something awful. Mother and I could hear her yelling all the way over i
n our apartment. She was screaming, ‘How dare you!’ at my father. And ‘I’ve never been so insulted. Of all people, of all people! You’re the last one I’d allow to own this apartment! The very last! I’d see you dead before I’d sell to you! How dare you!’ When my dad came back, he was furious. No one spoke to Llewellyn Brewster that way.”
Mack’s face was grim, and he pressed his clasped fists against his lips to restrain the anger the memory evoked. When he finally spoke, his eyes were hard.
“Bridey,” he said intently, “my father was a tough son of a bitch. No one knew that better than I did. But he was also a gentleman of the old school, and he was accustomed to ladies who spoke softly. He wasn’t about to tolerate such outrageous behavior, and he swore he’d never speak to ‘that woman’ again. And from that day on, he never did.”
“You never found out why she was in such a rage?”
“No, I never did. None of us did.”
Mack paused and looked down, frowning at his chili as though it had appeared out of nowhere. Then he sat up very straight, squaring his shoulders.
“In the Brewster family,” he went on, “you stick up for your own. The battle lines were drawn, and from then on we stayed on our own side and left Henrietta alone on hers. I was about eighteen then, and heading off to Annapolis, and I guess I got caught up in my own affairs: finishing school, doing my naval service. I forgot about the whole thing. I had other things on my mind.
“But then,” he continued, “a few years later, my mother died suddenly.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Bridey knew what it meant to lose a parent, and she was instantly sympathetic.
“It was while I was still in the Navy. I got word she’d had a stroke, and by the time I got home from the carrier I was stationed on, she was gone.”
“That’s awful.”
He nodded, and his eyes seemed to lose their gleam momentarily, like he was looking somewhere into the past. “It came suddenly, with no warning at all. She’d been shopping on Fifth Avenue and was just coming out onto the street when it happened.”
A Purrfect Romance Page 9