A Purrfect Romance

by Bronston, J. M.

  “And your dad?”

  “Poor guy. Her death hit him awfully hard. For all his toughness, I think he needed her more than anyone realized. His personality changed completely. All that drive and power drained out of him, like he was some poor animal that mates for life and is suddenly alone, and he never recovered from the loss. He died less than a year later.”

  Bridey shook her head sympathetically, and they were both silent for a moment, each caught up in their own memories.

  “I can sort of understand,” she said, “if you feel you need to buy the apartment for his sake, but—”

  “There’s more to it than that,” he said, interrupting her. “After the funeral, when I stood there at his grave, all I could think of was how he’d never see his dream come true. He’d never get to see his family gathered around him, his grandchildren running all around him; he’d never even get to know who they were, how they turned out. It just broke me up. It was like I couldn’t think of anything else. He’d planned so carefully for his retirement years, and now he would never get to have them. I couldn’t stand to see him lose out like that. I couldn’t get it out of my head.

  “But the final straw came when I got home from the burial. I don’t know how it happened, but someone must have brought flowers to the apartment instead of sending them to the funeral home, and I guess they’d been left outside Henrietta’s door by mistake. The thing is, they were all smashed, with broken-off leaves lying around on the carpet, like they’d been thrown forcibly against our door.”

  He paused, and his face turned to granite, as though the scene was still vivid before him.

  “And there was a note,” he continued grimly. “It was stuck on top of the flowers, and it was written on Henrietta Willey’s notepaper, with her name engraved on it. Do you know what it said?”

  He peered intently into her eyes, as though challenging her to read his mind.

  She shook her head.

  “It said, Please keep your damn flowers on your own side of the hall. It was signed H. W.

  “It made me wild. To think she could carry a grudge so far. She must have known my father had been lowered into his grave that very morning, and she couldn’t even respect that. It made me wild,” he repeated. “All I could think was, ‘I’ll get even, you old witch!’ But I knew I was too angry to think sensibly right then, so I waited a few weeks, till I calmed down, and when I did, it came to me that if I could persuade her to sell the apartment, I’d be carrying out my father’s wishes. It seemed to me that in that way, at least, he could have his way this one final time. I felt like I owed it to his memory.

  “So when I figured I was ready to keep a lid on my temper, I came over here to talk to Henrietta. I thought I was being very reasonable and tried to talk calmly with her. But there was no talking to that woman. She was like ice. She said she’d never forgive my father for his impossible behavior, and as far as she was concerned, she’d be glad if every Brewster in the whole world could suffer as she had, and that I would never see the day that her apartment would belong to me. She kept saying, in that imperious way of hers, ‘I’ll see to it! I’ll see to it that you never get this place!’ I guess she’d gotten totally dotty in her old age.” He paused and took a long, slow breath. “So there it is. The whole sad story.”

  “But what could your father have done to make her so angry?”

  “I have absolutely no idea. I guess it will have to remain a mystery. I don’t know why I felt I had to tell you; I’ve never spoken of this to anyone before. Somehow, it just seemed important that you know.” He laughed. “Did you put a spell on me? Did you put something in the chili?”

  “No, I didn’t put anything in the chili.”

  She laughed with him, touched by the way he had opened up to her. But now her own future was tangled up in a web of stubborn old feuds and irrational passions. Why should all this ancient history ruin her own plans?

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, breaking in on her thoughts. “Why don’t we have dessert over on my terrace? You’ve never seen my place, and the view is wonderful at night.”

  The invitation seemed to surprise her, but not as much as it surprised him. What was it about this girl? He’d revealed himself to her as though she were his best friend in the whole world. And now, having done that, when he should get away from her before he got even more entangled, he found he was looking for excuses to stretch out the time with her.

  “I don’t know,” she was saying. “I still have work to do . . .” I should be avoiding you like the plague, you and your mission to take everything away from me, Bridey thought.

  But the cordial mood of the evening was still upon her, and he looked so handsome in the warm light, with his dark hair and his deep, dark eyes, and his secrets, newly revealed.

  “Just half an hour,” he said. “I’ll make the coffee while you check out the view. It’s really wonderful at night, and I like showing it off.”

  “Well,” she heard herself saying, to her enormous surprise, “just half an hour. And I’ll bring the cake.” What am I doing?

  Silk and Satin complained about being left behind, but Bridey was adamant.

  “You guys stay here,” she said, slipping awkwardly through the door, pushing at them with her toes. She was juggling a Sacher torte in one hand and a bowl of whipped cream in the other, while Mack held the door for her. “Take a nap or something.” She barely got through as Mack closed the door against their protests. “All I need,” she said to Mack, as she followed him to his apartment, “is for those two to get lost or something.”

  Whoops! She gulped and felt the telltale flush spread up her cheeks. I shouldn’t have said that!

  Mack glanced at her over his shoulder and their eyes met. The shadow of a smile caught at the corner of his mouth, and a frisson of guilt flashed through her. But if they shared a secret, he wasn’t letting on and, as he held the door for her, she entered his apartment with her chin stuck up in a brave effort to express her defiance.

  Mack’s place was a striking contrast to the spectacular opulence of 12A. The Brewster residence was the picture of solid, lived-in domesticity. Deep chairs and a big sofa, all covered in sturdy fabrics, wore their age with assured dignity. A fine Persian rug covered part of the dark parquet floor, and leather-topped tables sat securely at strategic places around the room. Bookcases covered two whole walls, from floor to ceiling, filled with books that showed the signs of having been really read. Countless framed photos were displayed on the walls and tabletops and, here and there, mixed in with the family pictures, Bridey caught glimpses of well-known faces from the worlds of politics, science, and the arts.

  One picture in particular needed no identification, although the face wasn’t famous. A Bachrach portrait in a large silver frame, next to the sofa, was obviously Llewellyn Brewster, Mack’s father. The similarity, despite the difference in their ages, was unmistakable: the same dark, handsome features, the same set of the jaw, the same air of authority. It occurred to her that if the son took after the father, Mack Brewster would probably age well.

  Bearing the chocolate cake and the bowl of whipped cream, she followed him into the kitchen, which, though small by Willey standards, was entirely serviceable. It showed little evidence of any culinary activity, but Mack set the coffeemaker going with a few expert motions while Bridey cut the cake and dolloped the whipped cream over their portions.

  “Why don’t you go out to the terrace,” Mack said, gesturing toward the French doors that were visible at the far end of the living room. “I’ll bring this stuff out as soon as the coffee’s ready.”

  Alone on the terrace, she surveyed the scene appreciatively. As Mack had said, it was truly huge, and no suburban patio could have been more comfortably furnished, with big lounge chairs set strategically for conversation and skyline viewing. At the center of the terra-cotta-tiled terrace was a large, round, wrought-iron table and a set of matching wrought-iron chairs. Huge planters were filled with shrubbery, along
with pots of flowering plants. A whole bank of magnolia trees in full bloom filled the air with a heady scent.

  She was drawn instantly to the rail-topped wall that ran around the terrace and she went to it to drink in the fabulous view. Resting her arms comfortably on the rail, she marveled at the panorama of city lights that was spread in all its dazzling glory around her. Only then did she realize that the iron railing also separated off the small portion of the terrace that belonged to the Willey apartment. With a shock, she realized that several of the Willey windows, including those of her bedroom, were visible from the Brewster side.

  Omigod.

  From here, anyone could see right into those windows.

  “Looks pretty from up here, doesn’t it?”

  She hadn’t heard Mack come out onto the terrace.

  Startled, she let her attention be drawn away from those confounded windows, and she was captured again by the mesmerizing beauty of the city lights. Mack came around next to her, turned his back to the view, and rested his elbows against the terrace railing. For long minutes, mesmerized himself, his gaze rested on her face as she enjoyed the panoramic view. With her head turned away from him, she seemed to be unaware of him.

  To the south, the sky-rising corporate towers marched like giant glass-and-steel robots down the length of Park Avenue. Along one side of the flower-decorated median, a stream of red taillights flowed endlessly, and on the other side, another stream of headlights flowed back toward them. Traffic lights winked red, then green, and in the distance, over the East River, a plane made its approach to LaGuardia, its wing lights flashing as it moved through the soft night.

  “Yes, the city is lovely from here,” she said quietly, breaking the long silence.

  Mack said nothing, for he himself was entranced. It seemed to him all the loveliness of the city was right there on his terrace. Her lively features were at rest now, but there was an animation, a kind of natural vitality that seemed to flow just below the surface, as though casting a glow from inside. The soft breeze moved gently through her hair, playfully lifting the little curls back from her face, and the terrace lights outlined the edge of her soft cheek, the arch of her slim throat, the warm curve of her delicate mouth.

  Bridey was, of course, totally aware of his attention. How could she not be? Its force was palpable, radiating from him with an almost physical reality. His eyes were on her, only on her, and again, like that day in the park when his leg had touched hers, she responded to the intense, masculine presence of his body close to hers. The air seemed to grow heavier with the scent of flowers, and the traffic sounds below seemed to drift away, disappearing into the magic of the velvety night. And suddenly, she knew—oh yes, she knew—he was going to touch her; how could she not know? It was in the air, a blanket of excitement that had wrapped itself around them, an invisible bond that circled them in warm currents, connecting them inexorably.

  His hand touched her face gently, as though the fingertips had a life of their own, and she turned her head toward him, leaning into that warm, strong hand. Their eyes held each other. She could feel her heart beating; she could feel her lips part slightly, as though she might speak. But there were no words. There was only the sudden thumping in her chest, only the gasp as her breath caught in her throat. And then there was only his mouth, as he bent toward her, moving closer, and then his lips touching hers, so softly, so softly . . .

  Meanwhile, Satin was trying to take a catnap, in peace and quiet, and feeling put-upon by Silk’s antics. What’s gotten into her lately? Ever since this new person’s moved in, Silk has been acting peculiar. Not that she hadn’t always been a little flighty, but her behavior—which he used to find somewhat amusing—has turned downright neurotic. Take this matter of her adventure at the fish market, for example. What well-bred Russian Blue would go larking off to such low-class haunts, consorting with who knows whom, coming home smelling of perch and pike and with her fur all mussed? Scandalous! What would the old lady have said?

  Wonder whatever happened to the old lady?

  And what would she have said if she could see Silk right now, the way she was prowling around, burrowing into cushions and the corners of dark closets? Giddy one moment and irritable the next, picking fights, teasing him when he wanted to be left alone and refusing to play when he was in the mood.

  Satin roused himself from his corner of the sofa, stretched languorously, arched himself up high on his four legs, yawned and then curled up again, with his face toward the back of the sofa, refusing to be bothered by Silk’s incomprehensible irritableness.

  You’d think, with all this new-found energy, she’d be looking thinner than she does. But just look at her: she’s actually getting fat. Dreadful the way some females let themselves go.

  And outside, on the terrace, Bridey was lost in Mack’s arms, lost in the warmth and wonder of his kiss, in the night and the gentle breeze, knowing only the magic of his lips and the electric, pounding current that was surging through her body, making her tremble, making her forget everything, making her want to stay there forever.

  She opened her eyes, and the night and the stars began to spin, slowly at first and then faster. The heady scent of magnolia blossoms wrapped her in a hypnotic veil. She felt the earth slide away.

  Their lips parted, the blood in her veins seemed to boil up from her toes . . . and then everything went black.

  Her knees buckled and she slumped into a dead faint against Mack’s body.

  His arms, already around her, tightened reflexively to hold her upright.

  “Hey, there,” he said. “Bridey! Jeepers!”

  He was totally dumbfounded. No girl had ever fainted at his kiss.

  He bent and caught his arm beneath her knees and lifted her off her feet. In a state of astonishment, he looked around for some place to set her down.

  He headed for his bedroom.

  Bridey’s head was already clearing as he left the terrace. Scout was circling around them with his tail wagging and a puzzled expression on his face.

  “What are you doing? Put me down! Mack, for God’s sake, put me down!”

  “You fainted.”

  He stood over his bed, about to set her down on it.

  “That’s ridiculous! I didn’t faint. I couldn’t have. It was the magnolias.” She was struggling to get out of his arms. “Put me down this minute!”

  She had turned into an awkward and unmanageable bundle, and he set her on her feet. As she stalked from the room, he followed her apologetically.

  “Wait, Bridey.” He caught up with her at the bedroom door and reached for her arm. “Please, Bridey. Please wait.” He tried to stop her.

  “What were you doing, carrying me to your bed?”

  He turned beet red.

  “It’s not like that. Please don’t think . . . I mean, no one ever fainted before . . . I mean, when I kissed them. I mean, dammit, Bridey, I had to put you down somewhere!” His tongue was in a tangle and she was beginning to find his confusion funny.

  “And you just happened to pick your bed.”

  “Well . . .” He realized she was teasing him and began to smile, a nice smile that lit his black eyes with a humorous appreciation of this silly situation. “It’s just that it’s never happened to me before. I never had a girl pass out on me like that.”

  “Well, maybe it’s a sign. Like I’m getting a message that I better go home now.” She headed for his door. “Before I go into a coma or something.”

  “No! Please don’t leave. You haven’t had your coffee. I haven’t had your cake. Please.”

  “Well . . .”

  He rushed to take advantage of her hesitation. “I’ll just pour the coffee. It’ll be good for you. Just what you need to clear your head.” He was already in the kitchen.

  “Well . . .” She followed him halfway, winding up in the living room. “But I’m not going back on that terrace,” she called to him. “Your magnolia trees are deadly.” Sure, she added to herself. It was the magn
olia trees. Oh yeah! She took a couple of deep breaths to steady herself.

  She sat on the sofa and looked around, taking in the masses of books, the pictures, the evidence of a solid, respectable family. On the table next to her there was a telephone and an answering machine. Its light was flashing.

  “You’ve got a message on your machine,” she called to him. She could hear him moving around in the kitchen, cups rattling, spoons being laid out.

  “Would you mind hitting the button?” he called back. “I can hear it from here.”

  “Sure.” She pressed “play.”

  “Mack?” said a man’s voice. “It’s Hal Maudsley here. About eight o’clock, Monday night. Sorry I missed you. Didn’t get your message till late. Just wanted to let you know, I filed those papers already. Don’t worry. We’ll have those cats out of there in a couple of weeks, and then the board can deal with your offer.”

  The message was like a slam against her heart. She looked up and saw Mack standing in the doorway, the tray of coffee cups and cream and sugar in his hands. His mouth was open and his face was the picture of dismay.

  “Uh—”

  Bridey stood up. “Never mind the coffee,” she said sharply. The message had hit her like a sledgehammer, knocking the whole evening out of her head, bringing her own predicament back to center stage.

  Mack was looking down at the tray in his hands as though he couldn’t figure out how it got there.

  “But—”

  “No buts.” She was already in the hallway and paused with her hand on the doorknob of 12B. “I’ve got to finish up my stews for the night. You can keep the cake. This has certainly been an interesting evening. Something to think about.”

  And she slammed the door behind her, hard. The pictures bounced on the walls, and Mack was left there, staring stupidly after her.