A Purrfect Romance

by Bronston, J. M.

  Mr. Kinski’s voice relented a bit; he couldn’t help being fond of Bridey, whose appealing nature was a bright spot in his busy life, and he was touched by her obvious remorse. A bit of his customary cordiality returned. What’s more, he was thinking he was hardly in a position to point accusing fingers; he knew he’d been severely remiss himself in allowing the entire situation to have come about in the first place.

  “It’s okay, Bridey,” he said again. “I guess it could have happened to anyone. I’ll have to explain it to my partners, but there’s no legal harm done, I think. But take good care of those pussycats from here on. After listening to Afton Morley, I wouldn’t put it past him to try to do them in. What a creep!”

  “I didn’t dare say it myself,” she said a little timidly, “but I hate to think of someone like that taking over this beautiful place. Mack Brewster would have been bad enough, but Afton Morley is a thousand times worse. He has absolutely no appreciation of what he’s getting. And he is getting it, isn’t he?”

  If Mack was the frying pan, she was thinking, Afton was surely the fire, and between them both, her own concerns were turning into a sizzling crisp.

  “You never know,” Gerry was saying. “The documents seem to be in order, but . . . well, you never know. You just never know. I’m going to go over every word in his papers with a fine-tooth comb. Something might turn up. In the meantime, you just hang in there, Bridey, and whatever you do, keep an eye on those cats. After all, we’re going to have a little family soon.”

  Bridey hung up and took a long, slow breath.

  So she wasn’t in trouble with Mr. Kinski after all. Thank God! At least one fire had been put out.

  Her racing heart was slowing down to normal speed and she could feel the blood returning to her face. She turned to Silk, who was again circling the room, looking for something.

  “Do you think you might manage to behave yourself from now on?”

  Silk ignored her. She was busy with her own concerns.

  “Now I understand why you’ve been so peculiar lately. And why you keep prowling around like that. Little mother! You’re looking for a place to make a nest for your babies.”

  Silk continued prowling.

  Satin came into the room, watched Silk’s nervous peregrinations for a moment and then walked out again. Women, he seemed to be saying. Bridey thought he’d be glad when this was over and she was back to normal.

  Bridey knew only one remedy for trouble; she forced herself back to work, and the rest of the afternoon passed quietly. The cats went about their own affairs, the skies stayed gray and leaden and the whole city seemed to recede into a distant, thoughtful self-preoccupation. The traffic noises that floated up from the streets below were muffled by the heavy air, and by dinner time Bridey’s work on her fast-food chapter, Salad Bars and Other Lifesavers, was completed.

  She stowed her notes, closed the computer down and prepared to make the cats’ dinner. Satin stayed close to her while she got their evening meal ready, rubbing hungrily against her ankles, but Silk was nowhere in sight.

  “Where’s Silk?” she asked him as she set the bowls on the floor. “Doesn’t she want her dinner?”

  Satin couldn’t care less. He was interested only in scarfing down the ground liver that filled his bowl.

  “Silk?” she called. “Silk, your dinner’s ready. Where are you, sweetie?” But no little Silk came running into the room. “Am I going to have to go hunting for you?” she called.

  There was no response.

  Bridey poured some milk into a bowl and set that down, too.

  “Come on, little mother. Milk’s good for you. You’ve got your babies to think of now.”

  Still no sign of Silk.

  “Well, if that’s how you feel, don’t come crying to me when your teeth fall out and your bones melt.”

  Bridey felt confident that nature would take its course and Silk would show up for her dinner soon enough. She carried a bowl of veggies, a raisin-ginger scone and a Diet Coke into the family room, set a Netflix movie into the DVD player and settled down, determined to spend a couple of relaxing couch-potato hours with Audrey Hepburn and an entranced Humphrey Bogart to settle her disturbed spirits. In a little while, Satin came in to join her, curling up by her side to sleep while she watched her movie.

  Maybe the film was too trivial to hold her interest. Or perhaps she had too much to think about. Her mind kept being drawn to the apartment across the hall, and she found herself wondering if Mack was at home. Or still at his office? Was his Burberry hanging in the closet, too warm for this spring day? Did he have a plan for dealing with Henrietta’s long-lost relative?

  Afton Morley’s boorish presence still hung heavily over the apartment, as though his uncaring touch and unappreciative eye had set everything awry. Bridey found herself seeing his ham-handed intrusiveness through Henrietta’s disapproving gaze, and a wave of protectiveness swept through her.

  She knew Mack would do whatever he could to keep the Morleys from becoming his neighbors. But what good would that do her? In any case, she’d be the loser.

  The dreadful prospect of either of them—Mack or Afton—dismantling the careful design and order of these rooms, selling off all the carefully acquired pieces of silver and crystal, the works of art, the fine fabrics that filled these rooms, was unbearable. More than ever, Bridey was identifying with Henrietta’s wishes, wanting to keep this lovely place intact, wanting to preserve it in accordance with the woman’s plan.

  By now, she’d totally forgotten the video.

  What would Henrietta have done if she could have anticipated the appearance of Afton Morley and his pumpkin of a wife? Surely she would have written her will in a way that would have blocked him from succeeding to the property, just as she had tried to block Mack.

  Bridey could imagine Henrietta’s fury. She could picture those green eyes flashing, the outraged toss of that elegant head, the imperious voice issuing her commands to her lawyers. If Henrietta Willey had been willing and able to intimidate so worldly and forceful a man as Llewellyn Brewster, what would she have done to Afton Morley? She’d have chopped him up for cat food!

  And speaking of cat food, had Silk come out of her hiding place and eaten her dinner?

  A twinge of guilt shot through Bridey’s curled-up, comfortable body. After her confession to Gerald Kinski of her failure to protect Silk from her own waywardness, she felt an invisible finger poking at her conscience. She ought to be especially watchful to be sure the adventurous cat wasn’t getting into any more trouble. She’d better go check on her.

  She picked up the remote and turned off the movie. Satin shifted his sleek form as she got out of her chair and rearranged himself into its deep cushion. He hadn’t found the movie terribly amusing and had settled himself into a pleasant postprandial nap. He was just as glad that Bridey had removed the distraction.

  Bridey went into the cats’ dining room. Silk’s bowls of liver, milk and water were untouched.

  “Silk?” she called. “Where are you?”

  There was no answer. No newly plump form came running into the room.

  “What are you up to now?” she said to the empty air. A chill of apprehension caught at her, running a thin, cold trail up her back. “Are you getting me into more trouble?”

  She went into the living room, looked around, saw no sign of Silk. She went to the window and looked out onto the balcony to see if the cat had taken up her outpost there, from which she so often observed the passing scene, indulging her own exotic fantasies. But there was no Silk there either.

  She went into the library, she went into Neville’s bedroom she checked her own bedroom, where Silk sometimes curled up against the mass of pillows that rested against the rosewood headboard. But there wasn’t any evidence that the cat had been there, not so much as a warm dent in the down-filled comforter. She walked through the dressing room, pushing hangers aside and peering in among the shoes, opening drawers and poking around in them, a
s though she might find Silk snuggled in among her panties and bras. Still no Silk.

  “Oh, come on now. This is getting spooky, Silk. Stop playing games. I know you’re here somewhere.”

  She reviewed the day. Silk had definitely been there earlier, when everyone had left. And the door to the apartment hadn’t been open since then.

  “You’ve got to be around.” But still it was quiet, as quiet as it had been all afternoon.

  Bridey went into Henrietta’s sitting room and turned on the light. More than any other room in the apartment, this must surely have been Mrs. Willey’s favorite. It was here that she wrote her letters, at a small leather-topped, Georgian writing table whose shallow drawers were filled with her engraved notepaper and formal letterhead. A brass desk lamp cast a warm glow over the chintz-covered chairs and the low, book-filled cases. It was here, with Silk and Satin at her feet, that Henrietta must have entertained her closest friends, back in the days when she still had close friends, and it was here that she must have enjoyed the knitting and sewing she did, unbeknownst to the rest of the world, which relaxed and amused her. In front of a small upholstered armchair—a Victorian piece covered in a William Morris print—a footstool rested, its fabric needlepointed, and at the chair’s side was a large covered basket filled with knitting yarn, patterns, scraps and remnants of fabric. The basket’s cover lay slightly askew, tipped over, perhaps, when the maid was cleaning, and Bridey bent to replace it.

  Her eye was caught by the tiniest of movements inside the basket, as though a piece of velvet had shifted its position, perhaps stirred by Bridey’s move to put the cover back in place. As though, but not quite. She was sure she hadn’t moved the basket, and the fabric couldn’t have moved by itself. Bridey stared at it and it shifted again, ever so slightly.

  She pushed the piece of fabric to one side. And sure enough, a soft face looked up at her, the points of two gray-blue ears poking up from the layers of cloth. Silk shook her head and sneezed.

  “So there you are! Making a nest when you should be eating your dinner.” She lifted Silk up. “Let’s get you out of there.”

  But Silk didn’t want to come. Her claws dug into the surrounding remnants and dragged a few out with her, hanging like irregular little flags beneath her.

  “Come on now, Silk! Don’t make a mess of Mrs. Willey’s basket. Let it go. You’re going to rip it.” Gently, she untangled the cloth from Silk’s unwilling claws, holding the squirming cat aloft and ignoring her protests as bits of fabric were scattered about. “I know you think this would make a wonderful place to have your babies, but I don’t think Mrs. Willey meant this basket to be a maternity ward. Come on now!”

  She finally got Silk detached from the trailing pieces of cloth and sat back to survey the upheaval that had been wrought. Everything was in a multicolored pile, a soft mass of prints and tweeds and linens. Knitting needles had tumbled out in the confusion, and scraps of taffeta and lengths of yarn were draped over the basket’s edge.

  “Honestly! Look what a mess you made.” Bridey knelt beside the basket and picked up a piece of blue-and-white crewel, shaking it accusingly at Silk. “Now I’m going to have to sort all this out and fold it up again.”

  She lifted the remaining layers of cloth out of the basket and started rearranging them.

  But something lay at the bottom of the basket.

  A notebook, cloth covered, with a gold pen attached to it by a silk cord.

  She opened it.

  And read the words on the first page.

  March 17, 1999

  Dear Diary—

  Bridey lifted her eyes from the page abruptly and shut the book.

  She looked around the room quickly, as though afraid someone had seen her.

  Henrietta Willey’s own words! Written in her own hand! Here was a chance to look into the heart of this remarkable, self-centered and eccentric woman whose extraordinary life had drawn Bridey’s into its own purposes.

  But Bridey knew there is one thing you never do: you never read someone else’s diary.

  Never!

  But—not even if the writer is no longer alive?

  Well. . .

  She was torn. It couldn’t hurt, could it? No one would ever know. Maybe just the tiniest peek, just the first page—

  She half-expected lightning to strike right through the ceiling. But she opened the book again.

  Dear Diary—The book is done! I can’t believe it, after all these years, I finally finished it. Nanna would have been so proud.

  Henrietta’s handwriting, though it suggested the copperplate style of another time—gracefully elegant and firm, the mark of good breeding and careful schooling—nevertheless sprawled flamboyantly across the page. She wrote with a broad, felt-tipped pen, and dashes and exclamation marks were strewn liberally throughout, an expression of Henrietta’s characteristic self-centeredness.

  Bridey felt like a clod, intruding on another’s private journal, but once started, she couldn’t stop herself. She went on reading.

  And Mama, too. She always said something should be done to preserve all these treasures, and now I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it! Mama didn’t think she was clever enough—poor Mama—she never did value herself sufficiently. She always said it would have to be up to me. Because I am [heavily underlined] clever enough! And now I’ve done it—I’ve actually written a whole book! But I could never have been so bold if it hadn’t been for my darling Neville. His encouragement, his faith in me, his willingness to give me the time, without complaining—oh, my dear Neville, what would I do without you?

  Bridey closed the book again, embarrassed to have stumbled so crassly into Henrietta’s privacy.

  But the diary’s lure was too great. She couldn’t resist. She opened the diary again.

  And now it’s time, of course—time to get my book out there for all the world to enjoy! And who could know more about the subject than Yours Truly! Oh, my dear, dear diary—it feels so nervy. But,—as my darling Neville says—I’ve never been shy, heaven knows! But writing a book feels so revealing, such an opening of one’s heart to public display. And what if the public finds that what’s there is nothing more than the mediocre meanderings of a very ordinary and uninteresting person.

  But no! [Again, heavily underlined] Banish that thought this instant, Henrietta! I, who have lived all over the world? I, who have been fortunate to be exposed to every significant event of my time, every important person of this century? Ordinary? Uninteresting? Never!

  Oh, and I do so want to see my words in print. Actually in print!

  Well, that’s the next step. Wish me luck!

  Bridey couldn’t stop herself. She had to learn more. But she never expected what was revealed on the next page, across the top of which was scrawled the title:

  The Henrietta Lloyd Caswell Willey

  Book of Good Eating

  followed by Henrietta’s approving comment,

  There! Doesn’t that look utterly lovely?

  Bridey gasped.

  Henrietta had written a book about food.

  There were tingles up and down her spine and her very hair seemed to crackle with electricity, as though the writer’s presence had wafted into the room, emphasizing the startling coincidence.

  She needed a moment to adjust to the diary’s remarkable revelation, to catch her breath, to debate with herself: should she go on reading? Was she somehow meant to go on reading? Did Henrietta want her to go on reading?

  If ever she’d felt a bond with the departed Mrs. Willey . . .

  Of course she couldn’t stop herself. Who could?

  Bridey took a deep breath. Silk curled up next to her, for she quite approved of the whole thing. As Bridey opened the book again, Silk peered into her face, urging her on. With one soft paw, she patted the page, placing a stamp of approval there.

  “Okay,” Bridey said aloud. “Here goes. And if I get into trouble, it’s your fault, Silk. If you hadn’t hidden in that basket . . .�
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  She rearranged herself comfortably on the carpet with her back against the chair and settled down to read, the tangle of fabric around her quite forgotten.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sunday evening, March 21, 1999

  Dear Diary—

  Didn’t sleep a wink all last night—I was so excited. Thought long and hard and finally, I’ve decided! I’m going to ask Llewellyn Brewster to publish my book. Isn’t it lucky, my dear? One of New York’s most distinguished publishers—oh, the gods must be smiling on me—to have put the Brewsters right here on my very same floor! They seem to be a nice enough couple, well-bred and good company. Mrs. B is rather quiet but very pleasant, and her husband is charming—though dreadfully opinionated—but then, I never do mind a forceful man, so much more interesting, and at least he’s a gentleman. And their boy has been no trouble at all. Most teenagers set my teeth on edge, but young Mackenzie is quite acceptable. Well behaved—not like so many children these days who have no manners at all—doesn’t anyone teach their children anything anymore? But this one has been well brought up—a credit to his family. Nice looking, too—he’ll be quite a catch some day!

  Now, my dear diary, how shall I plan my little campaign? The Harmons are coming to dinner on the 1st—that should be a good opportunity—Jack is just back from the Middle East and will have all the news, and Edith has the good sense to let him do all the talking for both of them—and I’ll ask Mimsy and Buff Nichols—their house in the Hamptons is being remodeled so they’ll be in town, Buff is always good company, and if Mimsy just doesn’t get off on her darling twins, God!—that woman can be such a bore when she starts gushing on and on about her babies’ latest “phase”—does she really think it’s so remarkable that they actually sit up in their cribs and crawl across the floor all by themselves? I’m sure there are absolutely thousands and thousands of babies sitting up and crawling all over the world right at this very minute. I’m sure, my dear, if I’d ever had any children I would never have made such an everlasting fuss over them. Such a bore! But I suppose Mimsy waited so long to have them, now she thinks they are some sort of marvels, straight from heaven. I’ll just have to steer all conversation away from the subject of children, at least till after dinner.