A Purrfect Romance

by Bronston, J. M.

  And then, after the coffee, when Neville is serving liqueurs, that will be my chance. I’ll just quietly get Mr. Brewster off by himself—into the library—and I’ll tell him about my book. Then I’ll give him the manuscript and ask him to publish it. I just know he’ll be happy to do it. After all, isn’t that what friends are for?

  And why shouldn’t he be happy to have it? I mean, it’s not just an ordinary cookbook. I’m sure there can’t possibly be another like it—so many wonderful stories from all the countries where Neville was posted—Austria, Malaysia, Argentina—mixed right in with marvelous recipes from Mama and Nanna Lloyd—handed down for generations—and all the wonderful cooks I’ve had—

  Thursday, April 1

  I’m so excited, I can’t wait for tomorrow to come! I’ve asked Jean-Claude to do his wonderful salmon mousse for dinner tomorrow. And a good Chablis to go with it. What do you think, dear diary—would it be de trop to serve that wonderful Les Preuses we picked up in Burgundy on our last trip? 1970 was such a good year for Burgundy whites. And this is a very special occasion! Or is that putting it on a bit thick? Well, I’ll leave that up to Neville, the wine is his department—he’s so much more sensitive than I am about such matters.

  So, the mousse and a Chablis. That, and a salad—greens only, I think—with Jean-Claude’s lovely vinaigrette—he does it so well, with just a hint of dried curry—just the barest hint—don’t want to overwhelm the mousse. And a dacquoise for dessert—absolutely my favorite! I’ll leave the rest of the menu up to Jean-Claude—but he must make those darling little Austrian dinner rolls.—no one in New York can touch him when it comes to breads—

  And then, when we have his tummy well-pampered, Llewellyn Brewster should be in a properly benign and receptive mood. N’est-ce pas, dear diary? Oh, my dear! I can’t wait! This is so exciting!

  Friday, April 2, 1999—A most special day!

  My little cockleshell has been set on its way out into the big world! I am so excited, I can barely write these words.

  Llewellyn has taken my precious manuscript!

  The dear man—he was so surprised—there he was, liqueur in one hand and my heavy tome—almost 400 pages, for goodness’ sake—in the other! Let me tell you all about it, my dear, dear diary.

  I waited until after dinner—which was perfect, by the way!—the Les Preuses was awfully good, with that very faint flintiness, just right with the mousse, dear Neville always chooses so well!—and I let everyone get settled down with their liqueurs. Mimsy was just bursting to tell us about some new marvel her darlings had performed—teething, I think (what in the world is so remarkable about a couple of teeth showing up in babies’ gums—they all do it, don’t they?)—and I knew that was my perfect opportunity to rescue Llewellyn, so I drew him away from the others into Neville’s library, sat him comfortably in Neville’s leather chair and then proceeded to charm him with the history of the Lloyd women—wonderful cooks, every one of them. What incredible lives they had!—pioneer women—and talented artists, too (though none of them ever achieved fame—unappreciated in their time, I’m sure!)—and all beauties!—and of course, I included myself, who has been fortunate enough to have lived all over the world—and Llewellyn was most kind—a dear man—though perhaps he was a bit fuddled by the wine. He took my manuscript and said he’d be sure to read it.

  Oh, my dear, dear diary. It will be so exciting to see my book in print—I must be sure to send a signed copy to the Chadwicke Club, for the library. Roselynn Wyatt will be livid!—oh, là!—poor thing, now she won’t be the only member with a published book to her credit—such trash she writes, anyway—do her good to have a little competition—

  I can’t wait for Llewellyn’s call!

  Monday, April 12

  No word from Llewellyn yet. How long can it take the man to read one itty-bitty little book? Really!

  Friday, April 16

  Another week has passed and LB still has not called me. I’ve tried to catch him in the hall, but he seems to have vanished! I know they’re not at their country place. I was leaving for the Philharmonic concert this afternoon, just as young Mackenzie was coming home from school. Well, as casually as I could, I asked if his mama and papa were away, but he said no and I couldn’t very well pry, could I? So I just had to get into the elevator and leave him—I suppose to his milk and cookies. Nice young man. Nice manners.

  Friday, April 23

  One can’t clutch at people, of course—but really, you’d think he’d have been in touch with me by now—could I be blamed if I just dropped him a note, do you think? But no, I mustn’t press, it wouldn’t do. But really!—the man must read as slowly as a dim-witted second-grader. I can’t think how such a slow reader can be in the publishing business. But they do say it’s a very reputable house—one of the oldest in New York. And his father was a member of the Cortlandt Club, so he must be all right. But really, my dear diary, this waiting is so hard. I am chewing my nails up to the elbow.

  Which reminds me—did SherriLynn remember to schedule my manicure? I must call her.

  Saturday, April 24

  Still no word.

  Sunday, April 25

  Dreary Sunday. Maybe I shouldn’t expect any word on the weekend.

  Monday, April 26

  Still no response from Llewellyn. This waiting will kill me!

  April 27

  Oh, my dear, dear, dear diary. I am devastated! ! ! I just can’t believe—how could he? After eating at my table!!!! After drinking Neville’s beautiful Chablis!!! I’m so angry, I could spit!!!!! No, I’m so angry—I can’t think what I could do!

  My manuscript was returned today. It came in the mail and I was so excited, I didn’t even open the package at first. My heart was pounding and I had to have Louise bring me a cup of tea first, here in my sitting room. I locked my door. I drank my tea. I did a couple of Dr. Gupta’s meditation exercises. (A fat lot of good it did me!) And then I opened the package.

  There was only the briefest of cover letters and I will copy it here exactly. It said: “Henrietta, I’m returning your manuscript. We don’t do this sort of book. Perhaps you would find a better home for it at one of the other publishers. I wish you good luck with it. Llewellyn Brewster.”

  How dare he!!? No more than those few pitiful, mealy-mouthed, spineless words. And not one of them tells me he even read my book. Not a single word about all the wonderful stories—didn’t even notice the wonderful section on that time the Embassy was taken over by terrorists and Neville was held hostage for seventeen days until we sent in a rescue plan hidden in my famous terrine de canard. Wouldn’t you think Llewellyn would be just dying to publish a book like that? Full of such stories! And every one of them true!

  The nerve of the man! How dare he! How dare he eat at my table and refuse my book?!!!

  I’ve spent the whole afternoon crying. Whatever shall I say to Neville when he comes home tonight? I look a fright. I shall have to call SherriLynn to do something with my face before 6:00.

  Oh, my dear diary, I swear I shall never forgive Llewellyn Brewster as long as I live! Never! I mean it—I swear—I shall never again speak to him—not to him, not to his wife—not ever to any of them. Never!! Never!!!!!

  Chapter Fifteen

  The diary fell out of Bridey’s hands and slid down her lap and onto the floor. If she had been struck by lightning, the effect couldn’t have been any more electrifying.

  “So there was nothing more to it than that.”

  Her voice was a whisper in the silent room.

  “The whole crazy feud was simply because Mack’s father rejected Henrietta’s book. Wait till I tell him. It was nothing more than that.”

  Silk climbed into her lap, and Bridey stroked her fur absentmindedly while her thoughts returned to the diary.

  “How foolish Henrietta was to be so angry just because her book wasn’t accepted by the first publisher she gave it to. Why, she was lucky he even looked at it, wasn’t she, Silk?”

&n
bsp; Silk stuck out a tiny pink tongue and licked a paw, apparently agreeing.

  “She should have known better. A book often has to go to several publishers before it gets accepted. Surely she knew that. And if she’d done just a little bit of checking before she approached him, she’d have found out his firm didn’t publish cookbooks.

  “But then, to have carried a grudge that way, to the grave. Even beyond the grave. To have caused so much trouble, and for such a silly, vain, high-handed reason.”

  She picked up the diary again and reread those last words.

  I swear—I shall never again speak to him—not to him, not to his wife—not ever to any of them. Never!! Never!!!!!

  “Did she think Llewellyn Brewster owed it to her to publish her book? Just because he was her neighbor and had eaten at her table? Just because she was accustomed to a life of indulgence and privilege and special favors. And then, did she not even try to talk to him about it?”

  But Bridey already knew the answer to that question. As headstrong and stubborn and self-centered as Henrietta Willey was, once her mind was made up, there would have been no further discussion.

  “Oh, I can’t wait till Mack hears about this.”

  She felt a tingle in her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose, a little like the feeling she got when the vinegar in a salad dressing was too strong.

  “Of course, that means confessing that I read Henrietta’s diary. Do you think he’ll be scandalized?”

  Silk snuggled into Bridey’s lap, and Bridey took that for reassurance. Silk would have done the same thing, for sure.

  Now she was glad she’d agreed to see him again. Really glad.

  “I brought the cats along. Will that be all right?”

  She had arrived right on time, bearing a bowl of crispy hot French fries.

  “Of course,” Mack said. He was struggling to hang on to a bottle of wine and two glasses in one hand as he held the door for her with the other. “I was expecting them. Come on in.”

  She was bursting to tell him her news, but she was determined to wait for the right moment, and the effort added an extra measure of excitement to her usually lively manner. Mack had been expecting her to be cool and cautious, but instead he saw the heightened sparkle in her green eyes and the charming flush in her cheeks, the air of animation that danced all around her. In her bright miniskirt and skimpy little top, her slim form seemed especially fragile and feminine, and he felt his heart make a hot thump in his chest. The spicy fragrance of her hair distracted him as she passed him, entering the foyer of his apartment, and made a cloud of confusion in his head. For a moment he forgot the glasses in his hand, and it wasn’t until she held up the bowl of fries and said, “Where do you want me to put these?” that he remembered why she was there.

  “Oh,” he said, recovering his wits and waving the glasses and the wine vaguely. “Outside, on the terrace.”

  He led her to the terrace, where the table was already set in a bizarre mixture of picnic casual and banquet formal. The tablecloth was the traditional red-and-white check, but the napkins were fancy double damask. The silver was hand wrought, the plates were paper. The buns were still in their cellophane wrap, but next to them was a crystal bowl filled with ketchup. A tiny, rose-patterned silver ladle stuck up out of the ketchup, its ornate design gleaming in the late afternoon light that bathed the terrace in gold as the sun dropped over the Hudson River.

  Bridey laughed at the odd display.

  “I was torn,” Mack said. “I couldn’t decide whether to make this an informal barbecue or go all out to impress you. Seems I got stuck somewhere in between.”

  He already had a platter of raw burgers ready to be grilled, including some tiny ones for the cats, and after offering her a choice of beer, Coke or wine—she chose the wine—he was ready to start them going. She set the bowl of fries on the table. Dishes for Silk and Satin were waiting next to Scout’s, and the two cats did their usual cat thing, examining every corner of the terrace for potential hiding places, while Scout watched them eagerly, like a proud host happy to show off his home to new visitors. He’d never had guests of his own before and was on his very best behavior. “They seem to be getting along pretty well, don’t you think?” Mack said as he prepared to cook the hamburgers.

  “Like old friends.”

  “And how do they like their hamburgers,” Mack asked, “rare, medium or well done?”

  “Medium rare.”

  “And you?”

  “Very rare,” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  He laid the raw meat over the hottest part of the coals.

  “I’ve got an apology to make,” he said as he tended the burgers, which started to sizzle immediately, their aroma rising invitingly into the air. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. I shouldn’t have teased you about letting Silk get out that night. It seemed kind of funny at the time, and it didn’t take a lot of IQ points to figure out what was bouncing around in your bag. That and the look on your face: trying so hard to be cool and looking so scared at the same time.”

  “You’re right about that. I was plenty scared.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I don’t really know. She must have slipped into my bag when I wasn’t looking and then slipped out again down at the fish market. I was there for almost an hour, and apparently she had herself a high old time during that time. The amazing thing is that she turned up just as I was ready to leave. It was such a coincidence. I looked up and there she was, cool as you please. She jumped into my bag like it was her taxi home. If I’d left the market a minute earlier, I’d have totally missed her. And what’s even scarier, I wouldn’t have realized till hours later that she wasn’t in the apartment, and then she could have been gone for good. I wouldn’t have had a clue where to look for her.”

  “Are you always so lucky?”

  Bridey laughed. “My grandma used to say I carry a guardian angel on my shoulder. And I certainly did that time. But I’ve been feeling guilty ever since, and I hated having to lie to Mr. Kinski about it.”

  “You feel better now that the secret’s out?”

  “I sure do.” She lifted her glass in a kind of toast and said, “I have to thank you for not giving me away.” And then, as he raised his spatula in acknowledgment, she added, “I know another secret.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mmmm.” She savored the moment. “It concerns you. And it’s a biggie.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “A real biggie?”

  “Oh, you bet!”

  He put the burgers into the buns, slipped them onto the plates and brought them to the table.

  “Maybe I’d better sit down.”

  “Maybe you’d better.”

  She smiled knowingly at him, looking disarmingly nonchalant and drawing out the moment as long as she could.

  “I’m sitting,” he said.

  She carefully spooned some ketchup out of the crystal bowl and dropped it in globs on her hamburger. She laid a slice of raw onion over that and covered it all up with the toasted bun top. Then she reconsidered, removed the onion and set it at the edge of her plate.

  You never know . . .

  She laughed to herself as she noticed that Mack was doing the same thing.

  “Okay,” he said at last, preparing to take a bite of his hamburger. “I’m ready.”

  “I found out why Henrietta Willey was so mad at your family.”

  Mack paused with his hamburger in midair. His mouth, opened to receive it, had forgotten its job and remained agape, making him look a little foolish, and he stayed that way while she told him about her discovery of the diary and its revelations. Many heartbeats passed as he took in the full significance of her news. Then he replaced his burger on his plate and closed his mouth.

  “I don’t believe this,” he said incredulously.

  “Well, believe it.”

  “You mean to tell me that all those years, all that insane hostility of hers was based o
n nothing more than my father’s rejection of her cookbook? That’s crazy!”

  He got up and walked over to the edge of the terrace and looked down for a minute. Then he raised his eyes, as though to heaven, turned back to Bridey and lifted his hands in a gesture of exasperation.

  “We don’t even publish cookbooks. Surely she must have understood that.”

  “Well, your father’s note was a little brusque. Maybe if he’d been a little more tactful—spoken to her personally . . .”

  “Nonsense! She was just a spoiled, self-centered woman. Expecting to have her hand held, thinking the world owed her favors—”

  “That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?” Bridey found herself rising to Henrietta’s defense. “She was a first-time author and she’d put her heart and soul into her manuscript. That’s a very vulnerable experience, something totally new for someone like Henrietta. Surely your father had dealt with enough writers to have understood that. And he could have told her right off that it wasn’t his kind of book without putting her through weeks of suspense. He must have known what torture the waiting would be for a writer. I think it was heartless of him.”

  Mack’s dark eyes flashed angrily. “You can’t talk about my father that way. You didn’t even know him. And what makes you think writers need such coddling? Writers are accustomed to rejection. That’s part of the writing game. And anyway, no offense, Bridey, but cookbooks just aren’t in the same class as the kind of work we handle at Harmon and Brewster. If Henrietta had done her homework, she would have known we publish serious, scholarly nonfiction. You would know that, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t ask me, for example, to publish your book. I’m sure it’s a fine book and all that, and cookbooks serve a valid purpose, I suppose, but after all, we do have very high standards.”