A Purrfect Romance

by Bronston, J. M.

  “What’s up?” Marge asked.

  “He wants us to get all this stuff together and bring it down to his office right away. He says he wants to look at it carefully, and if it looks authentic, he can put his staff on it first thing in the morning to get it all documented. He says it shouldn’t be too difficult to find the necessary records: certificates of birth, marriage, that kind of thing. Oh, Marge, look! My hands are shaking.” She put her hand on her chest. “My heart’s going so fast, I think it’s going to pop.”

  “Not yet, sweetie. We’ve got to get cracking.” Marge was already on her hands and knees, making neat piles of all the papers and photos, packing them into the file box. “Can I go, too?”

  “Are you kidding? Don’t leave me for a minute! Someone’s got to hold my hand.”

  In twenty minutes they’d gathered all the evidence, sealed up the box, straightened things up and were ready to leave.

  Bridey wasn’t ready for any more surprises on this most extraordinary evening, but just as she opened the door, there was Mack, his hand upraised, about to knock.

  “Bridey?” he said, astonished to see her. His hand dropped slowly. “I know it’s late, but I couldn’t sleep, and I saw the light on in your kitchen so I knew you were still up. I have to talk to you—” His eyes went to the big storage box she was just lugging up from the floor. Then he saw Marge. “But I didn’t realize—”

  He did indeed look sleepless, with a kind of intensity burning in his eyes and a rumpled air that was quite uncharacteristic of him, as though he’d just passed through a whirlwind. His hair was uncombed, he needed a shave and he seemed to have just tossed on the handiest clothes: jeans, a casual shirt, no socks, just a pair of worn Top-Siders. But to Bridey, who was in a whirlwind of her own, the arrival of Mack at her door at that very moment served to ease her disheveled state of mind. To her surprise, while she could remember thinking she’d never talk to him again, all her anger suddenly evaporated, and she felt as though a platform, rock solid and steady, had just been slipped beneath her feet. She looked into those dark eyes and found she was eager to tell him about their uncanny discovery. No, more than eager; she needed to tell him.

  “This is my friend, Marge Webster,” she said, nodding her head in Marge’s direction. Having taken in the situation, her friend had closed the door behind her and slithered past Mack and Bridey to ring for the elevator.

  “And you,” Marge smiled wickedly, “must be Mack, the cute guy next door.” She was eyeing him up and down, taking in the handsome face, the good body, the casual appearance, the bit of beard stubble. “I’ve been hearing about you.”

  She grinned at Bridey, who glared back at her furiously and colored violently, right to the roots of her bright hair.

  Mack also colored.

  “I can imagine. Here,” he said, turning to Bridey and taking the awkward box out of her hands. “Let me help you with that. I’ll put it on the elevator for you.” He paused, searching for the right words. Marge’s presence had thrown him off stride, but there was so much he needed to say, he decided to go for it. “Will you be gone long? If I don’t get to talk to you tonight, I’m not going to be able to sleep.”

  “Why don’t you come along?” Bridey said. She was eager to have him with her. “I could use a support group tonight.”

  Mack’s eyebrows rose. “What’s happening?” he asked, just as the elevator arrived. “I hadn’t expected to find you going out at this hour.”

  “Just wait till you hear,” she said as she nodded to Sandor. “I’ll tell you about it in the cab.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ten minutes later, it was a stunned Mack who needed to be told that the cab had arrived at its destination. He’d forgotten why he’d been driven, helplessly, to knock on Bridey’s door. Now he was staring incredulously at her. Coming on top of the emotional turmoil he’d just put himself through, her hurried account of the evening’s discoveries had put him into stimulus overload; he felt as though his head and heart had been pried open and filled with a buzzing, dazzling confusion, all sweet, strange and incredibly mysterious. Her story made no sense to him, for it was all too unbelievable. And yet how could he not believe her? Her honesty was so utterly apparent, an inherent element of the irresistible spell she had cast over him. Mechanically, still staring blankly after her as she and Marge got out onto the sidewalk, he paid the driver, dragged out the big file box and followed the two women into the silent lobby of the darkened building.

  Only one security guard was on night duty, and he’d already been alerted by Gerald Kinski, who had only just arrived himself, to send Bridey up. Not a word was spoken as the three ascended in the elevator to the forty-third floor, where the lawyer was waiting for them.

  It was obvious that Gerry, dragged from his bed, had dressed quickly. He wore only a white business shirt, open at the collar, a pair of gray slacks and tasseled loafers. He must have barely passed a comb through the thin remnants of his hair, for it was flying about in gray wisps, and his chin was stubbly. But his eyes were completely alert. Bridey’s call had electrified him, and he was eager to see what she’d brought him. He barely acknowledged the presence of Marge and Mack as introductions were made.

  “Nothing personal,” he said as Mack set the box onto his desk, “but I want to be alone with Bridey. Would you two mind waiting in the reception area? I’d like to talk with my client privately.”

  His client? Since when, Bridey wondered, did I become his client? Things sure were happening fast.

  “Oh, of course. Of course.” Marge and Mack turned to leave the room.

  “The overnight staff should have some coffee going,” Gerald said, waving vaguely down the empty hall. “Just look in at the media station, last door on your left. They’ll fix you up. I’ll come and get you when we’re ready.” He was itching to get at those papers, and he could hardly wait for the door to close behind Marge and Mack.

  “Now, Bridey,” he said, turning toward her. He paused, took a deep breath and gave her a long, searching look. “This is a most extraordinary development. Unbelievable, in fact. Sit down, my dear. Sit down. Right there.” He indicated the client chair. “Just make yourself comfortable and tell me all about it. Leave out nothing.”

  Bridey perched nervously on the edge of the chair. The story seemed even crazier now that she had to recount it. But there was nothing to do but tell him every detail, beginning with the history of Henrietta Willey’s manuscript, how they had hunted for and found it, and the discovery of the duplicate Merrill box, the photos and the letters, and their apparent connection to her.

  Gerald’s mouth was hanging open by the time she finished.

  He said nothing for a long time. Then, abruptly, as though remembering his manners, he closed his mouth, but still he seemed unable to make any comment.

  When at last he did speak, he could say only one word. “Well!”

  And then he repeated it, several times. “Well, well, well.”

  He was eyeing her carefully, for he had learned to be cynical about clients’ machinations, and $70 million could make pretty tempting bait. He would have to determine whether her story was genuine, but no matter how piercingly he searched her expression, he saw nothing in the openness of her face but her own authentic confusion, even dismay.

  And anyway, with the information she’d produced out of that file box, it would be a simple job to have the staff run down all the supporting documents: routine checks at the Bureau of Vital Statistics and in the appropriate church and county records. Those papers she’d brought in would tell them where to look.

  “This changes everything,” he said. “If it all checks out, we’ll move immediately for a second kinship hearing based on newly discovered information. We’ll have to act fast . . .”

  But the whole thing was too incredible. Just too amazingly incredible. Just wait till Doug and Art heard about this. What a way to regain all those lost points!

  Visions of trustees’ fees on a $70-million
estate, fees he’d thought were gone forever, swam seductively back into view.

  Waiting tensely in the empty reception area, Mack and Marge were into a very interesting conversation of their own. Steaming black coffee had given them a caffeine boost, and Marge’s thoughts had been busy in all directions, including a quick note to herself: I can see why Bridey fainted. The man’s a doll!

  But his first words jolted her into a whole other direction.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Mack was saying. “I’d like to review that manuscript of Henrietta’s. Our publishing house might have an interest in doing something with it. . . .”

  “Oh no you don’t!”

  No matter how long and exhausting a night it had been, when it came to acquiring a good property for Lady Fair, Marge was instantly and totally awake, any time of the day or night.

  “No you don’t,” she repeated. “You had your shot at it. Now it’s my turn.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Mack said sharply. He set his Styrofoam cup onto the table in front of him. He hadn’t expected any opposition; quite the contrary, he’d thought she’d like the idea. “In our hands, that manuscript can get the play it deserves. With our marketing and distribution capabilities, with the name of Harmon and Brewster behind it—”

  “Are you kidding? Can Harmon and Brewster match a national circulation of four point seven million? You can’t even contemplate a first print run of anything like that. Not for a cookbook. Your house has no experience with that kind of material, but it’s just our readers’ thing. It’s a natural for us, and—”

  “We’d be prepared to offer a substantial sum to acquire the rights—”

  “Nothing like what Lady Fair would pay.” Marge had forgotten all about Mack’s cuteness quotient. She was all business now. “I have in mind a big photo spread as well: that fabulous apartment, Henrietta’s elegant lifestyle, Neville’s foreign diplomatic postings. It’s a natural for us,” she repeated. “Our readers would eat it up.”

  “We may be able to offer a package. We might consider adding Bridey’s book, as well, to the mix.”

  “But that’s just what I have in mind, too: a whole series of similar pieces—”

  “Maybe with a deal for her next book as well—”

  That one stopped Marge, but only briefly. She grasped at her first thought, hoping to bring his locomotive to a stop.

  “But I can offer something you can’t,” she said. “Bridey and I have been best friends for years. If she signs with us, she’ll be dealing with someone who genuinely has her welfare at heart, someone who loves her.”

  That one must have worked, because Mack went very quiet, and an odd expression passed over his face.

  He wasn’t about to say what was on his mind. Not to anyone but Bridey. But he was saved from having to counter Marge’s argument by the arrival in the reception area of Bridey and Gerald Kinski.

  Bridey looked wiped out. Now that everything had been turned over to Gerry, the emotional roller coaster of the last few hours had finally dumped her out, exhausted and confused. Her eyes looked weary and she seemed ready to fall over, as though her bones had lost all their strength.

  But Marge was all live-wire energy, and she was unable to think of anything except her own ever-expanding plans.

  “Bridey, sweetie! I’ve got some great ideas. Now just listen to this!”

  Bridey stared blankly at her friend.

  “What I’ve been thinking,” Marge bubbled on, completely oblivious to her friend’s empty gaze, “what you need—”

  Mack interrupted her, bringing her up short. “Never mind about that now, Bridey,” he said, shooting a warning glance at Marge. He was genuinely concerned and put a protective arm around her. “You look exhausted,” he said as he led her toward the door. “I’m taking you home. The only thing you need now is a good night’s sleep.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Gerry said. “You just get some rest. I’ll handle everything from here on. And I’ll be in touch in a day or two.”

  “Oh, of course, Bridey,” Marge chimed in, following Bridey and Mack to the elevator. “Of course. I’m so sorry. I just got carried away. It can wait. You must be knocked out, sweetie. Get to bed now, and I’ll give you a call tomorrow. We can talk then.”

  Downstairs, on the sidewalk, as Marge stepped into a cab, she said quietly to Mack, “Can we agree not to talk to Bridey about . . . well, about what we were talking about—publishing her work—”

  She didn’t need to finish. “Of course,” Mack said. “She’s much too tired to think about that now.” He closed her door and they gave each other a friendly wave as Marge’s cab pulled away.

  And he was as good as his word. He and Bridey were silent all the way home. It wasn’t till they were on the twelfth floor and she was letting herself into 12A that she turned to him to say good night.

  “By the way,” she said sleepily, “you were coming to see me earlier tonight. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

  He looked deeply into her eyes, saw the fatigue there and decided to wait.

  “Never mind,” he said softly. “It’ll keep.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  When Marge called next morning, Bridey wasn’t yet ready to wake up. “Later, Marge,” she mumbled sleepily from the depths of her pillows. “Later.” Her head never came out from under the covers and she fumbled the phone back onto the night table, even while Marge was still talking.

  When Gerald Kinski called at noon, she was still too tired to talk.

  “Can it wait till tomorrow?” she asked. “I’m just so bushed.”

  “Oh, sure, Bridey. Sure thing. I just wanted to let you know my people are working like a bunch of busy little beavers. But sure, no problem. It can wait till tomorrow. You just rest.” And he hung up, too.

  Two hours later, as the sun passed to the west, it sent its light across the terrace and through the bedroom window. The bright shaft touched Bridey’s face, she turned her face away from the glare and a sleep-fogged question drifted through her sleepy head.

  Did I forget to draw the drapes?

  Usually, she was careful to keep those drapes closed, but last night’s exhaustion had dropped her into bed without a thought for Mack’s view into her bedroom from his terrace, or of anything else. But now, in her half-awake state, the memory of Mack floated through her head and, as though she was still dreaming, she contemplated the image that moved across the screen of her closed eyelids. Gradually, a series of questions formed: What had he wanted last night, coming to the door so late? And he’s such a model of spit-and-polish; why was he so disheveled? What was the silent message that had put such a fire in his eyes?

  She’d been too distracted to pay sufficient attention to the change in him, but now, as the evening unscrolled in her memory, she realized how different he’d seemed. Now, in her mental photograph of him, he had softened and there was a new expression in his eyes, an expression she couldn’t identify. What happened to all that starch?

  Is he out there now, on his terrace?

  In her half-sleep, with her eyes still closed, she let herself imagine him, tall and dark, at rest in one of the lounge chairs, perhaps taking care of work he’d brought home from the office with him, a stack of manuscripts on the wrought-iron table, a cup of coffee at hand, his nose buried in his notes, with Scout lazing at his side. Or perhaps he’d be writing one of those awful rejection letters, his laptop sitting on the table in front of him. Or, as one fantasy blended into the next, he was standing at the wall, looking lean and very manly, his arms resting casually on the rail-topped parapet, looking down on Park Avenue. Or perhaps he was looking up into the blue summer sky to catch the rare sight of a peregrine falcon, returning to its Chrysler Building aerie. Perhaps he turns and looks toward her, sees her there in her bed; he comes toward her, stepping over the low wall that separates his terrace from hers . . .

  She’d been too tired last night to do more than peel off her clothes and drop them on the floor. She
wore no nightgown. Now she murmured lazily to herself, feeling deliciously self-conscious, tucked under the covers with her fantasies. To reassure herself that she was covered, she ran her fingertips along the sheet’s silken edge where it brushed her cheek.

  The phone rang. With her eyes still closed, she reached for it and pulled it in under the covers.

  “Are you feeling better?”

  Startled, her eyes popped wide open and she sat up suddenly, grabbing at the sheet, as though he could see her. Involuntarily, she glanced toward the terrace. There was no one there.

  “It’s after two,” Mack said. “Did I wake you?”

  “Sort of,” she stammered. His voice shocked her back to reality, the extraordinary events of the previous night swimming into focus. “I feel like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer,” she said. Could it all have been a dream? Or could the impossible have become real?

  “Can we talk?”

  Talk? Yes, she wanted very much to talk. She needed to reach out, to get a grip on reality. She remembered Gerry’s call. Little beavers? It must be true. His busy little beavers were working on all those incredible documents. In the clear light of day, she had to recognize that no, she had not dreamed everything.

  “I’m willing, as long as we don’t talk about me and Henrietta. That’s one subject I refuse to think about till I hear from Mr. Kinski tomorrow.”

  “No problem. I promise the name of that woman will not pass my lips. Could we maybe just take a walk in the park? It’s a beautiful day, the sun is shining, the birds are singing.” He dropped his voice a little, coaxing her. “I’ll buy you a hot dog.”

  She didn’t need any coaxing. She looked toward the terrace again, then relaxed her grip on the sheet.

  “With sauerkraut?”

  “With anything you want.”

  She smiled, pleased.

  “I’d really like that,” she said.

  She hung up the phone. The cats jumped onto the bed, and she stroked them thoughtfully.