“Well, something’s happened to him. I thought he was such a stuffed shirt. Could I have been wrong?” She scratched at the soft fur along Silk’s cheek. “What do you think, little mother?” The cat closed her eyes and stretched her neck luxuriously. “Could it be that I’ve been too stubborn?” Silk patted Bridey’s arm encouragingly. “Do you think Mack Brewster has changed? Or could it possibly be that I’m the one who has changed?”
Gerald Kinski’s associates were research experts. They knew exactly what they were looking for and it was a simple matter, using the resources of the Census Bureau, the Bureau of Vital Statistics, and the National Archives, to gather all the information they needed. Within hours the relevant documents had been faxed to the offices of Braye, Kohler and Kinski, and by late afternoon a complete file was ready on Gerald’s desk, with covering memorandums and all the pleadings necessary to move the court for a second kinship hearing. His busy beavers had done a good job, and as he read through the file, Gerry exulted excitedly. As improbable as it all was, everything checked out perfectly, everything fitted together like spoons in a drawer, like baby and mama, like the clues in a perfectly plotted mystery story.
“Oh, happy day!” he exclaimed to no one in particular. “If anyone had told me that something like this could happen . . .” He leafed through the papers one more time, reassuring himself that every t had been crossed and every i dotted, that every single item of proof was exactly in place and properly substantiated.
“This story is so unbelievable,” he announced to an imaginary listener. “You can’t make this stuff up!”
He paced his office once around to calm himself down. Then he hit the intercom button on his phone.
“Cynthia,” he said, “I want you to schedule a meeting as soon as possible with Doug and Art. As soon as possible,” he repeated, making sure she understood the urgency. “This is important.”
Then he did a happy little jig in the middle of the room and pumped his fist. “Yes!”
He took a deep breath and dropped back into his chair. “Afton Morley,” he whispered triumphantly, “eat your heart out!”
Marge, in the meantime, was putting together all her ideas for the feature she planned. She’d slept only a few hours after leaving Bridey the night before, and she was at her desk early, dictating memos, sketching layouts and organizing her thoughts. By late afternoon, she’d already consulted with the legal department, the photo people and the food experts on her staff.
And while one corner of her mind was busy with all her planning, another had finally realized there was no reason to fight with Mack about acquiring the rights to Henrietta’s manuscript. A tie-in with a book publisher could work to the advantage of Lady Fair. She decided to approach him about the possibilities of a cooperative effort, but by the time she called his office he’d already left for the day.
“Oh, nuts!” she said as she hung up the phone. When Marge was stalking a hot new idea, any impediment made her ferociously impatient. “Wouldn’t you know. Just when I need to talk to him. He should be in his office. Why isn’t he in his office?”
She strode to the window, glared down at the sidewalk, circled the room a couple of times, went back to the window and smacked her hand against the glass.
“Mackenzie Brewster, where are you?”
Mackenzie Brewster was right where he wanted to be.
He was in Central Park, strolling with Bridey along the edge of the Lake, where a couple of swans were swimming in graceful, lazy circles.
“Aren’t they wonderful?” Bridey said.
“Wonderful,” Mack said, not looking at them at all. His eyes were fixed on Bridey. It seemed to him that all beauty paled beside her. The sun was full on her lovely hair, a good night’s rest had restored her color and he was entranced by a tiny smudge of mustard that decorated the corner of her mouth.
“Good hot dog?” he said.
“Perfect,” she answered. “Just what I needed.”
They continued silently for a while, following the path around the Lake and then turning to cross over the lovely Bow Bridge.
“Let’s stop here,” Mack said as they reached the top of the bridge. She was willing, and they went to the edge and rested their arms on the iron railing. Together, they gazed thoughtfully at the calm water below.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Bridey said.
“So are you.”
“I’m trying not to think.”
“Mmmm,” he murmured. It must be hard, he thought, to avoid thinking about the fabulous fortune that was dangling promisingly in front of her. “You’ve got a lot to not think about,” he said sympathetically.
“You promised we wouldn’t talk about that,” she cautioned.
“Right. We won’t.”
He was mindful of his promise and closed the door to that topic of conversation. He remembered another promise, too: the one he’d made to Marge not to talk to Bridey about his wanting to publish her cookbook.
That left only one subject.
“Let’s talk about you and me,” he said gently.
She didn’t turn to look at him, but instead continued to stare into the water. He saw the color rise in her cheeks.
“That’s not a forbidden subject, is it, Bridey?”
She still didn’t turn, only shook her head slightly from side to side. Now her cheeks were bright pink.
Encouraged, he leaned a little closer to her.
“I’ve been such a horse’s ass. No—” he waved off the polite objection she was about to make—“no, it’s true; I have been. But last night I had a long talk with my dad. In fact, I told him off. And if you knew my dad, you’d know that’s like talking down an angry lion. But thanks to you, I was able to set him straight about a couple of things, and I think I set myself straight, too.”
“Funny, I’d been noticing a little unwarranted stubbornness on my part, too,” Bridey said, glancing mischievously, sideways, at him. “And tell me, did your dad answer you back from the other side?”
“Nah.” Mack’s tone turned flippant, too. “He knew I was right. Anyway, I had more important things to tell him.”
She raised her eyebrows quizzically.
“I told him about you,” Mack said softly. “I told him I’d met a girl: a special girl, a girl who’s turned me completely around—the girl of my dreams.”
Bridey’s breath caught in her throat and her heart thumped hard against her ribs. Once again, the color drained from her cheeks.
“A girl whose freckles show in the sunlight and who blushes sweetly when she’s embarrassed.”
He reached out a hand and touched her hair. “And whose hair is like moonlight and music.”
“Oh, Mack . . .” She looked away, too overcome to face him.
“A girl who faints when I kiss her.” He turned her toward him, reaching his arms around her. “And who’s got a bit of mustard, just the tiniest bit, in the corner of her mouth right here. . . .”
And he kissed her. Long and tenderly. And then again, longer still, and more and more warmly, and the trees circled slowly over her head, and the bridge beneath her rocked back and forth, and he had to hold her firmly so she wouldn’t faint again.
And she forgot that she’d ever been angry with him, for he was indeed the most wonderful man in the whole world, and fame and fortune were unimportant while he held her in his arms.
Epilogue
Bridey’s wedding dress was a replica of the one worn by her Grandmother Caroline. They had copied it from the faded, cracked photo they’d found among Henrietta’s papers. Flowers were woven through her hair, and a soft veil fell gracefully from the band that circled her head. Her bouquet was an armful of calla lilies, tied with a broad ribbon of white satin, and as she walked down the aisle, an aura of grace and loveliness surrounded her.
For the rest of his life, Mack would remember—and always with a catch in his throat—how beautiful she looked that day.
Gerald Kinski gave her away, and he was a
s proud as any father as he walked her down the aisle.
Marge, whose wedding gift was a gorgeous crystal bowl from Lobmeyr, was striking in a simple suit of pale green linen, with only a small cluster of pearls in her dark hair.
Doug Braye and Art Kohler were there, too, looking as satisfied as a couple of well-fed tigers. Their gift, an exquisite sterling-silver coffee service from Tiffany, cost the firm a fortune, but nothing was too good for their best client, and anyway, their books would show it as a business expense, to be taken as a tax deduction.
Bridey’s Grandma Berrigan was there, beaming proudly at the beautiful bride, and all the cousins and aunts and uncles were there, too. They were still a little awestruck at the incredible—the miraculous—good fortune that had come into her life, what with her sudden and practically inconceivable great wealth, the publication of her book and the appearance of her picture in Lady Fair. Grandma Berrigan carried the magazine everywhere with her, in case she ran into someone who, by some chance, hadn’t seen it.
Present also was Gilbert Forsgren, the referee who had presided over the hearing at which it was determined that Bridey was indeed Henrietta’s first cousin once removed, which was, of course, better than a first cousin twice removed. With him, also, was His Honor Vincent Mallory, the judge who had ruled, in a separate proceeding, that a natural heir had been found and, under the terms of Henrietta’s will, the entire estate should therefore pass to Bridey, free of all claims and impediments. Of course, their invitations had not been sent until after they’d made their rulings, so as to avoid any hint of impropriety or any suggestion of an effort to influence their decisions.
The two men arrived together, bearing a joint wedding gift, the most recent edition of Greenwood’s The Researcher’s Guide to American Genealogy, updated to include the latest computer techniques.
But the special guests of honor were Silk and Satin, who rested on a white pillow on the front pew of the church, wearing festive white silk bows around their necks. Silk’s babies, born only three weeks earlier, were of course too young to attend and remained at home, where they slept through the whole ceremony in their nest, which Bridey had fashioned out of the “magical” storage box that had contained the Merrill box, Henrietta’s manuscript, the photos and all the documents that had revealed the connection between her and Henrietta Willey.
The wedding reception was held in the huge living room of apartment 12A, following the church ceremony. Bridey had planned the menu, from canapés to after-dinner mints, and, though she’d entrusted the food preparation to caterers, she’d insisted on making the wedding cake herself. She even agreed to allow Marge’s best photographers to move discreetly among the guests, capturing wonderful pictures of the food, the clothes, the setting, even Silk and Satin and the kittens, to be published in Lady Fair’s next issue, along with recipes and text by Bridey herself.
Amid the music, the marvelous food and the general merrymaking, it was soon the kittens’ turn to be the center of admiring attention, as one guest after another came into the cats’ room off the kitchen to ooh and aah over the antics of the darling babies, each one an intriguing mix of blue-gray and midnight black. Silk stayed close to them, being careful that everyone kept a safe distance, while Satin retired to his own bed, waiting for all the racket to be done with.
Only Mrs. Maudsley, sipping coolly at her martini, found something to complain about.
“And now,” she whispered to her husband, lifting her chin toward a beaming Mack, who had his arm around a glowing Bridey, “I suppose they’ll be having a mob of kids, and the whole twelfth floor will be a gaggle of noisy children and animals.” She sipped again at her martini. “What would the old girl have thought of that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Harold said. He glanced up at the portrait. “I get the feeling she’d be okay with it.”
Indeed Henrietta was smiling down from her portrait as though it pleased her, now that everything had come out right, to see that once again her home was the scene of the perfect party. The guests were enjoying themselves, the food was perfect and the champagne flowed lavishly. And when Max the doorman and Tom the elevator operator dropped by to offer their best wishes on the merger of 12A and 12B, each of them was given a piece of cake and a glass of champagne.
Yes indeed. The old girl seemed to be happy about the whole thing.
BRIDEY’S STEWS FROM AROUND THE WORLD
Szekely Goulash (from Hungary)
Maria Molnar and her husband, Gabor, run a little restaurant in Bridey’s hometown, on Wren’s Road in Warrentown, just off Route 9. Bridey had summer jobs in the restaurant while she was in high school, and it was in Maria’s kitchen that Bridey discovered Hungarian cuisine, a wondrous mixture of Magyar, Turkish, Transylvanian and—from the days of Empire—Austrian.
1½ tablespoons oil or 2 tablespoons butter
1 large onion, diced
2½ tablespoons paprika
2 tablespoons tomato puree
½ teaspoon caraway seeds
1 bay leaf
2 pounds lean pork, cut in small cubes
1 bottle (12 oz.) light beer
2 pounds sauerkraut, very well drained
Salt to taste
¾ cup sour cream
In a large, deep pan or Dutch oven:
Heat the oil (or butter), then add the diced onion and simmer gently till soft and golden.
Sprinkle the paprika generously over the onion, stir all together and continue simmering for a couple of minutes.
Stir the tomato puree and the caraway seeds well through the onion and simmer for another minute.
Add the bay leaf.
Add the pork, mix well with the onion and tomato mixture, add the beer and, if needed, enough water to cover all.
Cover and simmer gently till the pork is almost done, 45 minutes to 1 hour.
Squeeze the sauerkraut very dry, stir it well into the mixture, cover all and continue to simmer gently, 15 minutes or until the pork is done.
Taste, add salt if needed and stir.
Add the sour cream on top, cover, turn off the heat and let all sit for a few minutes till the sour cream is warm. (Or, if you prefer, turn the mixture onto a serving platter and then top it with the cold sour cream.)
Serve with flat noodles or dumplings.
Doro Wat (Ethiopian Chicken)
When Bridey was in sixth grade, she did a geography report on Ethiopia. Her best friend’s big sister, Beany Norquist, from across the street, was in the Peace Corps in East Africa, and she sent back this recipe to Bridey, along with a packet of berbere spices, the recipe for injera and instructions on how to use it to scoop up the stew—but only with her right hand!
¼ pound butter
½ cup water
3 large onions diced
¾ cup water or light beer
6-ounce can tomato paste
1 whole chicken, cut into about 12 pieces
Hard-boiled eggs, peeled (1 for each person)
3 rounded tablespoons berbere (see note below)
1 teaspoon salt
In a large, deep pan or Dutch oven:
Heat the butter, then add the diced onion and simmer gently till soft and golden.
Stir the berbere into the onions together with ½ cup of water and simmer gently for about 5 minutes.
Stir tomato paste into the onions together with another ¾ cup of water (or light beer), and simmer for another 30 minutes. (Stir frequently to avoid burning the pot.)
Add the cut-up chicken, cover and let all cook together over very low fire for about 1 hour or until the chicken is soft. Stir frequently.
During the last 10 minutes of the cooking, add the hard-boiled eggs. Make shallow slits in the egg whites to allow the juice to seep in.
The sauce should be rather thick; if it is too thin, allow some of the water to cook off.
And mop up the sauce with Ethiopia’s crêpelike bread, injera. (See recipe for injera on page 189.)
Note: The berbere
is a mixture of chili, coriander, cloves, cardamom, ajowan, allspice, black pepper, nigella, fenugreek seed, cinnamon and ginger.
Berbere spices used in Ethiopian cooking, such as ajowan and nigella seeds, are available online from Amazon and from Zamouri Spices, Kalustyan’s Spices and Sweets and Nirmala’s Kitchen.
Injera (Ethiopian crêpes)
3 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup buckwheat flour
2 tablespoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
4 cups club soda or light beer
1 cup rice vinegar
Oil for the pan
To make the batter: In a large mixing bowl, stir together the two flours, baking soda, and salt. Slowly add the club soda or beer and stir until smooth. Add vinegar and stir.
Heat a large skillet over medium heat. With a paper towel, wipe the skillet with cooking oil.
Pour batter into the pan in a small circle.
Swirl the batter around till it makes a thin pancake (up to 9 inches).
After one minute, use a large spatula to flip the injera over and cook one more minute.
Remove from the pan and stack up on a plate. The pancakes will soften as they cool.
Serve with the Doro wat. Tear the injera in pieces and use the pieces to pick up the Doro wat.
Chili con Carne (Grandma Berrigan’s version, feeds many)
Every year, at Halloween, the fall evenings were nippy in Warrentown, and the trick-or-treaters had to wear coats and mittens over their costumes. Grandma Berrigan would make up a big pot of chili and the kids would stop by on Bridey’s front porch so her grandmother could warm them up with a bowl of hot chili handed out through the kitchen window. Her recipe required a lot of work, so she made it only once a year, but it was so good and so festive and so easy to spoon up, even with mittens on, it was well worth it.
A Purrfect Romance Page 20