A Purrfect Romance (5 page)

The bag came finally to rest, set down on cold concrete. Cautiously, she rose from her concealment, let an exploratory eye look over its top, saw Bridey’s legs next to her, saw Bridey talking to someone, a mountain of cod between them, hands gesticulating, arms waving. This was her chance; no one was looking down at Bridey’s bag. Silk took the opportunity. She slipped quietly out of the bag and in a moment had disappeared, like a gray shadow, into adventure land, where she was quickly engulfed by wondrous aromas, a mix of salt and fish, with quiet, urgent voices filtering through the dark night.

Some cat radar must have announced her presence: a new cat on the wharf! The regulars were there in a moment, checking her out, making their advances, inviting her to come and play. But Silk was true to her breeding; only the best would do. She ignored the scruffy toms, the ill-bred, whining, gossipy tabbies, the scroungers, the loafers, the adolescent, belligerent punks.

Yards away, curled up on the pilings, grooming himself luxuriously, a sleek black cat looked up from his splayed-out paws, and his eyes met Silk’s. Some cat message passed between them. She stayed where she was, ignoring the presence of the others, and waited. Nightwatch—for that was the name given to him by the crew of the trawler on which he ferried nightly down from Nantucket—dropped silently down from the piling. He approached her, they made their introductions, and in a moment Silk had accepted his invitation. Together, they disappeared into the dark.

Meanwhile, Bridey was buying fish. An hour passed. From the handful of ships cleated up at the dock, thanks to a friendly introduction by Charlie, she selected cod, flounder and swordfish, twenty pounds in all, enough for her first round of recipes. Only the freshest. Only the best. She was satisfied. The first light of morning was beginning to turn the Brooklyn Bridge into a ghostly shadow riding over the shimmer of the East River. The sun would soon be up. It was time to go home. She packed the wrapped-up fish into her bag, surrounding it with layers of newspaper to keep it insulated and cool until she got it home.

As she bent over to pick up her bag, she chanced to look up.

And saw Silk.

“Omigod!” whispered Bridey.

The little stowaway looked sleeker than ever, with a kind of self-satisfied roll to her stride as she appeared out of the shadows, heading directly for Bridey, like baby to mama, as if she knew it was time to go home and she knew exactly how to get there. The tote bag was her means of transport and she was ready to hop in. Which she did, settling herself comfortably on top of the wrapped-up fish and looking pretty pleased with herself.

“Omigod!”

Bridey was aghast. This beautiful, sleek, refined animal, this uptown tourist making an unauthorized visit to the seaport, this totally out-of-place pedigreed puss, could be no other than the $70-million heiress that she, Bridey, was supposed to be caring for. The pink collar around Silk’s neck was the confirmation. It was handmade, unique, and it had her name embroidered on it. This was no mistaken identity.

If Mr. Kinski found out! If
anyone
found out!

Omigod.

She whipped out the sweater and quickly plopped it down on top of the errant animal, stuffing the edges down the sides of the bag and darting her eyes around to see if she was being observed while trying to look casual and hoping it was dark enough and that the fishermen were too busy with their work to notice the disaster that was going on in their midst.

With one hand pushing down on Silk’s protesting head, she got herself quickly to the street, lifting her hand from the bag only long enough to hail a cab, and never again moving it all the way home while keeping up a whispered scolding, with herself and the incorrigible cat as alternating targets of her frantic harangue. The cabdriver, who’d seen and heard everything during his years of hacking on the city streets, paid no attention.

“How could you? Oh, Silk, how could you? You could have gotten me into so much trouble! How could I explain if you’d gotten lost? If you hadn’t shown up right there, at the very last moment, I’d never have known. I’d never have guessed where to look for you. Who would have thought you’d stow away in my bag?

“And oh, Bridey!” Now she began beating up on herself. “What would you say if she’d disappeared? ‘Sorry, Mr. Kinski. I lost your cat. I know I’m supposed to be a responsible, grown-up woman, but you might as well have left Silk and Satin in the care of a chimpanzee! ’”

Then again at Silk. “Who knows what could have happened to you? You could have gotten run over! You could have been attacked by stray dogs! You could have been kidnapped! You could have fallen in with the wrong crowd and—” The possibilities seemed endless, and her panic escalated drastically. “All my plans could have been ruined. Oh, Bridey, stupid, stupid, careless, dumb, dumb . . .”

By the time the cab pulled up to 612, she was a wreck. Theo, the night doorman, got no greeting at all from her as she passed him, for she was in no mood to be seen by anyone who knew her.

“Good morning, Miss Berrigan,” he said to her back as she swept hurriedly by.

Oh, if only she could be invisible.

But there, just ahead of her, someone was waiting at the elevator. His back was toward her, and he was resting one hand against the wall, with his head drooped forward, as though it had been a long night and he couldn’t wait to reach his bed. She recognized that Burberry instantly.

Oh, rats!
she thought.

Why did this have to happen now?

Why him, of all people?

And what was he doing coming in at this hour?

He turned his head toward her just as Sandor, the night operator, opened the elevator door. He straightened up, pulling himself together in the presence of an observing human being. He said nothing, but his face wore a very small, preoccupied smile, as though something funny was going on in his head. His Burberry coat was unbelted and unbuttoned, and Bridey saw he was wearing a tuxedo. His black bow tie was uncharacteristically askew, his black hair was a bit disheveled, his black eyes looked privately mirthful, and there was lipstick on the edge of his collar. If Bridey hadn’t been in such a distracted state, it would have registered more clearly that her neighbor’s stuffed-shirt demeanor had slipped considerably; he actually looked quite human.

But she was too distracted. She was struggling to keep Silk under wraps, and to look as though it wasn’t odd that the sweatery contents of her bag kept bobbing about. Her neighbor’s smile broadened, a little crookedly. He was watching her in slightly tipsy amusement.

Sandor made light conversation while they ascended. “Looks like we’re going to have a good day,” he said. “Lots of sun. No rain predicted. Good day for your run, Mr. Brewster.”

Nice-looking couple, those two
, he was thinking.
They should get together
.

And he wondered why the pretty young lady was so stiffly silent, so rigidly preoccupied. The grapevine was already heavy with speculation about the twelfth floor. All the staff knew about old Mrs. Willey’s bizarre legacy, they all knew what Mackenzie Brewster was up to, and they were making guesses as to the future of the two cats. There was even a staff pool betting on Mr. Brewster’s next move.

His shift was almost over and when Tom came on, Sandor would have some new material to feed into the gossip mill.

“Have a good day, Miss Berrigan,” he said as they got out at the twelfth floor. “And you, too, Mr. Brewster.”

The door closed, and Bridey and her neighbor were alone in the little vestibule.

I don’t dare take my hand away from this bag. How do I get to my key without him catching on?

On the floor in front of each door lay the morning newspaper, delivered only minutes before. Her neighbor dug into his pocket for his key and bent a little unsteadily to pick up his
New York Times
. He stood up and saw that Bridey was still standing in front of her own door. She was trying to look nonchalant, making no move to open her door, making no move to pick up her paper, making no move to do anything at all. In his slightly woozy condition, it seemed to him only moderately puzzling. With a broad gesture, an exaggeratedly chivalrous flourish, he picked up the paper that lay in front of the door to 12A and presented it to her.

“Allow me, madam,” he said, and bowed his head slightly. There was still that little half smile on his face. She couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or polite, but she was too panicky to care.

Oh, please
, she prayed silently,
don’t let him see what’s in my bag
.

In her effort to be cool, Bridey’s stance remained awkward, with one hand planted stiffly on top of her unruly cargo and the other holding the straps tightly at her shoulder, trying, with her elbow, to keep the bag close to her body. She allowed a couple of fingers to let go of the strap. He placed the paper in their weak grasp. The corner of her mouth twitched nervously into a tiny response, followed by a silly sound that wasn’t yes, no, or thank you.

He raised one eyebrow, gave her—and her bag—a brief, quizzical look and opened his own door. The muzzle of the black dog appeared instantly, snuffling and eager for his master.

“Hey, there, old buddy,” he said. “Good to be home at last. Did you miss me?” The door closed behind him.

Bridey relaxed. She leaned her head back against the wall, took one very deep breath and let it out slowly. At last it was safe to let go of her prisoner.

But Silk was in a perverse mood, and now that Bridey’s hand was no longer pressing her down under the sweater, she lost all interest in pushing back. She merely raised her lovely though slightly mussed head and peered quietly over the top of the bag, while Bridey found her key, got the door open and got her whole disorderly baggage into the apartment.

Silk immediately ran off to tell Satin about her night on the town and Bridey sank, like a bundle of exhausted nerve ends, into the nearest chair.

“Oh, boy!” she whispered to the silent room. “Oh, boy, am I in trouble.”

In the silence it seemed to her the pounding of her heart could be heard ten feet away. She listened to it for a while.

That stuffed shirt in a Burberry raincoat.

He saw . . . he must have seen . . . I saw that he saw . . .

She remembered his little smile as she’d tried to keep Silk quiet in the tote bag.

Still, why would he tell anyone? It was nothing to him. And if no one found out . . . and after all there had been no harm done, had there?

She was making herself calm down.

“Things to do,” she said to the empty room. “Gotta get to work.”

She remembered the twenty pounds of fish in her bag.

“Things to do,” she repeated.

She got out of the chair and carried the bag to the kitchen. As she put the package into the fridge, she steadied her hand, leaning against the top.

“Maybe I’m not really in trouble,” she said to herself.

And behind the door of 12B, Mack Brewster was in his bedroom, peeling off his fancy duds.

“Well, well, well,” he said to Scout. “Looks like our pretty new neighbor had a little adventure of her own tonight.” He sat on the edge of his bed, one patent-leather dress shoe in his hand. “What do you think, Scout? Is mum the word? Or should we spill the beans?”

Scout licked his hand enthusiastically and Mack added with a laugh, “Well, okay. I really ought to turn her in, but I couldn’t treat a lady in distress that way.”

He rubbed Scout’s black head.

“I guess we can keep her secret for a while, anyway.”

A
week passed, and there were no repercussions, no outraged call from Gerald Kinski, no accusations of inexcusable incompetence and unforgivable neglect, no order to “get out, bag and baggage!” Though she couldn’t forget her neighbor’s presence, just the other side of the wall, there were no more chance encounters, and gradually she forgot her fear that she might unexpectedly run into him. As always, Bridey fought off anxiety by concentrating harder on her work, and by the end of the week, she had recovered her sense of security and her customary optimism. Her big scare had been only that, a big scare and nothing more. All would be well. Life was good.

The first draft of the fish chapter was done and, on this lovely Sunday morning, she was eager to begin work on
Breads and Rolls
. She’d been up early, proofing yeast and kneading dough and, while her first batches were rising, she decided it was time to allow herself a little rest from her labors. She washed up, carefully scrubbed out the dough from under her fingernails, pulled on a pair of tiny red running shorts, knotted up an oversized T-shirt at her midriff, pulled her hair back with a bright red ribbon and headed out for a run through the park.

Central Park was in a spring mood, wearing its new, pale green foliage, just burst from the bud. Bright flower patches made good scampering grounds for bushy-tailed squirrels, and everywhere— on the vast stretches of green grass and in the playgrounds and along the bench-lined walks—little ones played while their mommies, daddies and nannies gossiped with one another or read their newspapers. Streams of cyclists and inline skaters weaved along the paths, baseball players formed up their games on the ball fields and all New York was enjoying the lovely weather.

After a half-hour’s run through the park, Bridey was breathing hard and glowing. It had been a week of worrying, but she was able now, at last, to feel carefree. She rewarded herself with a Popsicle from a vendor’s cart and climbed up on an outcropping of rock. From there she could park herself for a while and watch the action on the Sheep Meadow—the pick-up games of smash ball, the dogs chasing Frisbees, the pigeons strutting about in the grass. The warm sunlight glistened off her damp shoulders and arms. It filled her hair with sprinkles of gold and heightened the sweet dusting of freckles that danced across her nose. In her little running shorts and floppy T-shirt, licking her Popsicle, she looked about ten years old.

She was totally unaware that for the last ten minutes her next-door neighbor had been watching her closely.

Mack Brewster was also out for a run that morning, with Scout loping along next to him, and when he glimpsed the halo of red and gold bobbing along ahead of him, he slowed down, not trusting his eyes.

For several days now, ever since their early-morning elevator encounter, he’d found himself unaccountably imagining he saw his pretty new neighbor. Again and again, everywhere he went, some bit of curly red-haired brilliance, some flash of a lithe young form would catch his eye, some girl going into a restaurant or waiting for a bus as he passed by in a cab, or just turning a midtown corner, or partly concealed in an after-theater crowd. He couldn’t understand this obsessive phantom spotting, and he told himself it must be because she represented a seriously awkward snag in his plans. But would that account for the leap of eagerness that thumped in his chest every time he thought he saw her? Would that explain why every flash of coppery hair, disappearing in the crowd, made him want to follow after?

But the thumping was at top volume and he knew that this time he wasn’t imagining anything. With Scout running beside him, he dropped into a slow jog, waiting for a chance to check her out, and when she stopped to catch her breath he stopped, too, sitting down on the grass about twenty feet behind her, pretending to be just another resting runner, hoping to blend into the great anonymous mass of Sunday recreationists. He rested his arms on his upraised knees and kept his head down so she wouldn’t recognize him, allowing himself only a sideways observation of her from behind his unkempt, sweat-dampened hair. He watched as she bought her Popsicle and climbed to the top of the rock, where the sun lit her up like a spotlight, and he used the moment to enjoy his first good, slow look at her.

What he saw was a vibrant, healthy girl, with long, slim arms and legs, a trim torso, a graceful carriage and an unruly topping of sun-filled, red-and-gold hair.

“She looks like a kid,” he whispered to Scout. “Like an innocent kid.”

His heart bumped around in his chest, doing battle with his cool, disciplined, rational self. His head was telling him to avoid her, to remember that this temporary new neighbor of his, this breezy, sassy, sprite of a girl—not his type at all—stood in the way of his plans, his debt of honor. His mission, almost accomplished now.

But he should have known. Things had been going too smoothly. Just when things were coming together for him, thanks to Mrs. Willey’s death, it seemed that the Fates, those unpredictable, cosmic tricksters, had slipped this unexpected ingredient into the mix. They’d playfully tossed him a confusing, distracting, green-eyed flash of sunlight.

How different she was from the usual New York sophisticates, the tough-talking colleagues who high-heeled their brash way through his offices, the mink-draped, perfumed heiresses who were usually on his arm in nightclubs and at charity events, the trust-fund babies he’d been set up with ever since his prep-school days, the potential trophy wives he’d been programmed to end up with and had been dutifully squiring around town ever since he’d grown into the age of eligibility. He’d assumed one of them would turn out to be the “right one.” He was still waiting for that right one to click into place.

His better judgment was telling him to avoid this girl. But some other totally unfamiliar instinct was sending him a different message.

Don’t let her get away
, it was telling him.

“Go over to her, Scout,” he whispered to his running companion, “and just sort of say hello.”

Scout was nothing if not obedient and he promptly loped over to Bridey’s rock, climbed it and planted himself next to her, reaching out an inquisitive nose toward her Popsicle.

Which gave Mack an excuse to follow right behind him.

“Hey, there, Scout!” His voice registered the irritation of an owner whose dog is being obstreperous. “Stop bothering the lady!”

Bridey looked up and saw a dark figure silhouetted against the bright sun, standing above her, tall and gleaming against the background of high-rising skyscrapers that sparkled beyond the rim of Central Park’s massed trees.

“It’s okay. He’s not bothering me,” she said, holding the Popsicle away from Scout’s eager face. She shaded her eyes against the sun’s glare to see the man’s face. “Oh,” she said, genuinely startled. “It’s you.”

And, pretending to be completely surprised, Mack repeated her words.

“Oh,” he said, “it’s you!”

“I guess it is,” she said, disconcerted. All her recovered good spirits began to go shaky again. Just what she’d feared. Of all the people in the world, this neighbor of hers, this “cute guy next door,” could make real trouble for her if he decided to tell what he’d seen that early morning, trying to sneak Silk back into the building.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Mack said.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Still shading her eyes against the sun, she braced herself and took a good look at him, trying to figure out if she was in any danger. But this time, to her surprise, he was actually looking friendly. Maybe she could lighten up a little. After all, he didn’t exactly have fangs or wear the mark of the beast on his handsome forehead.

And there was something else: Marge would be hungry for a report.

She decided to check him out quickly while he remained standing above her, backlighted by the sun. For Marge’s sake, of course.

Good body!

She noted the sharp muscle definition of his arms and legs, the abdomen flat under his black running shorts and gray sweatshirt. He obviously worked out regularly. She also noted wryly that he somehow managed to keep that starchy air of solemn propriety even when he was shiny with sweat in his drenched workout clothes.

Marge would be proud of how she was gathering the data.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he was saying, even as he lowered his long frame down to the rough surface of the rock, taking the place Scout had cleverly vacated by circling around to Bridey’s other side, blocking her from moving away.

“Not at all,” she said, surprising herself, realizing she really didn’t mind. Without the glowering manner and the ultra correct, button-down attire, he was actually a very desirable male, especially in his abbreviated clothing.

As his body came close to hers and there was the lightest brush of his leg against hers, she was startled to feel a palpable connection between them, as though an electromagnetic field had come to life between his body and hers. A good feeling it was, exciting and alive, yet full of safety and comfort. The surrounding temperature seemed to rise by about ten degrees. She felt as though she was melting.

What’s going on?

And Mack was asking himself a similar question.
How does she do that?

For he felt it, too, as though some magical switch had suddenly been flipped, sending a powerful message through him. He felt all his faculties focus, all brought to attention, aware and sensitive in a way he’d never before experienced. Again, he asked himself,
How does she do that
? He studied her glowing face, as though he might find an answer there.
Maybe it’s her mouth. So soft, so innocent. Or maybe it’s the perfect complexion
. He’d never seen a sunlit feathering of freckles look so sexy. How many girls could look that good in bright sunlight? He knew that the women of his social set avoided the sun’s rays as though they expected to shrivel; their careful makeup was designed to guarantee their nighttime beauty under the subdued lighting of expensive restaurants and Broadway theater houses.

But this girl was unafraid of the light.

The backs of his knees were tingling, and he could feel something tightening in his chest, as though a fist was gripping his heart. The edges of his ears were burning, and he felt a powerful impulse to touch her face with his fingertips, to reach an arm around her, draw her slim body closer to him . . .

What’s happening to me?

His next thought was even more direct.

Am I going to get involved with this woman?

Impossible. No way.

But he felt his usual aplomb swirling down the drain, and he had to use all his well-practiced self-discipline to mask his confused feelings, to force himself to sound casual. He made the only innocuous comment he could think of.

“I’ve been smelling good things coming from across the hall,” he said, as casually as he could. “You can’t be doing all that cooking just for yourself.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” she answered, glad of the turn the conversation had taken. He couldn’t have picked a better topic, guaranteed to bring out the shine of dedication in her eyes, and safely removed from the startling reaction he’d triggered in her. “It’s for a project I’m working on: a cookbook. I donate everything to a service that collects food for the homeless.”

“Most commendable,” he said.
And she can cook, too!
“So you’re writing a cookbook,” he said. “How long have you been working on it?”

“I just started. But one chapter is already finished. The first draft, at least. With a kitchen like the one in that apartment, I should be able to complete the whole book in a year. If I’m lucky.”

He felt his heart sink. This was getting too complicated.

“A whole year? That’s a long haul you’ve got ahead of you.”

“Not really. I’ve got the perfect place to get it done. That apartment is a dream. And I’ve never seen a kitchen like that, not in a private home. You can’t imagine—”

The fates really weren’t playing fair. But someone would have to tell her. He steeled himself. Might as well get it over with now.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he said, “but someone should have told you.”

She felt the temperature drop suddenly, alarmingly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re not going to be able to stay in the apartment.”

“What are you talking about?” Her stomach went hollow and she gripped the solid rock beneath her, which seemed to turn to knives and spikes, pricking at her.

“Didn’t the people who hired you warn you?”

“Warn me?”

Now he was glowering again.

“They’re really not being fair to you,” he said, “letting you get started on a big project. Letting you get your hopes up.”

The hollow in her stomach spread up through her chest as she heard a threat to all her plans . . . all her work . . .

“Maybe you could explain—”

He suddenly felt rotten. Explain? Explain that, because of him, she could just toss her plans out of the window? He’d seen the color drain from her face and the sudden tension that appeared like a shadow in her eyes. Not that he’d ever been one to shy away from tough confrontations, but all of a sudden he was feeling like a really bad guy, and he didn’t like the feeling at all. He needed to think this over and he couldn’t think very clearly, not with this glowing girl so close to him. He tried to summon up his powers of self-command, but there was a buzzing in his head, as though all his thoughts had turned into a flight of disoriented bees. It was so damned complicated.

His fists clenched, he squinted into the sunlight, keeping his mouth clamped tight.

I need to get out of here
, he thought.

Reflexively, defensively, he glanced at his watch. Then he glanced at her. Then back at his watch, as though its face might give him some direction. Then he did an uncharacteristic thing. He chose the path of least resistance. He chickened out.

He stood up, and the dog stood up to join him.