A Purrfect Romance (8 page)

“You were right,” she said. “Look at that.”

The guy I live with
, it said,
can sometimes jam his big foot in his mouth and not even figure out how it got there. Please rescue him before he chokes to death
. It was signed
Scout
.

“Scout?”

“His dog.”

The two women grinned at each other conspiratorially as Helen picked up the phone.

“Do you think this is the one?” Janet asked.

“I sure hope so. It’s about time that man settled down.”

“H
e just caught me totally off guard, Marge.”

Bridey had her cell phone in one hand and Mack’s card in the other, and she was pacing around the kitchen, practically wearing a tread in the floor tiles. The huge bunch of cheery spring flowers confronted her from the countertop, where she’d set it down in the middle of her working mess. She had been creating
Stews on Sunday, Dinners All Week
, and had all six burners going when the flowers arrived.

“What should I do, Marge?”

“Oh, give the guy a chance,” Marge said. “At least talk to him. Talk is a good thing.”

“I don’t know, Marge. After last night—”

“Look, sweetie, I’d love to hold your hand through this, but I’ve got layout people coming in now, and one of our editors left a manuscript at her kid’s nursery school. Somewhere up in Westchester, no less. It’s crazy here and we have a Wednesday deadline. I just can’t talk now.”

“Oh, sure. I’m sorry, Marge. I know you’re busy. Call me tonight.”

She hung up quickly.

“I know, I know,” she said to Silk and Satin, who’d come into the kitchen, drawn there by the alluring aromas that had been floating out of the kitchen for the last hour. “I’m a big girl, and I can handle this myself.”

Silk rubbed Bridey’s ankle in agreement and Satin licked his paws as though he, for one, couldn’t understand why she was making such a fuss. He had better things to do than worry about Mack Brewster’s shenanigans.

“You guys don’t get it,” Bridey said to them. She stuck the card in among the flowers and scooped up Silk, holding her so they were face-to-face. “If you knew what that man is up to, you’d scratch his eyes out.” Silk patted her reprovingly on the nose. “Well, maybe not that,” she corrected herself, thinking of those handsome black eyes. “But you sure wouldn’t feel friendly toward him. Or toward that big black dog of his either.”

But she had to laugh. The note was kind of cute. Cuter than she’d have expected from such a stuffed shirt. Maybe Marge was right. Maybe she should give him a chance. And it wouldn’t hurt to let him hear her side of things as well.

She went to her desk and, on a small piece of scratch paper, wrote:

Scout: Even if he doesn’t know how he got there, it’s a smart man who knows when he’s in trouble. Tell the guy you live with to stop by when he gets home from work
.

She left the note unsigned, folded it in half, carried it across the hall and slipped it under the door of 12B.

Then, with a surprising flutter inside her rib cage, like a ten-year-old girl who’s just left a party invitation under the door of the best-looking boy in the class, she ducked back into 12A.

The cats, who had escorted her on her errand, returned with her to the kitchen, where a simmering Szekely goulash of pork, onions and sauerkraut had achieved a velvety, paprika-rich gloss, ready now for the addition of caraway seeds, sour cream and a generous cup of dark beer. She was feeling giddy; she made it two full cups. Then she made the appropriate notation of the change on her laptop.

“Scout says he has a message from you.”

She had to laugh. The dog had her note in his mouth and Mack stood behind him, as though the roles had been reversed and he was the one on a leash.

“He brought me over,” Mack said, “to say I’m sorry.”

He looked spiffed up, like a boy on his way to church, in sharp chinos and a blue blazer and, Bridey noted with an inward giggle, a fresh shave. She remembered Marge’s words:
Give the guy a chance
.

“I’m not sure what I did,” he added, “but I’d sure like to straighten things out.”

“I guess we should talk,” she said, stepping back so they could come in. “Will Scout be okay with the cats?”

“Let’s find out.”

Bridey turned around to look for Silk and Satin, ready to grab them in the event of trouble, and broke into a laugh. Only their heads appeared around the far side of the foyer, one on either side, from the safety of the living room. They were peering out at the big black dog with cat-wary, nervous attention. Scout, for his part, was more forthcoming. He walked across the foyer and introduced himself, making a polite greeting, nose to nose, first with Satin, who, looking cautious but curious, stood his ground firmly, and then with Silk, who backed off a step and kept her ears flat, ready for fight or flight, whichever might be needed.

Mack spoke to the dog softly. “Scout, come.”

Scout trotted back to his side obediently.

“Sit.”

Scout sat.

“They’re going to be all right,” Mack said confidently. He told Scout to stay and then followed Bridey into the living room, where she retreated into the sofa’s cushions, curling herself up and pulling her legs up under her. Scout remained where he’d been told to stay and the cats, after taking a precautionary look toward him, jumped up next to Bridey, staying close for protection.

Mack stood at the center of the room and looked around with a proprietary air, as though he were sizing it up for immediate occupancy, mentally removing the contents and replacing all the beautiful objects with his own belongings.

“It’s been a long time,” he said. “When I was a kid, I thought this place was as big as a football field. It seemed to me a plane could take off from here. Now,” he added thoughtfully, taking in every detail of the exquisite decor, “it’s not so intimidating.” He walked over to the portrait of Henrietta that hung over the fireplace. “And old Mrs. Willey here doesn’t look so formidable either, for that matter. In fact, judging from her portrait, she must have been really dazzling when she was young. You’d never know from this picture what a wicked old bat she turned into.”

He turned to look at Bridey, whose delicate features, framed by the lacy froth of her lovely hair, were the equal of any artist’s portrayal: the casual grace of her slim form against the sleek fabric of the sofa, the perfect contrast her vivid coloring made with the pale decor of her surroundings, her ease with the cats, who were resting companionably against her, made a picture as beautiful as the one above the fireplace, as though the whole room had been specially designed to show her off like a precious gem in an exquisite setting. For a moment, his imagination dressed her in finery to match Henrietta’s, in a gown and jewels, and once again, as on that morning in the park, he was astonished to feel his hand tingle with the urge to trace one of the soft curls that cupped her ear, to entwine a copper tendril around his finger. He almost reached out to touch her.

What a pity
, he thought, feeling the sudden pang of imminent loss.
We’ve hardly had a chance to know each other, and now . . .

“I’m sorry if I upset you last night,” he said, taking a seat in one of the low-backed wing chairs that flanked the sofa. “I just thought it was only fair to tell you that I expect to take over this apartment pretty soon so you can plan accordingly. I didn’t know you were counting on being here for a long time. The lawyers should have explained that to you. But really, does it make such a difference? Surely you’ll be able to finish your work somewhere else.”

He said it so casually, so indifferently. She realized he hadn’t a clue. He was the picture of self-confidence, his tall, handsome body at ease in the graceful chair, his place in the world safe and assured. He’d never known the kinds of financial worries she faced, the fearful hole she’d dug for herself, burning her bridges, quitting her job, putting all her savings into her expensive electronic stuff, taking this leap into insecurity, all on the fragile hope of writing her way into a better life. Mack Brewster took wealth and comfort for granted; she, on the other hand, would have to put all her dreams on hold, go back to the back-breaking work she’d determined to leave behind her. . .

“It’s not that easy,” she said. “I don’t think you’d understand.” The anger she’d felt last night was flaring up again, but she remembered what Marge had said.

Talk is good. Give him a chance
.

He was gazing at her, his black eyes exploring her face, waiting for her to continue, and once again her thoughts and feelings tangled up into a knot of confusion. How could it be that she felt something very comfortable about him, something that didn’t square with her anger and resentment?

And Marge’s words kept repeating themselves.

Talk is good
.

Maybe she should try. Maybe he would understand.

But what difference would it make? She was nothing to him. How could her dreams be of any importance to a man so obviously accustomed to getting his own way? Her thoughts were all tumbling around in her head and she didn’t know where to start. It takes courage to bare your soul, and Bridey was hardly eager to expose her vulnerability.

And then she really surprised herself; she chickened out. But only temporarily, she insisted to herself.

“Excuse me,” she said, changing the subject abruptly. “I have to stir a pot.”

She got up, and Satin and Silk jumped down from the sofa to follow her.

“Can I come too?”

Mack stood up.

“If you like,” she said, feeling relieved that she’d deflected the immediate problem.
Later
, she thought.

He signaled to Scout to come along, and they all trooped down the hall to the kitchen, with the cats keeping a nervous distance from the big black dog.

“It smells wonderful,” he said. “It takes me back many years. I can remember when there was always something good going on in this kitchen. We used to be able to smell it from across the hall.” He pointed to the big stockpots bubbling away on the stove. “What are you making?”

“Stews from around the world.” She had picked up a wooden spoon, ready to stir, and used it to indicate each one in succession. “Szekely goulash from Hungary in that one. Doro wat from Ethiopia there. Mexican chili con carne. Swedish beef with capers and beets and egg yolks. Mongolian mutton stew. And a beef bourguignon from France. Can’t have good cooking without something from France.”

“Aren’t they awfully complicated?”

“Not at all. That’s the whole point. Each one can be made easily. And if you make a big pot, you can freeze individual portions. So if you’ve got a family and a busy schedule, the kids can pitch in on a Sunday afternoon, all the cooking for a few weeks is done in one shot and then everyone can go cruise the mall. Saves a ton of money, lets the family do something fun together and then everyone eats like royalty. Of course, you don’t all eat chili or goulash every night. You can mix them up, just pop whichever ones you want into the microwave, and have something different for each person, something different whenever you want, and you don’t have to order in pizza all the time. Even for singles, who are cooking just for themselves, or if friends drop in.”

She was off and running on her favorite subject, and her enthusiasm made her cheeks glow and her eyes light up even beyond their usual sparkle.

“But that’s not the real point of my book. I’m trying to write for an older generation too. I hear so many mothers complaining that their grown-up kids don’t know how to cook at all, that they don’t turn on their ovens from one end of the year to the other, that they can’t even peel a potato. I want them to see how life has changed for young people today, that a salad bar and a packaged sandwich is about all a tired girl or guy can manage after a hard day at the office. I want my book to be broad enough to reach mothers and their daughters. And their sons too. I want—”

He interrupted her. “You’re making me hungry.” He smiled appealingly, like a kid trying to maneuver an invitation.

And Bridey, who couldn’t be mad at anyone in her kitchen, astonished herself by asking, “Have you had dinner?”

The words had popped out before she could stop them.
What am I doing
? she thought, realizing her words had implied an invitation.

“I’m so glad you asked.” He grinned suddenly at her. “I’ll set the table. Just point me in the right direction.”

This was not at all what she had planned, but the pleasure of sharing her food overcame everything else. She concealed her confusion by bending her head over a pot and lifting the lid to check the contents, letting the savory steam surround her face like a protective shield. She stirred, dipped up a test spoonful and managed to retrieve her cool demeanor.

“Plates there,” she said, putting the cover back on the pot and pointing at one of the cabinets. “Forks there. I’ll get the napkins.”

She sliced several pieces of bread from one of yesterday’s loaves and set them in a basket on the table. She dropped handfuls of lettuce, already washed and waiting in the refrigerator’s crisper, into a salad bowl, tossed in a splash of peanut oil and a spritz of Japanese rice vinegar, added a few dashes of salt and some twists of pepper and gave it all a quick toss. Then she turned on the light that hung above the table and dimmed the big working lights in the rest of the room, creating a soft glow around the little dining table. Twilight was approaching, and outside the kitchen window the birds were beginning to roost in the magnolia trees on Mack’s terrace, singing their day’s last song. Scout settled down near Mack’s feet. Silk and Satin were drinking from their water bowls. The pots were bubbling on the stove.

It feels like a family dinner
, Bridey thought.

The sweetness of it hit her in the middle of her chest with a thump, like the impact of a drumbeat.

Meanwhile, several floors below, another neighbor was in serious need of just such a quiet evening at home. Harold Maudsley was already on overload. What with his busy law practice, his heavy-duty social life and his various civic commitments, his days were hectic enough; the additional duties he’d taken on as president of the building’s co-op board made the “honor” more of a hassle than it was worth. Against his better judgment, he’d allowed the board to prevail on him to volunteer for the position because he’d felt an obligation to make his legal expertise available, even though he didn’t really have the kind of time the job demanded. What’s more, his wife was getting tired of hearing him complain about all his co-op problems. He wished he hadn’t let them rope him into the whole thing. He poured his pre-dinner martini and settled heavily into his favorite chair.