A Purrfect Romance (9 page)

“And now here’s Mack Brewster,” he said, looking at her over his newspaper, “after all that table pounding at our last meeting, after all his insisting that there mustn’t be any delay in challenging Henrietta Willey’s crazy will: now here he is all of a sudden calling me to say there’s really no need to rush. I don’t know what’s gotten into the man.”

Harold had been in court all day and hadn’t picked up Mack’s message—along with twenty others—until he’d returned to his office at six o’clock, too late to reach Mack at work. Now, at almost eight o’clock, while they waited for the cook to get dinner ready, it was among the day’s many irritations he was reviewing for his wife.

Vivien Maudsley didn’t even look up from her
Vogue
magazine.

“Maybe he’s changed his mind about buying the apartment,” she said absentmindedly. She stroked a languid hand along her sleek, ash-blonde hair, careful not to muss its upswept perfection. She couldn’t care less if Mack Brewster moved into 12A or not. “What in the world does he want with that place anyway? It’s much too big for him alone, and he’s already got that perfectly good space next door.”

She sipped her drink and continued her reading, turning the pages with carefully sculptured nails, causing the gold and diamonds on her fingers to flash a most satisfactory light. As far as she was concerned, letting those two stupid cats occupy the residence was outrageous.

“If you ask me,” she added abstractedly as her eye was caught by a spread of the latest from Givenchy, “I think you should just go ahead and get those cats out of there so some real people can move in.”

“Well, that’s just what I’m doing,” Harold said petulantly. “The whole thing is crazy. Leaving all that money and a whole apartment to a couple of pampered pets when living space in New York is so limited.” His tone was all indignant righteousness, conveniently ignoring the fact that there was no shortage of multimillion-dollar apartments in the city. “Anyway, he was in such a stew about it at the last meeting, I went ahead and filed the papers right away. It’s all been taken care of.” He looked at his watch and then picked up the phone that lay on the end table. “I’ll just give him a call and let him know.”

But he only reached the answering machine at Mack’s apartment, so he left his message and hung up. With that done, Harold Maudsley poured another martini and settled back to read his newspaper in peace. The cook would have dinner ready in about twenty minutes, and he needed the time to wind down from his exhausting day.

And in the kitchen of 12A, Mack’s steely resolve had vanished he knew not where. He’d intended only to make a friendly, neighborly visit, clear up any questions Bridey might have, lay his plans on the line, smooth any ruffled feathers, and then retreat, skirmish won.

Instead, the evening’s magic was working on him, and here he was, enjoying the best dinner he’d had in a long time and feeling an inexplicable need to share with this bright sprite of a girl the whole, long story, a story he’d never told anyone. Perhaps it was the golden light or the quiet of the evening. Perhaps it was the perfect chili. But he didn’t know how to begin. Perhaps he should postpone—

“About the apartment . . .” Bridey’s words interrupted his thoughts.

There it was; he knew he couldn’t put it off.

“Right,” he said. “About the apartment.” He stared into his chili but found no help there. “I was just trying to figure out where to start.”

“Is it so complicated?”

“Oh, yes. It’s very complicated. Henrietta’s crazy legacy. The apartment. The cats. And now . . .”

He came to a stop, distracted by the play of the light on her fine features, the way it shadowed her high cheekbones and gleamed softly along the delicate line of her jaw.

“And now?”

“And now, you,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t expect—” He stopped himself, feeling as if he was about to say more than he meant to, and he covered it up by adding teasingly, “You should have been a dried-up old crone with a wart on your nose.”

“Sorry about that,” she said testily. “I’ve got a few years yet before I get to cronehood. And anyway, warts don’t run in my family.” She took a bite of bread. “But go ahead,” she said. “I’m listening.”

He took a deep breath. “Well, like I said, it’s complicated. It goes back a long way. Ten, twelve years. Maybe more.”

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Satin and Silk can’t be more than a couple of years old.”

“Oh, it has nothing to do with the cats. They were just a handy vehicle.”

“A vehicle? For what? What do you mean?”

“Her way to keep me from getting the apartment.”

“I don’t understand.” Bridey peered intently at his strong features, the determined set of his jaw, the intelligent, thoughtful depth of his dark eyes. She was touched by the way the lines of humor around his mouth softened his air of authority and command. To her surprise, she really liked what she saw: the conservative cut of his wavy black hair, the understatement of his oxford shirt, the perfection of his well-tailored blazer, all expressing the same comforting sense of solidity, of strength and security she’d felt when they’d sat together on that rock in the park.

He doesn’t exactly have pizzazz.
She imagined herself reporting the whole thing to Marge.
I don’t exactly know how to describe what it is that he does have. But he definitely has something . . .

He had put down his knife and fork and rested his elbows on either side of his plate, locking his fingers together and leaning toward her, pressing his mouth against his hands. The words were so hard to find.

But, finally, he began.

“T
o begin with,” he said, shifting awkwardly in his seat, “the twelfth floor isn’t divided symmetrically.”

“So?”

Why is he starting way out in left field?

“So, apartment Twelve A is very large.” He waved his hand as though to demonstrate. “Eighteen rooms, including guest rooms, library, servants’ quarters.”

“You seem to know it well.”

“I’ve seen the floor plan.”

“You’ve never been in the apartment?”

“Only twice, but never past the living room. The first time was when I was just a kid. But then, after what happened—” He paused. This wasn’t going to be easy.

“What happened?”

“Well,
something
happened, but I never actually knew what it was. When we first moved into the building, Mrs. Willey was perfectly cordial and neighborly. She even asked my mother to bring me in to meet her husband. She gave me a lollipop. I remember being impressed by her flamboyant manner; Henrietta Willey sure had a very dramatic way about her. She made a big show of everything she did, even if it was just giving a lollipop to a kid. And, as I said, she was quite friendly. She even asked my parents to several of her parties.

“But then, all of a sudden, with absolutely no explanation, she turned into an iceberg. Suddenly there were no more invitations. No more hellos in the elevator. No more anything. I think my mother tried to approach her about it, but when Henrietta Willey froze someone out, they stayed frozen. She was a terrifically headstrong woman and she would never have lowered herself to anything so ordinary as justifying her behavior. We just didn’t exist for her anymore.

“My folks were plenty mad about getting snubbed like that, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Of course, I was just a kid, so all of this went on kind of over my head. But eventually it became just a fact of life: the Brewsters didn’t talk to the Willeys and the Willeys didn’t talk to the Brewsters, and that was that.”

“But what does this have to do with the twelfth floor’s lack of symmetry?”

“Yeah, I guess I kind of wandered there.” He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Anyway, the way it’s laid out, my apartment, Twelve B, is much smaller. I have a huge terrace instead, but the apartment itself has only six rooms: kitchen, living room, dining room, two bedrooms and a maid’s room. Plus three baths. That’s all.”

“So?”
Most people would think that’s a lot
. Bridey held her tongue.

“Well, my dad had always said that someday, when I was married and had a family of my own, he wanted us all to live close to each other, with the grandkids right next door. He had these dreams—I don’t know, plans, maybe—of being able to take his grandchildren to the park, buying them ice creams at the zoo, reading to them at night. He saw us all as a big extended family, with children all over the place and himself as the patriarch, seeing to it that everything was under his control, done just right.”

A harsh shadow passed over Mack’s face, and there was a hint of old struggles in the lines of determination that deepened around his mouth. He seemed to be looking into hard, old memories, and when he spoke again, something fierce rode beneath the surface of his words.

“And when my dad wanted something, he made sure he got it.”

Bridey couldn’t tell if he was speaking in pride or anger. She remained silent, realizing this was a story with many levels.

“So when Neville Willey died,” he continued, “Dad decided it was a good time to approach Henrietta about buying the apartment so he could take over the whole floor. He figured this place was so big she’d be rattling around in it all by herself. He didn’t see any reason why, even if she had removed us from her guest list, she wouldn’t be willing to consider a good offer. It was a simple business proposition as far as he was concerned. The way he saw it, he’d be doing her a favor.”

“I gather she wasn’t interested?”

“Wasn’t interested?” Mack laughed briefly. “She practically threw him out. She carried on something awful. Mother and I could hear her yelling all the way over in our apartment. She was screaming, ‘How dare you!’ at my father. And ‘I’ve never been so insulted. Of all people,
of all people
! You’re the last one I’d allow to own this apartment! The very last! I’d see you dead before I’d sell to you! How dare you!’ When my dad came back, he was furious. No one spoke to Llewellyn Brewster that way.”

Mack’s face was grim, and he pressed his clasped fists against his lips to restrain the anger the memory evoked. When he finally spoke, his eyes were hard.

“Bridey,” he said intently, “my father was a tough son of a bitch. No one knew that better than I did. But he was also a gentleman of the old school, and he was accustomed to ladies who spoke softly. He wasn’t about to tolerate such outrageous behavior, and he swore he’d never speak to ‘that woman’ again. And from that day on, he never did.”

“You never found out why she was in such a rage?”

“No, I never did. None of us did.”

Mack paused and looked down, frowning at his chili as though it had appeared out of nowhere. Then he sat up very straight, squaring his shoulders.

“In the Brewster family,” he went on, “you stick up for your own. The battle lines were drawn, and from then on we stayed on our own side and left Henrietta alone on hers. I was about eighteen then, and heading off to Annapolis, and I guess I got caught up in my own affairs: finishing school, doing my naval service. I forgot about the whole thing. I had other things on my mind.

“But then,” he continued, “a few years later, my mother died suddenly.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Bridey knew what it meant to lose a parent, and she was instantly sympathetic.

“It was while I was still in the Navy. I got word she’d had a stroke, and by the time I got home from the carrier I was stationed on, she was gone.”

“That’s awful.”

He nodded, and his eyes seemed to lose their gleam momentarily, like he was looking somewhere into the past. “It came suddenly, with no warning at all. She’d been shopping on Fifth Avenue and was just coming out onto the street when it happened.”

“And your dad?”

“Poor guy. Her death hit him awfully hard. For all his toughness, I think he needed her more than anyone realized. His personality changed completely. All that drive and power drained out of him, like he was some poor animal that mates for life and is suddenly alone, and he never recovered from the loss. He died less than a year later.”

Bridey shook her head sympathetically, and they were both silent for a moment, each caught up in their own memories.

“I can sort of understand,” she said, “if you feel you need to buy the apartment for his sake, but—”

“There’s more to it than that,” he said, interrupting her. “After the funeral, when I stood there at his grave, all I could think of was how he’d never see his dream come true. He’d never get to see his family gathered around him, his grandchildren running all around him; he’d never even get to know who they were, how they turned out. It just broke me up. It was like I couldn’t think of anything else. He’d planned so carefully for his retirement years, and now he would never get to have them. I couldn’t stand to see him lose out like that. I couldn’t get it out of my head.

“But the final straw came when I got home from the burial. I don’t know how it happened, but someone must have brought flowers to the apartment instead of sending them to the funeral home, and I guess they’d been left outside Henrietta’s door by mistake. The thing is, they were all smashed, with broken-off leaves lying around on the carpet, like they’d been thrown forcibly against our door.”

He paused, and his face turned to granite, as though the scene was still vivid before him.

“And there was a note,” he continued grimly. “It was stuck on top of the flowers, and it was written on Henrietta Willey’s notepaper, with her name engraved on it. Do you know what it said?”

He peered intently into her eyes, as though challenging her to read his mind.

She shook her head.

“It said,
Please keep your damn flowers on your own side of the hall.
It was signed
H. W.

“It made me wild. To think she could carry a grudge so far. She must have known my father had been lowered into his grave that very morning, and she couldn’t even respect that. It made me wild,” he repeated. “All I could think was, ‘I’ll get even, you old witch!’ But I knew I was too angry to think sensibly right then, so I waited a few weeks, till I calmed down, and when I did, it came to me that if I could persuade her to sell the apartment, I’d be carrying out my father’s wishes. It seemed to me that in that way, at least, he could have his way this one final time. I felt like I owed it to his memory.

“So when I figured I was ready to keep a lid on my temper, I came over here to talk to Henrietta. I thought I was being very reasonable and tried to talk calmly with her. But there was no talking to that woman. She was like ice. She said she’d never forgive my father for his impossible behavior, and as far as she was concerned, she’d be glad if every Brewster in the whole world could suffer as she had, and that I would never see the day that her apartment would belong to me. She kept saying, in that imperious way of hers, ‘I’ll see to it! I’ll see to it that you never get this place!’ I guess she’d gotten totally dotty in her old age.” He paused and took a long, slow breath. “So there it is. The whole sad story.”

“But what could your father have done to make her so angry?”

“I have absolutely no idea. I guess it will have to remain a mystery. I don’t know why I felt I had to tell you; I’ve never spoken of this to anyone before. Somehow, it just seemed important that you know.” He laughed. “Did you put a spell on me? Did you put something in the chili?”

“No, I didn’t put anything in the chili.”

She laughed with him, touched by the way he had opened up to her. But now her own future was tangled up in a web of stubborn old feuds and irrational passions. Why should all this ancient history ruin her own plans?

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, breaking in on her thoughts. “Why don’t we have dessert over on my terrace? You’ve never seen my place, and the view is wonderful at night.”

The invitation seemed to surprise her, but not as much as it surprised him. What was it about this girl? He’d revealed himself to her as though she were his best friend in the whole world. And now, having done that, when he should get away from her before he got even more entangled, he found he was looking for excuses to stretch out the time with her.

“I don’t know,” she was saying. “I still have work to do . . .”
I should be avoiding you like the plague, you and your mission to take everything away from me
, Bridey thought
.

But the cordial mood of the evening was still upon her, and he looked so handsome in the warm light, with his dark hair and his deep, dark eyes, and his secrets, newly revealed.

“Just half an hour,” he said. “I’ll make the coffee while you check out the view. It’s really wonderful at night, and I like showing it off.”

“Well,” she heard herself saying, to her enormous surprise, “just half an hour. And I’ll bring the cake.”
What am I doing?

Silk and Satin complained about being left behind, but Bridey was adamant.

“You guys stay here,” she said, slipping awkwardly through the door, pushing at them with her toes. She was juggling a Sacher torte in one hand and a bowl of whipped cream in the other, while Mack held the door for her. “Take a nap or something.” She barely got through as Mack closed the door against their protests. “All I need,” she said to Mack, as she followed him to his apartment, “is for those two to get lost or something.”

Whoops!
She gulped and felt the telltale flush spread up her cheeks.
I shouldn’t have said that!

Mack glanced at her over his shoulder and their eyes met. The shadow of a smile caught at the corner of his mouth, and a frisson of guilt flashed through her. But if they shared a secret, he wasn’t letting on and, as he held the door for her, she entered his apartment with her chin stuck up in a brave effort to express her defiance.

Mack’s place was a striking contrast to the spectacular opulence of 12A. The Brewster residence was the picture of solid, lived-in domesticity. Deep chairs and a big sofa, all covered in sturdy fabrics, wore their age with assured dignity. A fine Persian rug covered part of the dark parquet floor, and leather-topped tables sat securely at strategic places around the room. Bookcases covered two whole walls, from floor to ceiling, filled with books that showed the signs of having been really read. Countless framed photos were displayed on the walls and tabletops and, here and there, mixed in with the family pictures, Bridey caught glimpses of well-known faces from the worlds of politics, science, and the arts.

One picture in particular needed no identification, although the face wasn’t famous. A Bachrach portrait in a large silver frame, next to the sofa, was obviously Llewellyn Brewster, Mack’s father. The similarity, despite the difference in their ages, was unmistakable: the same dark, handsome features, the same set of the jaw, the same air of authority. It occurred to her that if the son took after the father, Mack Brewster would probably age well.

Bearing the chocolate cake and the bowl of whipped cream, she followed him into the kitchen, which, though small by Willey standards, was entirely serviceable. It showed little evidence of any culinary activity, but Mack set the coffeemaker going with a few expert motions while Bridey cut the cake and dolloped the whipped cream over their portions.

“Why don’t you go out to the terrace,” Mack said, gesturing toward the French doors that were visible at the far end of the living room. “I’ll bring this stuff out as soon as the coffee’s ready.”

Alone on the terrace, she surveyed the scene appreciatively. As Mack had said, it was truly huge, and no suburban patio could have been more comfortably furnished, with big lounge chairs set strategically for conversation and skyline viewing. At the center of the terra-cotta-tiled terrace was a large, round, wrought-iron table and a set of matching wrought-iron chairs. Huge planters were filled with shrubbery, along with pots of flowering plants. A whole bank of magnolia trees in full bloom filled the air with a heady scent.