A Purrfect Romance (11 page)

F
riday’s first light came up pale blue and white across the East River, striking the tops of the skyscrapers of Midtown Manhattan into flashes of brilliance. But ominous clouds were moving in from the ocean, and by midmorning the sky was overcast, turning the sun into a misted-over orb that struggled to show its face through the gray cover.

Bridey’s mood was a perfect match. The prospect of Afton Morley, due to arrive at noon, was trouble enough, a regular serpent in her paradise. But the presence of Mack Brewster at the same time . . . how much stress could a girl take? She tried to tell herself that it was no big deal whether Mack was there or not, but the thump-thump in her chest was a clear contradiction. She tried all morning to concentrate on her work, but she was too wound up to get anything done and finally totally gave up all hope of finishing the chapter she’d been working on. She packed up all her notes, saved everything on her computer and forced herself to focus only on Afton Morley. In an effort to ease her edginess, she dressed casually, in a pair of black jeans and a lightweight, white cotton sweater, with her copper-gold hair pulled back from her forehead by a black headband. Then, ever the automatic hostess, she had a pot of coffee brewing by the time Mack arrived to meet their common “enemy.”

They hadn’t seen each other since their disastrous evening together on Monday, each managing to lock themselves behind mutually excluding walls. Mack barely nodded at Bridey as he came through the door. Bridey, for her part, was silent as she closed the door behind him.

He planted himself firmly in the living room, ready for a battle if necessary. His expression was grim. Bridey paced the big living room, feeling as though the apartment was under an escalating attack, with Mack on one flank and this long-lost relative, Morley, on the other. And it was up to her to protect it. The cats, sensing the tension in the air, had retreated to their private quarters. It was just before noon when Max, the doorman, rang up on the intercom to let Bridey know that Mr. Kinski and Mr. and Mrs. Morley had arrived.

“They’re here,” she said to Mack. “Two Morleys: Mr. and Mrs.”

Mack’s expression turned even darker. “Okay,” he said tersely. “Bring them on.”

He was standing at the fireplace, beneath the portrait of Henrietta. He’d left his office and come home just for this meeting, and in his dark suit and dark tie, he looked almost menacingly self-possessed.

But behind his fierce expression, a disconcerting force was percolating through him, distracting him from his single-minded determination to accomplish his mission, to honor his father’s memory and acquire this apartment for his own use. It was Bridey’s dilemma that kept poking at his unconscious. Though he hadn’t yet realized it, her predicament had aroused his protective instincts. And when the bell rang, and he saw how bravely she squared her shoulders before she opened the door, a sympathetic pang ran through his body.

He still felt the memory of her body in his arms.

And he would never forget that kiss.

“Bridey, this is Mr. Afton Morley,” Gerry was saying, introducing the tall, hefty man who followed him into the apartment. “And this is Muriel Morley,” he added, presenting the woman who trailed in behind her husband. “They just got in from Twin Falls last night and this is their first visit to the Big Apple.”

“How do you do?” Bridey held out her hand, but Mr. Morley swept by her, striding into the apartment as though he already owned it and refusing in advance to be intimidated by its opulence. Bridey turned to Mrs. Morley, whose broad face looked a little more affable. “I hope your trip was pleasant, Mrs. Morley.”

“Oh, just call me Mulie,” the woman said, giving Bridey a fluttery handshake. “Everyone does. It’s short for Muriel, but Afton gave me that nickname, and I guess it just stuck.”

Mulie Morley was a small woman and round as a muffin. Beneath her tightly curled, ashy gray hair, her raisin-sized eyes peered out timidly from a plump, red face. The city had already scared her silly and now, entering the Willey apartment, she was awed by the magnificence that confronted her. She clutched at her straw bag as though she expected someone to try to grab it away from her and tugged at the flowery pink-and-green blouse that struggled to cover her bulky hips. Her lime-green pants strained at the elastic waistband that stretched around her ample stomach and her feet hurt from the new shoes she’d bought just for this trip. She longed to sit down and was thankful when Bridey led her toward a chair in the living room.

“Now, Mulie,” her husband said sharply, “don’t you go getting comfortable. We came here to see the place and we’re going to get right to it.”

Afton Morley was already making a tour of the room, touching things with his work-hardened fingers, lifting pieces of porcelain to examine their markings, opening drawers and poking around in their contents, as though he was taking inventory. He’d acknowledged Mack’s presence with a quick handshake and a gruff recognition of the board’s interest and then paused for a moment in front of the fireplace.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” he said with a gesture of his chin toward Henrietta’s portrait. He squinted aggressively up at it. The picture seemed to return his challenge, flashing its green eyes as though at an intruder, ready to take him on. “Must have been painted a long time ago,” Afton continued, looking contemptuous. “Appears like she was a handful; full of beans, I’d say, with that red hair of hers.” At this, Bridey lifted her own copper-topped head and held her chin a little higher, as though to join her own protest to Henrietta’s. “Personally,” Afton went on, oblivious to Bridey, “I’m not fond of difficult women. Isn’t that right, Mulie?”

Mulie tucked down her chins into her plump neck. “Just what you say, Afton.” Her smile, if that’s what it was, was tiny.

He removed his buff-colored Stetson just long enough to smooth his thinning reddish hair and then planted it firmly back on his head, as though daring anyone to take it from him. With his pointy cowboy boots, his bolo tie and his pale blue polyester suit, he was an alien, bullish presence in this very urban place.

“So!” He planted his feet wide and stuck his hands into his pockets, pulling his jacket taut across his paunchy front. “Where are those cats?” he demanded abruptly. “I want to see what kind of animals that damn-fool woman tried to leave all her money to.”

Bridey, Mack and Gerry all exchanged glances of dismay.

“I’ll get them,” Bridey said. “They seem to be a little nervous today.”

She left the room hurriedly, glad to escape Afton Morley’s poisonous attitude.

“Nervous, huh? Never heard anything so dumb in my life, pampering a couple of animals that way.”

She returned with Silk and Satin who, as soon as she put them down on the carpet, took one hostile look at the Morleys and retreated through the French windows to the safety of the balcony.

“They look pretty useless to me,” Afton said, looking after them briefly. “Back on the ranch, a cat doesn’t work, into a burlap bag it goes with a couple of rocks, and down to the crick.”

Bridey was appalled. “What kind of work do your cats do, Mr. Morley?”

“Oh, we don’t have any cats,” he said dismissively. “Can’t abide the fool things. But if we did, they’d catch mice is what they’d do.”

He was taking a Japanese woodblock print from the wall, examining the provenance taped on its back. “Hmm,” he said. “Eighteen fifty-nine. This stuff worth anything?”

“We don’t have any mice here,” Bridey said, ignoring his question. She felt as though she had to defend Silk and Satin.

“Actually,” Mack joined in, “Silk and Satin do have a job here. You see how they’re sitting there, out on the balcony? Their job is to scare away the pigeons. Terrible mess, those pigeons make.”

Just as he spoke those words, as though to make fun of them, a fat gray pigeon flew onto the railing. It hopped down to the pot of geraniums and was strutting about, clucking pompously at the cats. But the cats’ attention was on the action inside the room and they took no notice of the bird at all. Afton glanced casually over his shoulder toward the balcony as he placed the print back on its hook.

“Yeah, I see how they do that,” Afton said with a contemptuous snort. “I can see how those pigeons are just scared silly.” Now he was holding a Limoges dish above his head, seeing how the light was diffused through the fine porcelain into a soft glow. The cats were the least of his concern. “Listen,” he said offhandedly, “when I take over here, I’ll just get rid of them. Can’t abide the damn things.”

Gerry saw Bridey’s fists clench. And he also saw how Mack Brewster moved away from the fireplace to stand behind her, as though to give her moral support. There was a flash in Mack’s eyes that made Gerry step in quickly to deflect this line of talk.

“Why don’t we move right along?” he said. “You wanted to see the apartment, so I’ll take you through it now.”

“It’s about time,” Afton said. “I want to see just what we’re getting here.” He turned to his wife. “Come along, Mulie.”

“This here’s some damn spread.” Afton reluctantly allowed himself to be impressed. “That old girl really knew how to live it up.” He’d walked through the rooms appraisingly, lifting a cushion here and opening a curtain there, feeling the fabrics roughly and even sitting down to bounce a couple of times on Bridey’s bed. “Betcha it’ll bring in a pretty penny when I sell it off.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Can’t think what anyone wants with all this frippery. Taxes alone must be a fortune. Might want to keep the place, though, at least for a few years. I may be just an old country boy, but I been doing some checking around, and I hear the market’s improving here in New York. I could fill the place up with some cheap stuff and rent it out furnished till prices peak.” He looked cannily around him, calculating what he could make if he sold the contents of the apartment.

“Well, Mr. Morley,” Mack said gruffly, “the board has some rules about rentals of these units—”

“Why don’t I show you the kitchen?” Gerry said, heading off a potential argument. “I’m sure Mrs. Morley would like to see it.”

“Oh, you betcha. Mulie here’s a great little cook. Tell ’em, Mulie.”

“Well, they do say my ambrosia salad is something special,” Mrs. Morley said timidly. She’d been silent until now and seemed uncertain about adding her two cents. “I like to add those little mini chocolate chips,” she said, turning to Bridey as though revealing a girlish secret. “Gives it a little extra sweetness.” She blinked her eyes several times. “Do you like to cook, dear?”

“Uh, yes, I do.” Bridey didn’t know what to offer against Mrs. Morley’s ambrosia salad. “Actually, I do like to cook.”

They arrived in the kitchen, and Mrs. Morley’s mouth opened in astonishment.

“Oh, my!” she said. “I can’t believe this. Not in someone’s home. Why, Afton, just look at this kitchen. Oh, my! Oh, my!” She walked around the work island in the center of the room, staring wide-eyed at the enormity of it all. “Whatever in the world would anyone want with something like this, just for themselves?” she said. “I mean, Mrs. Willey never did have any children, did she? I mean, it’s not like she had to feed a big family every day.”

“No,” Gerry said. “She never had any children. As far as she knew, she had no relatives at all.” He didn’t feel comfortable with this line of conversation and he tried to deflect it. “Do you have children, Mrs. Morley? You and Mr. Morley?”

“No,” she said, pressing her lips together as though she anticipated criticism. “No, Afton and me, we’ve never been blessed with any kids. But I really love children. I come from a big family myself, three brothers and four sisters, though Afton here’s an only child. I’m always telling him, he doesn’t know how precious a big family is. If I could’ve, I’d have had a whole mob of little ones.”

“Just as well,” Mr. Morley said. He was looking disdainfully at all the chrome and tile and the fancy utensils. He was calculating their resale value in cold dollars and cents. “Kids are just a damn nuisance, if you ask me, unless you can get a good day’s work out of ’em. And most kids today, they aren’t worth what it costs to feed ’em. Anymore, it’s hard to find a kid got as much as even one full day’s work in him.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. No one knew what to say.

Finally, it was Mr. Morley himself who filled in the gap. “But like she says, Mulie here’s real big on family. Good thing she is, too, because that’s how come she got into that genealogy stuff, kind of like a hobby with her. That’s how we came to find out about me being Henrietta’s cousin.”

“First cousin twice removed,” Mulie corrected him.

“Yeah. Whatever. See, one of the local papers had this piece in it about a lady in New York left all this money to her cats, and Mulie recognized the name. Lloyd was my grandpa’s name, my mom’s dad, so when Mulie saw that story about how Henrietta Lloyd Willey’s great-great-grandpa, or some such, made all his money fur trapping out west, way back in the pioneer days, well, it set her to thinking. So Mulie here did a little research, and she tracked down how I was related to this nutty old lady. I never held much with all that genealogy stuff, seems to me a waste of time, but it sure paid off this time.”

“You saw it in the paper?” Gerry interrupted him, looking uncomfortable.

“Sure did. Right there in the Twin Falls
Times-News
. Didn’t you see it?”

“No, it never made the New York papers. I guess no one thought it was interesting enough.” Gerry made a mental note to have one of his associates track down the item and see how it got picked up. And here he’d been thinking the story had escaped the press.

“Well, it sure got some laughs out in Twin Falls. But I got the last laugh, I guess. Me and Mulie’s just gonna be laughing all the way to the bank.” Once more, he removed his hat and smoothed his hair. “Anyway,” he said, replacing the hat carefully, “I gotta go now and meet with my lawyers. We got us some work to do, getting all the papers signed and everything. They tell me there’s gotta be some sort of hearing first. A kinship hearing, they called it. Guess they’ll be in touch with you pretty soon.” He paused to look into the cats’ special room. “Imagine that,” he said in disgust, “a whole room just for those two.” He pointed at Silk, who by now had come in from the balcony and was circling her bed protectively. “What were you planning to do, put in an extra bed for each of that one’s babies?”