Read A Purrfect Romance Online
Authors: J.M. Bronston
“So there you are! Making a nest when you should be eating your dinner.” She lifted Silk up. “Let’s get you out of there.”
But Silk didn’t want to come. Her claws dug into the surrounding remnants and dragged a few out with her, hanging like irregular little flags beneath her.
“Come on now, Silk! Don’t make a mess of Mrs. Willey’s basket. Let it go. You’re going to rip it.” Gently, she untangled the cloth from Silk’s unwilling claws, holding the squirming cat aloft and ignoring her protests as bits of fabric were scattered about. “I know you think this would make a wonderful place to have your babies, but I don’t think Mrs. Willey meant this basket to be a maternity ward. Come on now!”
She finally got Silk detached from the trailing pieces of cloth and sat back to survey the upheaval that had been wrought. Everything was in a multicolored pile, a soft mass of prints and tweeds and linens. Knitting needles had tumbled out in the confusion, and scraps of taffeta and lengths of yarn were draped over the basket’s edge.
“Honestly! Look what a mess you made.” Bridey knelt beside the basket and picked up a piece of blue-and-white crewel, shaking it accusingly at Silk. “Now I’m going to have to sort all this out and fold it up again.”
She lifted the remaining layers of cloth out of the basket and started rearranging them.
But something lay at the bottom of the basket.
A notebook, cloth covered, with a gold pen attached to it by a silk cord.
She opened it.
And read the words on the first page.
March 17, 1999
Dear Diary
—
Bridey lifted her eyes from the page abruptly and shut the book.
She looked around the room quickly, as though afraid someone had seen her.
Henrietta Willey’s own words! Written in her own hand! Here was a chance to look into the heart of this remarkable, self-centered and eccentric woman whose extraordinary life had drawn Bridey’s into its own purposes.
But Bridey knew there is one thing you never do: you never read someone else’s diary.
Never!
But—not even if the writer is no longer alive?
Well. . .
She was torn. It couldn’t hurt, could it? No one would ever know. Maybe just the tiniest peek, just the first page—
She half-expected lightning to strike right through the ceiling. But she opened the book again.
Dear Diary—The book is done! I can’t believe it, after all these years, I finally finished it. Nanna would have been so proud.
Henrietta’s handwriting, though it suggested the copperplate style of another time—gracefully elegant and firm, the mark of good breeding and careful schooling—nevertheless sprawled flamboyantly across the page. She wrote with a broad, felt-tipped pen, and dashes and exclamation marks were strewn liberally throughout, an expression of Henrietta’s characteristic self-centeredness.
Bridey felt like a clod, intruding on another’s private journal, but once started, she couldn’t stop herself. She went on reading.
And Mama, too. She always said something should be done to preserve all these treasures, and now I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it! Mama didn’t think she was clever enough—poor Mama—she never did value herself sufficiently. She always said it would have to be up to me. Because I
am
[heavily underlined] clever enough! And now I’ve done it—I’ve actually written a whole book! But I could never have been so bold if it hadn’t been for my darling Neville. His encouragement, his faith in me, his willingness to give me the time, without complaining—oh, my dear Neville, what would I do without you?
Bridey closed the book again, embarrassed to have stumbled so crassly into Henrietta’s privacy.
But the diary’s lure was too great. She couldn’t resist. She opened the diary again.
And now it’s time, of course—time to get my book out there for all the world to enjoy! And who could know more about the subject than Yours Truly! Oh, my dear, dear diary—it feels so nervy. But,—as my darling Neville says—I’ve never been shy, heaven knows! But writing a book feels so revealing, such an opening of one’s heart to public display. And what if the public finds that what’s there is nothing more than the mediocre meanderings of a very ordinary and uninteresting person.
But
no
! [Again, heavily underlined] Banish that thought this instant, Henrietta! I, who have lived all over the world? I, who have been fortunate to be exposed to every significant event of my time, every important person of this century? Ordinary? Uninteresting? Never!
Oh, and I do so want to see my words in print. Actually in print!
Well, that’s the next step. Wish me luck!
Bridey couldn’t stop herself. She had to learn more. But she never expected what was revealed on the next page, across the top of which was scrawled the title:
The Henrietta Lloyd Caswell Willey
Book of Good Eating
followed by Henrietta’s approving comment,
There! Doesn’t that look utterly lovely?
Bridey gasped.
Henrietta had written a book about food.
There were tingles up and down her spine and her very hair seemed to crackle with electricity, as though the writer’s presence had wafted into the room, emphasizing the startling coincidence.
She needed a moment to adjust to the diary’s remarkable revelation, to catch her breath, to debate with herself: should she go on reading? Was she somehow
meant
to go on reading? Did Henrietta want her to go on reading?
If ever she’d felt a bond with the departed Mrs. Willey . . .
Of course she couldn’t stop herself. Who could?
Bridey took a deep breath. Silk curled up next to her, for she quite approved of the whole thing. As Bridey opened the book again, Silk peered into her face, urging her on. With one soft paw, she patted the page, placing a stamp of approval there.
“Okay,” Bridey said aloud. “Here goes. And if I get into trouble, it’s your fault, Silk. If you hadn’t hidden in that basket . . .”
She rearranged herself comfortably on the carpet with her back against the chair and settled down to read, the tangle of fabric around her quite forgotten.
Sunday evening, March 21, 1999
D
ear Diary—
Didn’t sleep a wink all last night—I was so excited. Thought long and hard and finally, I’ve decided! I’m going to ask Llewellyn Brewster to publish my book. Isn’t it lucky, my dear? One of New York’s most distinguished publishers—oh, the gods must be smiling on me—to have put the Brewsters right here on my very same floor! They seem to be a nice enough couple, well-bred and good company. Mrs. B is rather quiet but very pleasant, and her husband is charming—though dreadfully opinionated—but then, I never do mind a forceful man, so much more interesting, and at least he’s a gentleman. And their boy has been no trouble at all. Most teenagers set my teeth on edge, but young Mackenzie is quite acceptable. Well behaved—not like so many children these days who have no manners at all—doesn’t anyone teach their children anything anymore? But this one has been well brought up—a credit to his family. Nice looking, too—he’ll be quite a catch some day!
Now, my dear diary, how shall I plan my little campaign? The Harmons are coming to dinner on the 1
st—
that should be a good opportunity—Jack is just back from the Middle East and will have all the news, and Edith has the good sense to let him do all the talking for both of them—and I’ll ask Mimsy and Buff Nichols—their house in the Hamptons is being remodeled so they’ll be in town, Buff is always good company, and if Mimsy just doesn’t get off on her darling twins, God!—that woman can be such a bore when she starts gushing on and on about her babies’ latest “phase”—does she really think it’s so remarkable that they actually sit up in their cribs and crawl across the floor all by themselves? I’m sure there are absolutely thousands and thousands of babies sitting up and crawling all over the world right at this very minute. I’m sure, my dear, if I’d ever had any children I would never have made such an everlasting fuss over them. Such a bore! But I suppose Mimsy waited so long to have them, now she thinks they are some sort of marvels, straight from heaven. I’ll just have to steer all conversation away from the subject of children, at least till after dinner.
And then, after the coffee, when Neville is serving liqueurs, that will be my chance. I’ll just quietly get Mr. Brewster off by himself—into the library—and I’ll tell him about my book. Then I’ll give him the manuscript and ask him to publish it. I just know he’ll be happy to do it. After all, isn’t that what friends are for?
And why shouldn’t he be happy to have it? I mean, it’s not just an ordinary cookbook. I’m sure there can’t possibly be another like it—so many wonderful stories from all the countries where Neville was posted—Austria, Malaysia, Argentina—mixed right in with marvelous recipes from Mama and Nanna Lloyd—handed down for generations—and all the wonderful cooks I’ve had—
Thursday, April 1
I’m so excited, I can’t wait for tomorrow to come! I’ve asked Jean-Claude to do his wonderful salmon mousse for dinner tomorrow. And a good Chablis to go with it. What do you think, dear diary—would it be de trop to serve that wonderful Les Preuses we picked up in Burgundy on our last trip? 1970 was
such
a good year for Burgundy whites. And this
is
a very special occasion! Or is that putting it on a bit thick? Well, I’ll leave that up to Neville, the wine is his department—he’s so much more sensitive than I am about such matters.
So, the mousse and a Chablis. That, and a salad—greens only, I think—with Jean-Claude’s lovely vinaigrette—he does it so well, with just a hint of dried curry—just the barest hint—don’t want to overwhelm the mousse. And a dacquoise for dessert—absolutely my favorite! I’ll leave the rest of the menu up to Jean-Claude—but he must make those darling little Austrian dinner rolls.—no one in New York can touch him when it comes to breads—
And then, when we have his tummy well-pampered, Llewellyn Brewster should be in a properly benign and receptive mood. N’est-ce pas, dear diary? Oh, my dear! I can’t wait! This is so exciting!
Friday, April 2, 1999—A
most
special day!
My little cockleshell has been set on its way out into the big world! I am so excited, I can barely write these words.
Llewellyn has taken my precious manuscript!
The dear man—he was so surprised—there he was, liqueur in one hand and my heavy tome—almost 400 pages, for goodness’ sake—in the other! Let me tell you all about it, my dear, dear diary.
I waited until after dinner—which was perfect, by the way!—the Les Preuses was awfully good, with that very faint flintiness, just right with the mousse, dear Neville always chooses so well!—and I let everyone get settled down with their liqueurs. Mimsy was just bursting to tell us about some new marvel her darlings had performed—teething, I think (what in the world is so remarkable about a couple of teeth showing up in babies’ gums—they all do it, don’t they?)—and I knew that was my perfect opportunity to rescue Llewellyn, so I drew him away from the others into Neville’s library, sat him comfortably in Neville’s leather chair and then proceeded to charm him with the history of the Lloyd women—wonderful cooks, every one of them. What incredible lives they had!—pioneer women—and talented artists, too (though none of them ever achieved fame—unappreciated in their time, I’m sure!)—and all beauties!—and of course, I included myself, who has been fortunate enough to have lived all over the world—and Llewellyn was most kind—a dear man—though perhaps he was a bit fuddled by the wine. He took my manuscript and said he’d be sure to read it.
Oh, my dear, dear diary. It will be so exciting to see my book in print—I must be sure to send a signed copy to the Chadwicke Club, for the library. Roselynn Wyatt will be livid!—oh, là!—poor thing, now she won’t be the only member with a published book to her credit—such trash she writes, anyway—do her good to have a little competition—
I can’t
wait
for Llewellyn’s call!
Monday, April 12
No word from Llewellyn yet. How long can it
take
the man to read one itty-bitty little book? Really!
Friday, April 16
Another week has passed and LB still has not called me. I’ve tried to catch him in the hall, but he seems to have vanished! I know they’re not at their country place. I was leaving for the Philharmonic concert this afternoon, just as young Mackenzie was coming home from school. Well, as casually as I could, I asked if his mama and papa were away, but he said no and I couldn’t very well pry, could I? So I just had to get into the elevator and leave him—I suppose to his milk and cookies. Nice young man. Nice manners.
Friday, April 23
One can’t clutch at people, of course—but really, you’d think he’d have been in touch with me by now—could I be blamed if I just dropped him a note, do you think? But no, I mustn’t press, it wouldn’t do. But really!—the man must read as slowly as a dim-witted second-grader. I can’t think how such a slow reader can be in the publishing business. But they do say it’s a very reputable house—one of the oldest in New York. And his father was a member of the Cortlandt Club, so he must be all right. But really, my dear diary, this waiting is so hard. I am chewing my nails up to the elbow.
Which reminds me—did SherriLynn remember to schedule my manicure? I must call her.
Saturday, April 24
Still no word.
Sunday, April 25
Dreary Sunday. Maybe I shouldn’t expect any word on the weekend.
Monday, April 26
Still no response from Llewellyn. This waiting will kill me!
April 27
Oh, my dear, dear, dear diary. I am devastated! ! ! I just can’t believe—how could he? After eating at my table!!!! After drinking Neville’s beautiful Chablis!!! I’m so angry, I could spit!!!!! No, I’m so angry—I can’t
think
what I could do!
My manuscript was returned today. It came in the mail and I was so excited, I didn’t even open the package at first. My heart was pounding and I had to have Louise bring me a cup of tea first, here in my sitting room. I locked my door. I drank my tea. I did a couple of Dr. Gupta’s meditation exercises. (A fat lot of good it did me!) And then I opened the package.
There was only the briefest of cover letters and I will copy it here exactly. It said: “Henrietta, I’m returning your manuscript. We don’t do this sort of book. Perhaps you would find a better home for it at one of the other publishers. I wish you good luck with it. Llewellyn Brewster.”
How dare he!!? No more than those few pitiful, mealy-mouthed, spineless words. And not one of them tells me he even read my book. Not a single word about all the wonderful stories—didn’t even notice the wonderful section on that time the Embassy was taken over by terrorists and Neville was held hostage for seventeen days until we sent in a rescue plan hidden in my famous terrine de canard. Wouldn’t you think Llewellyn would be just dying to publish a book like that? Full of such stories! And every one of them true!
The nerve of the man! How dare he! How dare he eat at my table and refuse my book?!!!
I’ve spent the whole afternoon crying. Whatever shall I say to Neville when he comes home tonight? I look a fright. I shall have to call SherriLynn to do something with my face before 6:00.
Oh, my dear diary, I swear I shall never forgive Llewellyn Brewster as long as I live! Never! I mean it—I swear—I shall never again speak to him—not to him, not to his wife—not ever to any of them. Never!! Never!!!!!