A Purrfect Romance (4 page)

The waiter—sixty years old and tired—had had just about enough of demanding princesses on perennial diets. He shook his head impatiently and Marge said brightly, “Oh, all right, then. Just regular coffee.” She picked up the pepper shaker from the table and held it up for his inspection. “Do you have a pepper mill? I’d prefer to grind my own.”

“Listen, lady,” he growled, writing down her order on his pad, “you want the Waldorf, you’re in the wrong place.”

Marge didn’t even get that he was irritated. She smiled sweetly at him and handed him the menu.

“Well, then,” she said. “That’ll be all. And thank you so much.”

Bridey had long ago given up trying to get Marge to go easy on these special requests of hers. Marge Webster was a dear and had a heart as big as Colorado, but she couldn’t understand that a state of panic was business as usual in a restaurant kitchen, and her special orders were a nuisance. Marge had been Bridey’s best friend since junior high, and Bridey had long ago gotten used to her friend’s idiosyncrasies.

Bridey gave the menu one last, fast look.

“I’m starting work on my fish chapter today,” she said, “so I’m in a fish mood.” She looked up at the waiter. “I’ll have the smoked salmon. And coffee.” She handed him her menu and he disappeared grumpily.

“So tell me all. Is it fabulous?” Marge leaned forward expectantly, her fingers locked and her eyes eager.

“Yes, Marge. It’s fabulous. More rooms than I can count. A living room big enough for a tennis court, and a terrace with a garden outside the bedroom. Gorgeous furniture. Thick carpets, fine paintings, the smell of money all over the place. The cats are darling. What more can I tell you?”

“You can tell me more about your neighbor. I smell a romance around the corner.”

“Marge, I have fish on my mind, not romance. So let’s just drop it, okay?”

“No, I won’t just drop it.” When Marge had her head fixed on something, she was like a locomotive going full steam ahead. “Frankly, I think you need a man to take care of you.”

“What!” Bridey was shocked. “I can’t believe those words just came out of your mouth! From you, of all people. You should know me better.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. What I mean is, you need to find out how good it is to be cared for. I don’t mean you should give up and be a doormat. I mean sharing, when two people care for each other. You know, take care of and care for. You’ve never had that. You deserve it. That’s all I mean.”

“I’m fine. Just fine. It’s my work that will take care of me, and I’m lucky to have work I love. Any man I love, or who loves me, will have to get out of the way of that.”

“Whoops! Sounds T-U-F-F! If I didn’t know you better . . .”

“Well, you do know me better.”

“Okay, okay. But I don’t get why you’re so stuck on all work and no play. I mean, a little extracurricular fun is good for a girl’s health. It’s good for the complexion and it keeps the shine in her hair.”

“My health is just fine. And right now, this work is a whole lot more important to me.”

“I know. I know. But—”

“There’s no
but
, Marge. For the last five years, I’ve been locked into heavy-duty kitchen work. Do you have any idea what that means? Do you have any idea what restaurant work is like? People think it’s glamorous, but they’re wrong. It’s crazy hours and hauling hundred-pound sacks of potatoes. Lifting huge tubs of cake batter and pots of boiling soup. And you’d better not ask for help. Men think women aren’t tough enough for professional cooking. And just look at my hands.” She held them out for Marge to see. “You can’t work in a kitchen eighteen hours a day and not get cuts and burns. Your skin gets rough. There’s dough under your fingernails all the time. And if you think equality for women has come to the kitchen, forget about it. The guys do everything they can to mess you up. You’ve got cakes in the oven, they’ll turn up the heat to five-fifty when you’re not looking, or turn it off altogether. Just to hassle you. They call it fun, but it can get mean. Like, once I was assisting this famous French chef; he really hated women in his kitchen. He’d get into these huge rages, and once he came at me with this enormous knife.”

“What happened?”

Bridey smiled, remembering the scene.

“Oh, he calmed down when he saw I was ready to use my rolling pin on him. But,” she went on more seriously, “I don’t want to live like that, Marge. I love cooking, but I don’t love the craziness. So I mean to earn my living by writing cookbooks. That way I can get away from the nutso stuff and still stay in the business. But I can’t do it part-time, in my ‘off hours.’ A professional chef doesn’t have ‘off hours.’ So this cat-sitting job is my big chance. It’s like heaven just opened up and dropped it in my lap. Like the gods are saying, ‘Okay, Bridey Berrigan, we’ll give you everything you need, just this one time. Now let’s see if you can do it!’ Do you think I’m going to throw that away? Do you think I’m going to waste my time mooning over some guy just because he’s good-looking, unattached and lives next door? This is the big opportunity of my life and I’m going to use it! So that’s that. I don’t want to hear any more about it. Now,” she said as the waiter arrived with their food, “let’s just eat our breakfast.”

“Okay, okay.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“But still,” Marge pouted a little and toyed with her poached egg, pushing it around with the tines of her fork, “but still, I can’t help thinking a little romance will help keep the creative juices flowing. You shouldn’t just slam the door on it.”

“All right.” Bridey gobbled down her salmon and smiled reassuringly at her friend. “I won’t slam the door.”

Marge brightened up. “Good! I just don’t want this big career move to turn you all dried-up and wispy.”

“Don’t worry. All I need is two years. Maybe one, if I’m lucky.” She looked at her watch. “But right now, I’ve got to get moving.”

She gulped down her coffee, ate the last mouthful on her plate, and signaled the waiter to bring the check.

“Okay, Julia Child,” Marge said as she gathered her stuff together. “I give up. You go back to your palace on Park and do your fishy thing. I’ve got to get to the office, too. Deadlines to meet, fires to put out, editors to yell at. Can’t get the magazine out without at least one nervous collapse per issue. But your assignment,” she added as they stepped out of the deli into the sunshine of Lexington Avenue, “should you choose to accept it, is to have some more information about Mr. Next Door the next time I call you. Some romance in your life, my dear, is like salt on your steak: A generous sprinkle will improve the flavor.”

She planted an air kiss somewhere near Bridey’s ear and was off to hail a cab.

“Don’t call early,” Bridey called after her. “I’ll be at the fish stalls before dawn.”

“Whatever.” Marge leaned out of the window as the cab took off down Lexington. “But remember, think romance!”

“I’m thinking fish!” Bridey called, but Marge’s cab was by now indistinguishable from all the others.

“Fish,” she repeated to herself as she stopped in at the fish store near Sixty-Sixth Street to pick up a treat for Silk and Satin. “I have only fish on my mind.”

Only fish.

Well, not quite. The mental photograph of the man in the Burberry raincoat kept turning its intriguing black eyes on her, challenging her mysteriously from across the hall.

Why on earth had he glared at her like that? He had nothing at all to do with her. And she had to concentrate on the work ahead of her. No time to be getting involved with a stuffed shirt, no matter how cute he was. Though he was awfully good-looking.

Enough of this!
she told herself.
Forget about him.

She took a deep breath and bought a pound of flounder.

“H
ey, you guys! Guess what I brought for your dinner.”

Silk and Satin were already at the door as she entered the apartment, and they circled around her feet as she went into the kitchen.

“A nice, fresh flounder,” she said, lifting the package out of her tote bag.

They meowed at her.

“For dinner, I said. Not now.” She put the package into the fridge. “If you think I’m going to let you turn into a couple of fat cats, you’re meowing up the wrong cat sitter.” She made shooing motions at them. “Take off, you two. Go find something else to do.”

Silk and Satin got the message. They retreated into the living room, where Satin quickly appropriated a bright patch of sunshine that filled the corner of the sofa. He arched himself once gloriously, seeming to say, “I win!” and then curled himself up into a languid ball, his blue-gray coat making an exquisite contrast with the pale yellow Italian silk of the upholstery.

Silk disdained his victory and, as though she for one didn’t care, sauntered to the French window, which was slightly ajar, opening onto the railed balcony outside. She slipped through the narrow space and took up a position along the edge of the balcony, next to a pot of geraniums, and stretched herself out comfortably.

Actually, Silk preferred this place. It was comfortable for birdwatching and sun-warmed snoozing when the weather was mild. From here she could watch the fascinating, swiftly moving life that flowed far beneath her luxurious quarters. The busy traffic below intrigued her, and she often passed long hours filled with primeval cat curiosity, her green eyes slitted and provocative, fantasizing about life out there in the teeming city. She longed to go exploring in the busy streets below and thrilled herself by imagining exciting adventures and intriguing feline encounters, dreaming of dark alleys and new vistas . . .

Catlike, both Silk and Satin were soon sound asleep, and for the next few hours they lolled in cat oblivion, only coming awake every now and then to change positions or to make a companionable visit to Bridey. With typically feline sensitivity, they had caught on that something exciting had come into their previously predictable world, and they interrupted their snoozes occasionally in order to check out Bridey’s progress in the kitchen.

Two possessions Bridey prized above all others.

The first was the medal on the broad blue ribbon that had been placed around her neck at her graduation from the Culinary Institute. It signified that, after years of attending classes, slaving over hot stoves, wearing a shapeless white jacket and dorky checkered pants and being snarled at by men who actually believed that women didn’t belong in the kitchen—professional kitchens, that is—she was finally, really a fully credentialed, certified, bona fide, professional chef. She was immensely proud of her blue ribbon, and she vowed it would always have a prominent place in any kitchen in which she worked. She took it from its case, chose a hook over the workstation in the center of the kitchen and hung the medal there, where it could watch over her, like a good-luck charm.

But her other treasure was even more precious than her blue ribbon. She took from her suitcase a plain wooden box, about the size of a loaf pan, with brass hinges and a brass clasp long discolored by age and use. The box had been stained a dark brown and on its top, etched there long ago by loving hands, was the name Merrill. Bridey ran her fingertips over the surface for luck, and then opened the box to see once again the contents she knew so well.

More than 150 years had passed since Jane Hamilton Merrill, Bridey’s great-grandmother’s grandmother, had presented this box to her only daughter, Eleanor, on the evening before her wedding day. Eleanor, in turn, had given it to her daughter, Catherine, and so the Merrill Box, as Bridey called it, had eventually come down to her mother, Mary Berrigan. When Mary Berrigan died, it had been given to Bridey. The box contained Jane Merrill’s favorite recipes and household hints, together with those cautionary words that old-fashioned mothers used to pass on to their daughters on their wedding day. Each bride in turn had added new items as she discovered—or invented—her own domestic and culinary secrets, the private techniques that became part of a time-honored family inheritance. The women of that line were all gifted cooks, and as each new bride in each generation added the treasures of her own kitchen, the collection grew into an invaluable trove of cooking and domestic lore, covering almost two centuries.

The beautiful old box was all the legacy Bridey had from her mother and she truly believed—from deep in that place where each of us truly believes in magic—that Mary Berrigan and all the Merrill women before her were smiling down on her because now, at last, in Bridey’s time, the ancestral family skill could be practiced as an honored profession. The opportunity that had been denied to them was now realized in their descendant. She hadn’t said so to Marge, but her deepest motivation in choosing to write cookbooks was not only to practice her skill but to preserve and communicate it.

She carried the Merrill Box into the kitchen and placed it in the center of the counter, where it would remain until she’d found exactly the right spot for it.

And now she could begin her work.

First, she examined her laboratory, taking careful stock of everything it contained.

“You could run a full-scale restaurant out of this place,” she whispered to herself, touching in turn each of the copper sautoirs, the fish poachers and steamers, the stockpots and the crêpe pans. There was an immaculate six-burner stove with high-temperature salamander above, and even an institutional-size Hobart mixer. Obviously, the legendary parties that had once made Henrietta Willey famous as a social force had been backed up by a heavy-duty kitchen.

If I can’t create a first-rate cookbook here
, she said to herself,
I won’t deserve to have been voted most likely to make Master Chef
. But instantly, the audacity of even thinking of such success scared her, and she put it quickly aside.
One thing at a time
, she reminded herself.
Today is just for getting started
.

So she spent the morning unpacking the boxes that had been delivered the previous afternoon, the equipment that had cost almost every penny of her savings. She chose the table in the alcove for her desk and by noon had finished setting up her computer and printer, her stacks of notebooks, her laptop, her digital camera, her files of recipes and correspondence. Her collection of cookbooks found a home along the deep windowsill that surrounded the alcove, along with folders of food photos.

And then came the most important tool of all: her treasured Merrill Box. She held it in her hands reverently and whispered to it, as though she was casting a spell, “Please, all you Merrill women who came before me, help me in my work and make everything turn out well.”

She placed it in the center of the windowsill, where the afternoon sun would fall softly on it every day.

Then, with trembling fingers, Bridey set her work plan on the only remaining open space on her desk. She opened it to her proposed table of contents, took a deep breath and found that her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking.

Oh, God
, she thought. It burst upon her like a lightning strike: the moment she’d prepared for, the dream that had had its birth when she was still little, when she used to bake miniature pies and biscuits and cakes at her grandmother’s side. It was staring her right in the face. She, Bridget Margaret Berrigan, was about to make her own contribution to her chosen profession.

“I’m so scared,” she whispered into the silent room.

The enormity of what she’d done washed over her like a bath of pure, cold terror.

She’d burned all her bridges. Leaped off a cliff, sailed off the edge of the earth, closed all the doors behind her, whatever. She’d quit her job, used up all her savings and committed herself to this daunting task. Now she had to flap her wings as hard as she could and hope to fly.

She felt as though a flock of horrible demons had suddenly attacked her, appearing from nowhere, out of the corners of her imagination. She needed to catch her breath.

So she brewed a pot of coffee.

And while the water dripped through the grounds, she remembered what Marge had said.

Protection? Did she really need someone to protect her? The memory of the man next door swam through her thoughts, and she wondered why. If anything, he seemed to be breathing dragon fire rather than riding up like a knight in white armor. Not a good candidate if a girl was looking for protection.

And protection from what? From doing what she loved most in the whole world? From doing the very thing she was really good at? From standing on her own two feet? Marge, of all people, should understand. Marge, the most independent and self-reliant of people.

No.

She slapped a dish towel onto the countertop.

Hah! Protection, indeed.

No!

I’ll be okay!

I’ll have to be okay!

She squared her shoulders. She filled a mug with the brewed coffee. She paced around
her
kitchen, blowing on the steaming coffee to cool it, and as she did, the demons began to slink sullenly back into their corners. Her terrors settled down and her fears disappeared in the excitement of the task ahead of her. There was no place left to go but forward, and soon she was hard at work.

Hours passed and the sun was low over New Jersey, the last rays lighting up the tops of the buildings along Central Park West, and Silk and Satin came into the kitchen to tell Bridey it was dinner time.

“Oh?” she said, glancing at her watch, surprised at how the hours had disappeared. “Oh? Hungry, are you? In the mood for a little fish flake, are you? Okay, kids. Coming right up!”

In moments, she had poached the flounder in milk, flaked it into their bowls and, while they ate, changed their water. They were licking themselves clean by the time she had her own dinner ready: a sliced tomato and a boiled egg, some crackers, a glass of milk and a banana. While she ate, she looked over what she’d accomplished. Her workstation was covered with fish recipes. Her flash drive contained her introduction to the fish chapter. Her head was filled with updated ideas for the purchase, preparation and presentation of fish.

All she needed now was the fish.

She made a quick call to Charlie Wu, her old buddy from her days at the Culinary Institute. Charlie had his own restaurant now, just off Grand Street in Chinatown, and when Charlie needed fish, he didn’t travel all the way up to the relocated Fulton Fish Market in the Bronx, where the big commercial suppliers now brought their catch. Charlie had his own sources, independent fishermen who continued to bring their fish directly to the old wharfs along the East River, down near the tip of Manhattan. Before dawn, under the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge, only a few minutes away, he could meet up with them in the wee hours and get the freshest catch, with no middlemen, and catch up on the latest gossip. There’d be the rapid transactions, the unloading in the dark, the hustle and quick transfer into his van, and Charlie would leave with whatever he needed for the day.

“Sure,” Charlie said. “Be glad to help out. Meet me dockside at four. We’ll get you whatever you need. Might be chilly that hour of the morning. Bring a sweater.”

“Thanks a bunch, Charlie. You’re the best.”

“You betcha.” Charlie’s smile was apparent right through the telephone. “Just be sure to mention me in your book.”

“Of course. I’ll give the restaurant a plug, too.”

Bridey began her preparations. She set her big canvas tote bag next to the door.

“Dockside,” she announced to Silk, who had come to inquire. “Before dawn.”

From the cloakroom, she took a pair of waterproof boots and put them into the bottom of the bag. On top of that she added a sweater.

“It may be cold and wet,” she said to Silk.

And a small, collapsible umbrella.

“You never know.”

Then she went into the kitchen to get her laptop.

And as for Silk? What was Silk doing?

Silk was contemplating adventure. She knew something was up; she could feel exhilaration in the air.

She circled around the bag that stood next to the door, her tail tip twitching. She sniffed at the bag. It still carried the scent of the flounder that had been that night’s dinner. She sniffed again and decided to follow her nose. What the hell! She had spent too many afternoons curled up on the outside balcony, observing the passing scene, wishing she could get out to explore. With the arrival of this new person in the apartment, she felt change in the air. Here, at last, was her chance.

She jumped into the bag and burrowed down into the soft sweater.

In the meantime, Bridey gathered up her notepad, a pair of warm gloves, her shopping list, and her wallet. She took them to the waiting bag and dropped them in, not noticing that they landed on Silk’s curled-up form.

Silk didn’t complain; the extra items provided her with good stowaway cover.

Chefs are used to crazy hours. Four a.m., four p.m., it makes no difference in their workday. Bridey set her alarm for 3:45 and went to the bedroom to grab a few hours’ sleep. And Silk used those hours to do the same. When Bridey’s alarm went off, she washed, dressed and scooped up the heavy bag, unaware that it contained a secret cargo.

Somewhere deep in Silk’s primal memory there had been a dark ride like this, wrapped in something soft and thick, traveling rapidly over distance. Her neck fur bristled in excitement and anticipation, her adrenaline was flowing. Adventure was upon her.

Her inbuilt time sense knew it was night, the time for cats to prowl, but the bag in which she was being carried was still in motion. It jolted back and forth, start and stop and then start again, over and over, before finally being yanked up and hoisted out into the night air. Almost instantly, Silk was surrounded by noise and bustle and, oh, sweetest of all, the heavy scent, omnipresent, of fish. Fish enough for a lifetime of dinners. Let that stay-at-home, Satin, sleep in his comfy bed. She, Silk, was out in the real world. Oh, what stories she would bring home.