A Purrfect Romance Read Free Page A

small talk. Maybe that was the secret of her social success; guests had an interesting evening at the Willey parties and invitations were highly valued.
    “Unfortunately,” he added sadly, “that all changed when she became a widow. Her husband’s death was very hard on her. She actually went through a severe personality change. She’d always been very high-strung and dramatic, and people put up with her sharp tongue because she was lively and amusing and gathered interesting people around her. But after Mr. Willey died, she turned reclusive and somewhat eccentric. Bad tempered, even. Eventually she drove away all her friends. There were no more parties, no more dinners, no more social life. This extraordinary kitchen,” his hand gestured around the room, “this virtually professional setup, was reduced to providing only the simple meals she took by herself. She had no family, and she wound up, at the end, all alone in the world. So sad.”
    Mr. Kinski paused, remembering the white-haired, stiff-necked old woman, remembering how she’d glower at him during her visits to his office, remembering how immovable she was once she’d made up her mind about anything.
    “However,” he continued at last, “she kept everything in first-class condition, and I think you’ll have everything you need here to do your work.”
    “Oh, yes,” Bridey replied. “Everything. It couldn’t be better.”
    She said a silent prayer for the long life and continued good health and safety of the two beautiful cats.
    “So, if everything is in order,” Mr. Kinski said, “you can take over immediately.”
    He walked to a deep alcove at one end of the kitchen where, on a long table topped in butcher block, a bottle of red wine and two glasses waited.
    “I’ve taken the liberty,” he said, “of preparing for this moment. I opened it before you arrived so it would have a chance to breathe.”
    He poured out two glasses, handed one to her and lifted his in a toast.
    “To the success of your book,” he said.
    She sniffed, swirled and sipped, approving the excellent Bordeaux. Then she lifted the glass again, in a toast of her own.
    “To Silk and Satin,” she said. “Long may they live.”

Chapter Two
    “T ell me all about it!”
    The excited voice on the telephone pierced the remnants of Bridey’s dreams. She opened one eye just enough to see the clock next to her bed.
    “Marge,” she groaned, “it’s not even seven o’clock.”
    “Yes, it is. Well, practically. And I couldn’t wait another minute.” Marge’s voice was at its usual hypomanic pitch: enthusiastic, endearing, and always irresistible, like a small bell going ding! ding! ding! “Come on, Bridey, tell me all about it. Is it magnificent?”
    Bridey lifted her head and looked around sleepily. Yes, the Queen Anne highboy was still there, between the tall windows that opened out to the terrace. And the thick, pale beige carpeting that contrasted so delicately with the soft rose of the walls. There was the mirrored dressing table, with its silver and crystal accessories, and opposite her bed was the enormous dressing room in which her small wardrobe now hung in modest simplicity. It hadn’t all disappeared during the night. It was not all a figment of her dreams. She was really here, on Park Avenue, in the most stunning apartment she’d ever seen, like something out of Architectural Digest . She snuggled luxuriously into the lush bedding that surrounded her.
    “Yes, Marge,” she said dreamily. “It really is magnificent. When I get settled, you’ve got to come up and see it.”
    “I can’t wait! And will you really be able to work on your book there?”
    “Absolutely. The kitchen is unbelievable. It’s huge and totally professional. I’ll be starting this morning. First thing.”
    “Cool! That’s so cool! I want to buy you breakfast, to celebrate. I won’t keep you long. Just a quick cup of coffee.”
    “Well—”
    “I promise I won’t stand in the