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going on in his mind.
    “I was thinking,” he said, “we really need to talk.”
    “Well . . .”
    “I feel maybe I should explain . . .”
    “Explain?”
    “Maybe we could have dinner? Perhaps, if you’d like, the Cote d’Or?” He paused hopefully. “Tonight? At eight?”
    “Well, I guess. That is, sure. That would be . . . swell.”
    Swell? She’d never used such a word in her whole life. She knew she was thoroughly discomposed.
    “Great!” he said. “See you then.”
    “Eight o’clock,” she repeated. He was still standing there, practically at attention, as she closed the door.
    Bridey hugged Silk close, burying her face in the sleek fur as she walked aimlessly through the huge apartment, wandering unseeing from room to room.
    “Oh, Silk,” she whispered into the cat’s soft ear. “I don’t know what to think.”
    Silk reached her soft face toward Bridey’s own silken cheek, encouraging her to tell all.
    “He really is the most—”
    But her about-to-be-revealed confidence was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. She looked around, only then realizing she was in the library. Marge was already talking as Bridey picked up the phone on Neville’s desk.
    “It’s a gorgeous day.” Marge sounded bubbly. “Perfect for shopping, and there’s a super sale going on at Saks. Can I lure you away from your labors for an afternoon?”
    “No way, Marge.” She set Silk down onto a burgundy leather chair and watched her jump down onto the Persian carpet and scamper away. “Gotta work. Things may be falling apart here, and I have to finish as much as I can before—”
    “Oh, no! Don’t tell me some long-lost relative turned up to claim the inheritance.”
    “Nothing like that. But Mack says—”
    “Mack?”
    “The guy next door.”
    “Oho! So you know his name. We’re making progress!”
    “Well, yes and no. The bad news is there may be something funky about this job. Mack says it won’t last long, not long enough for me to finish the book. He seems to have some kind of insider information.”
    “Uh-oh. That is bad.” There was a moment’s pause. “So what’s the good news?”
    “The good news is he’s taking me to dinner tonight. At the Cote d’Or. That’s my chance to find out what’s happening.”
    Marge squealed. “The Cote d’Or. Oh, Bridey! That’s fabulous!” Then her voice dropped an octave from girlish glee to conspiratorial seriousness. Seriously serious. Marge’s mental social computer was running at warp speed. “Listen, honey. This man must be really well connected. You can’t get into the Cote d’Or without a reservation months in advance. Do you have time to get your nails done?”
    “No, Marge, I don’t have time to get my nails done. And I’m not going to make the time, either. Bad enough I’m taking off time for dinner. Anyway, he’s already seen me looking like a scullery maid. It doesn’t seem to bother him.” Bridey looked at her poor hand with its little burns and nicks and scrapes. An occupational hazard; nothing to be done about it.
    “All right, all right. No need to panic.”
    “I’m not panicking, Marge.”
    “I know. I know, dear.” Marge took a deep breath, audible to Bridey. She was regrouping. “What are you going to wear? Something slinky, I hope.”
    “I don’t have anything slinky.”
    “I can lend you something.”
    “I don’t need anything. I’ll be fine. We’re just going to have dinner, for goodness’ sake. My basic black will do. I’ll wear my Grandma’s locket.”
    “Well, think sexy. That’s the best way to accessorize.”
    “Oh, Marge, you’re too much. I hardly know the guy.”
    “And he hardly knows you. That’s the point. You want to let him know there’s more to you than Danish pastry. God, if I had your shape . . .”
    “I’ll keep it in mind. And now I’ve got to go. I’ve got bread in the oven and a chapter to finish.”
    “Okay. But remember, think sexy!”

Chapter Six
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