Hide & Seek - James Patterson [28]
“Sure thing,” I said, hiding a smile. He was funny, and the humor was contagious, at least it was that night. “The phone's in the den. What were you doing on Greenbriar at this time of night?”
“I live on Greenbriar. About three miles further down. You must have passed my house a thousand times going to the village. My name's O'Malley. It's the oversized Georgian. I live in it to impress my friends.”
I knew the house, or more accurately, the estate. It was one of the grandest on Greenbriar. “You said hotels. Then you must be—”
“Patrick O'Malley. I'm building one on Park Avenue. The Cornelia. Do you like the name? Say yes, and you'll be its first guest as my guest.”
This time I couldn't suppress the laugh. “Yes. I might take you up on it. Would you like a drink, Mr. O'Malley?”
He bowed. “You're very, very kind and understanding. Scotch if you have it. Neat.”
I showed him to the den, then went to the kitchen to fix a drink. There really was something about this poor/rich blitzed man that struck me as funny. The look on his face was classic silent-movie comedy. He had star quality.
I didn't get a lot of visitors, besides music-business people, into my safe, comfortable, closed world. I was getting good at pretending that I liked it that way. I didn't like it at all.
I poured a Scotch, and went back to the den, knocking gently before entering. I stepped inside the room, then stopped and began to laugh out loud. I couldn't help myself.
Patrick O'Malley had taken off his rumpled suit jacket and hung it carefully over the back of a chair. He had removed his black cordovans and put them neatly beside the jacket.
He lay stretched out on my old, flowered sofa, and he was fast asleep.
CHAPTER 28
I WOKE UP early, but Patrick was gone by the time I went downstairs. Jen and I did a three-mile run, then a power drink, and off to school for her. I went into my den and began working, lost in the lyrics of “A Lady Hard as Love.”
Around ten-thirty, I walked to the riding stables, noticing that the day had assumed the gauzy look of life shot through a telephoto lens. I felt content. Not a great feeling, but not so bad either. Something was missing from life, but I certainly had a lot, and no complaints.
A florist truck came bumping up the drive and a boy with spiked orange hair and Coke-bottle glasses came hurrying toward me, bearing an arrangement of freesias and decorative ribbons.
There was a note. O'Malley, I thought, pleased for some reason.
Dear Margaret Bradford,
Forgive me for not having immediately recognized your name, but the only singers I've heard of are the Clancy Brothers.
I don't know for certain if I can face you again. Not after last night. But I'm going to try. Give it my best.
Will you please have dinner with me some evening this week? Let me try to make amends.
You have the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen, and I will spend the time between now and our dinner listening to Maggie Bradford records until I've memorized your songs.
The Mortified Sleeper (your neighbor), Patrick
My eyes were chestnut brown, and I had a feeling that Patrick O'Malley knew it, and knew I knew he knew it.
Dinner? Why not? I needed to meet more people in Bedford. I left a message on his machine making a date for Thursday night.
Blue eyes—that's Sinatra, not me.
CHAPTER 29
THURSDAY WAS AN unexpected and unqualified hit. He made me