Hide & Seek - James Patterson [29]
Over the next few weeks, I saw Patrick several times. I enjoyed his odd, wry, but honest sense of humor; his unique comic timing; his oversentimental but nevertheless touching stories about growing up in an Irish family of ten; his thrill at putting up his parents in the honeymoon suite of his first grand hotel.
In deference to his globetrotting, I began to call Patrick names that amused him: Padriac, Patrice, and Patrizio. But Patrick had no silly names for me. Sometimes he called me Margaret, the first person to do that since my mother.
“My first love,” Patrick told me, “was actually the sea. It's the one powerful image that I still have of Ireland, and when I was growing up there.”
Patrick had a modest sailboat, and one weekday morning we took it out on the Sound. Patrick played hooky from his hotel project; I could afford one morning away from the piano, and my own rituals.
Soon, we were out on the water, and I found that I loved it too. Since it was early on a weekday, there weren't many other boats out, even though the day was in the low seventies, with clear blue skies. I could see heavy traffic as we slid away from shore, and watching the cars heading to work reminded me of how lucky I was.
“There but for the grace of God,” Patrick said and saluted the commuters. “Suckers!” he shouted into the sea breeze and laughed. He wasn't being mean, just playful.
He and Jennie had obviously conspired, since he'd smuggled some of my power drink onboard, and had made me my usual breakfast. He even joined me for the special mixture of several fruit juices and vitamins.
“So are you finally over the bastard, Maggie?” he asked as we sipped juice. As usual, he was spontaneous and himself. I understood that he meant Phillip, who we'd talked about before, but not very much.
“Yes and no,” I told Patrick the truth. I felt that I could.
“I think I know what you mean.” He gave me a hug with one arm as the two of us stood staring out over the oncoming breakers.
“Sorry I don't have any good advice for you,” he said. “I never shot any bastards, though several I know deserved it. Is it all right if I make this light—it's my way, you know.”
I nodded. It was Patrick's style to be able to joke when things got particularly dark. He made me laugh constantly, and I liked it a lot.
“He was a bastard, and I'm sorry I married him.”
Patrick waved his free arm angrily. “Awww, he just took advantage. You were very young, and not so long out of your aunt's house. He did his fine officer's act, made his lofty promises, lied to you. I know, let's sail north to West Point. We'll dig up his grave, then we'll pulverize the bones.”
I shook my head, but I was smiling. “You make me laugh.”
“It's my job. It's what I'm good at.”
I looked at him. “What do you think I'm good at?”
He gestured with both hands. “Oh, everything. Everything that I've seen at least. You're closing yourself off a little—that's the only area for improvement that I can see.”
“You're funny, and you can be very sweet.”
“You think so?” he asked.
“Yes, I do. I definitely believe that. I'm sure of it.”
“Well good, there's an object lesson, ’cause I'm not ten percent as sweet as you. The way you talk, the way you think, raise your beautiful girl, Jennie, what comes out in your songs. That's why your music's so popular, don't you know it?”
“I do—”
“I know—and you don't. I have a favor, a big favor.”
I tensed a little.
Patrick winced. “See what he did to you, sweet Maggie? I hate it when you're afraid. That reflex. Your back is like a washboard.”
“I'm getting better,” I said.
“I know that you are. Now don't clutch. Here's the favor. It's the most wonderful thing I can imagine.”
I couldn't imagine. I wasn't tense anymore—Patrick had made me comfortable—but I couldn't figure where he was heading with this.
“All right,” I finally said, “I'll do anything. That's how much I