Hide & Seek - James Patterson [40]
“Did you see Allie yet?”
“You bet. The testicles on him. Bigger than his feet. I’m so impressed.”
I laughed. “That would interest you.”
“I thought it might interest his mother just a little.”
“To know that her son is well equipped for the world.”
“Exactly right, and very well put.”
Patrick reached out and held me gently against his chest. I could feel his heart beating. I loved that feeling, more and more so each day.
I can’t think of a better father, I thought.
Then I said it aloud for Patrick to hear. I had never been happier in my life. I would marry Patrick soon, I knew. We were already a family though, and happier than most that I knew.
That night, I sang for little Allie for the first time.
CHAPTER 42
THIS IS HOW it happened, dear readers. The third murder you’ve heard so many horrifying rumors about on TV and in the press. This is my confession, and it’s never been printed anywhere before.
Patrick loved his work, the grand hotels he had built; I was sure that he loved Allie, Jennie, and me; and he loved the sea, loved to sail. The only trouble in his life was the continuing fights with his son, Peter, over control of his company, and particularly The Cornelia Hotel. In the process, Peter also made it clear that he despised me. Patrick and I decided we had to live with Peter’s attacks. So be it.
I will never forget that day in early May. It was the first sail of the new spring: some time together for the two of us.
We were dressed early that morning, sharing hot chocolate by five. My new and absolutely wonderful live-in, Mrs. Leigh, appeared and wished us a happy day off. “Don’t worry about anything here, Mrs. Bradford.” With Mrs. Leigh, I didn’t have to. She had brought up two beautiful children of her own, and she was already part of our family.
Patrick and I drove out to Port Washington on Long Island. We had a whole day off to be together. What a special treat that was!
By six-thirty, we were sauntering down the sun-spotted deck of the proud, Victorian Manhasset Bay Yacht Club. The air was cool, but the morning promised pleasure and relaxation. I stopped Patrick halfway down the walkway and gave him a hug and a kiss. I couldn’t resist.
“I love you,” I whispered. “Simple and uncomplicated as that might sound.”
“Hard to come by,” he smiled, “but so spectacular once you find it. I love you too, Maggie.”
We reached the Rebellion a moment or two later. We would be sailing due east, Patrick told me, “into the sun, away from the earth.”
“The storm last week beat the hell out of these boats, ours included,” Patrick said, as he began a quick inspection. “Still water in here. Motor battery’s probably dead. Antenna for the ship-to-shore broken. Shit. Remind me never to build a luxury liner. It’d be another Titanic.”
The Rebellion made it out of the yacht club around quarter past seven. We were on our bright and merry way. As much as I loved spending nearly every waking moment with Allie, as much as I missed him already, I needed a morning off. I had been missing Patrick.
It was a blue-skied morning, the kind of day that automatically made me feel good. I could see Patrick relax at the helm. On the horizon, a forty-eight-foot ketch moved slowly, probably toward the Caribbean.
By noon, our boat was gliding through tiny whitecaps, miles away from the madness of New York. The hotel, Peter O’Malley, even Jennie and Allie, were forgotten. We were together on the privacy of the sea. I wondered if this was the day Patrick would ask me to marry him again.
Smoky, soot-black clouds appeared suddenly from the northwest: a storm, rushing toward us rapidly. The temperature fell at least ten degrees within five minutes.
“Oh shit,” I said. “Plan a parade, right? Boo, hiss! I can’t stand it.”
Patrick looked at the clouds with anxious eyes. “I’ll call the Coast Guard for a weather check. Maybe we can wait this out.”
He walked toward the cabin, then stopped in midstride. “Hell, I can’t call. Ship-to-shore’s busted.