Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [0]
Sam’s Letters to Jennifer
Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas
A complete list of books by James Patterson can be found at the end of this book.
For more information about James Patterson, go to www.jamespatterson.com.
WHEN MY SON, JACK, was four, I had to make a trip to Los Angeles. I asked him if he was going to miss me. “Not so much,” Jack told me. “You’re not going to miss me?” I said. Jack shook his head, and he said, “Love means you can never be apart.” I think that’s the basis on which this story was built, and I suppose that it revolves around a belief that nothing is more important in life than giving and receiving love. At least, that has been my experience.
And so, this is for you, Jack, my wise son, with much love. And for Suzie — your mom, my best friend and wife, all in one.
And, finally, for Richard DiLallo, who helped tremendously at a key point in the development of the final story.
—J.P.
PROLOGUE
Jane’s Michael
MICHAEL WAS RUNNING as fast as he could, racing down thickly congested streets toward New York Hospital — Jane was dying there — when suddenly a scene from the past came back to him, a dizzying rush of overpowering memories that nearly knocked him out of his sneakers. He remembered sitting with Jane in the Astor Court at the St. Regis Hotel, the two of them there under circumstances too improbable to imagine.
He remembered everything perfectly — Jane’s hot fudge and coffee ice cream sundae, what they had talked about — as if it had happened yesterday. All of it almost impossible to believe. No, definitely impossible to believe.
It was just like every other unfathomable mystery in life, Michael couldn’t help thinking as he ran harder, faster.
Like Jane dying on him now, after everything they had been through to be together.
PART ONE
Once Upon a Time in New York
One
EVERY DETAIL of those Sunday afternoons is locked in my memory, but instead of explaining me and Michael right off, I’ll start with the world’s best, most luscious, and possibly most sinful ice cream sundae, as served at the St. Regis Hotel in New York City.
It was always the same: two fist-sized scoops of coffee ice cream, swirled with a river of hot fudge sauce, the kind that gets thicker, gooey and chewy, when it hits the ice cream. On top of that, real whipped cream. Even at eight years old, I could tell the difference between real whipped cream and the fake-o nondairy product you squirt from a can.
Across from me at my table in the Astor Court was Michael: hands down the handsomest man I knew, or have ever known, for that matter. Also, the nicest, the kindest, and probably the wisest.
That day his bright green eyes watched me gaze at the sundae with undisguised delight as the white-coated waiter set it in front of me with tantalizing slowness.
For Michael, a clear glass bowl of melon balls and lemon sherbet. His ability to deny himself the pleasure of a sundae was something my child’s brain couldn’t wrap itself around.
“Thanks so much,” Michael said, adding extreme politeness to his list of enviable qualities.
To which the waiter said — not a word.
The Astor Court was the place to go for a fancy dessert at the St. Regis Hotel. That afternoon it was filled with important-looking people having important-looking conversations. In the background, two symphony-worthy violinists fiddled away as if this were Lincoln Center.
“Okay,” Michael said. “Time to play the Jane-and-Michael game.”
I clapped my hands together, my eyes lighting up.
Here’s how it worked: One of us pointed to a table, and the other had to make up stuff about the people sitting there. The loser paid for dessert.
“Go,” he said, pointing. I looked at the three teenage girls dressed in nearly identical pale yellow linen dresses.
Without hesitation, I said, “Debutantes. First season. Just graduated from high school. Maybe in Connecticut. Possibly — probably — Greenwich.”
Michael tilted his head back and laughed. “You’re definitely spending too much time around adults. Very good, though, Jane. Point for you.”
“Okay,” I said,