Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [11]
Michael’s “Polite Assertiveness Training Lessons” were put into action, and the two moms had ended up actually liking Sam’s feisty new behavior. Michael had helped Sam to be who Sam was. Then, of course, he’d had to leave the boy, and Sam no longer remembered him. But that was how it worked, and Michael had no control over it.
Now Michael was sort of on vacation, enjoying himself, looking at girls, bicycling in Central Park, eating whatever he wanted. He did whatever the hell he felt like doing, ate what he wanted and never put on an ounce, and got his brains bashed in twice a week. How could you beat that?
As he took the last slug of his second Yoo-Hoo, a woman passed by, and his eyes automatically followed her, appreciating her curves. Nothing new there. He was always noticing women in New York. He fancied that she looked as if she were trying to be brave, to make the best of it, and he smiled, suddenly remembering the way little Jane Margaux . . .
But then . . .
A certain tilt of her head . . .
The walk . . . kind of “breezy.”
That was weird, but, nah . . . It couldn’t be.
But the swing of her arms . . .
Well, maybe . . . A glance his way. Those eyes. No, not those eyes!
It was her! Had to be. But there was no way.
Was there? Could it be?
Her hair wasn’t as curly as it was when she was a kid, but it was still blond. She wore a loose black coat and carried a big leather bag — half briefcase, half pocketbook.
Michael’s jaw dropped. It was completely impossible, but it had to be Jane!
Oh God, it was his Jane Margaux! She was right there, not fifty feet from him.
Michael lunged away from the cart after her, causing the hot dog vendor to stare at him suspiciously.
This had never happened, Michael marveled. Never, ever, had he run into one of his kids as a grown-up!
Jane was walking slowly, seeming lost in her thoughts. So he walked slowly too, trying to decide what to do next. He was at a loss — for words, ideas, everything.
At the corner of Sixth Avenue and 8th Street, she hailed a cab and got one immediately. She ran a few steps and got in, pulling the door shut after her. Michael hung back. He knew what he should do now. Let her go, file it away under “bizarre coincidences.”
But that wasn’t what he did. Instead he flagged down the next taxi speeding along Sixth Avenue. He said something he’d always wanted to: “Follow that cab!”
Follow Jane.
He had to.
Thirteen
THE CABDRIVER OBLIGINGLY stomped on the gas, and Michael’s head flew back against the seat. This was so strange. Why bump into one of his kids, all grown-up? Never happened before. So why now? What did it mean? Closing his eyes, he said a silent prayer, but, as usual, got no answer. In that way, at least, he figured he was just like everybody else: put here for a reason, but damned if he could figure out what it was. One thing, though: The longer he was here, the more “human” he felt. Was that a clue, that he was becoming more human? And was that a good thing?
After all, what did Michael know about himself? Not as much as he wanted to, for sure. He had a limited memory of the past, was able to recall only fuzzy faces, indistinct periods of time. He had no concrete idea of how long he’d been on the job or exactly how many kids he’d looked after. He knew for certain that he loved what he did, except, on average, maybe one day a month. Also on average, he would stay with a child for four to six years. Then he’d have to go, whether he wanted to or not, whether the kid wanted him to or not. Then there would be a little break for him, a sabbatical, like the one he was on now. One day he’d wake up in a different city, and in his mind he would know the next boy or girl, and he would go to them. Otherwise, all his needs were met. He wasn’t exactly human, he wasn’t an angel — he was just a friend. And he was damn good at it.
Meanwhile, the cab with Jane inside was shooting straight up Sixth