Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [12]
It turned right on Central Park South. Michael’s cab followed.
Left again on Park Avenue.
Was she going to her mother’s apartment? Oh, Jane, no! Don’t tell me you’re still living with your mother! He winced, now sure that following her had been a terrible idea. He remembered Vivienne Margaux, her huge ego, her larger-than-life personality.She’d spent Sunday afternoons with Jane, and occasionally kissed her cheek, but that was about it. Jane’s school had been a block and a half from the apartment, but Vivienne had never once taken Jane there.
Michael groaned when Jane’s taxi stopped at 535 Park Avenue — but she didn’t get out.
Instead the doorman came up to the cab’s rear window, and Jane handed him two large manila envelopes. He seemed happy to see her, giving her a big smile and tipping his hat. Jane smiled back at him, looking less sad. They even slapped five.
Then Jane’s cab took off again.
Okay. At least she wasn’t still living with Vivienne. Michael’s cab followed as Jane’s taxi stopped again at 75th and Park. The building’s doorman walked up to the cab and opened the car door for her.
Michael quickly handed his driver a twenty-dollar bill, keeping an eye on Jane. She gathered her briefcase and folded her black coat over one arm.
She looked, well, terrific. Very grown-up. Very attractive. So strange, to see little Jane Margaux looking like this. Like a woman. Jane smiled warmly at this doorman, and he smiled back. She was Michael’s same old Jane. Kind to everyone, friends with everybody. Always a smile for the world.
Michael stayed behind a huge cement planter, feeling ridiculous, like a kid playing a spy game, but something was compelling him to stay. He heard the doorman say, “Mr. McGrath stopped by. He said if you came home to tell you that he would probably miss dinner tonight.”
“Thanks, Martin. He made it to dinner after all,” Jane said. But she bit her lip.
The doorman paused, his hand on the heavy glass lobby door. “He didn’t, did he, Miss Jane?”
Jane sighed. “No, Martin, he didn’t.”
“Miss Jane, you know what I think.”
“I know, I know. I’m a sap. I’m an idiot.”
“No, Miss Jane,” the doorman said repressively. “It’s Mr. McGrath who’s the idiot, if you’ll forgive my saying so. You deserve better than him.”
From behind the planter, Michael heartily agreed. Jane had been stood up! He was now absolutely positive it was his Jane, from so long ago. He’d have known her voice anywhere. It was more mature, deeper, but recognizable all the same. And after all this time, she was still getting hurt, wasn’t she? People were still letting her down, not treating her like the special treasure she was. What was that all about? How could anyone stand to hurt her?
Actually, Michael had been one of those people who had let her down, he acknowledged with shame. He’d hurt her. But he’d had no choice! There had been nothing, zero, zip, that he could do about it! Anyway, she’d forgotten him the next day. It almost made his hurting her not really count. Not like this schmuck McGrath.
But why had Michael run into her again?
But she had gone into her building now, and suddenly Martin the doorman was by the planter, looking down suspiciously at Michael.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Michael winced and stood up straight. “No — ah, thank you. I doubt it very much. I’ll just be on my way.”
“Yes, sir. I was thinking the same thing.”
Fourteen
MY MOTHER HAD DONE everything but physically throw her body in front of the door to keep me from moving out of her apartment and getting my own place after college.
“Move out? Nonsense! Why on earth would you want to move out? Raoul is here! I’m here! Jane-Sweetie, with me and Raoul and the Chinese restaurant on Lexington, you have everything you could possibly want.”
Yes, Mother. Everything but privacy, a life, and perhaps my sanity.
“You can’t manage without me!” Vivienne had insisted. “Who will help you pick out your clothes? Remind you to stick to your diet? Help with your practically nonexistent love life? Oh, which reminds me. My friend Tori gave me her cousin’s number,