Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [24]
sKIP FORWARD ABOUT AN HOUR, and he was following her back down Fifth Avenue. Jane was walking alone again, but much slower now, her shoulders hunched, no spring whatsoever in her step. When she cut over to Madison Avenue, she stopped and stared aimlessly in several store windows, including one of those places that sell cigarettes and Tic Tacs.
Somehow she seemed very alone to him, and so sad, so miserable. Obviously something bad had happened at the Met. No doubt it had had something to do with that creep Hugh McGrath.
More and more, Michael thought that he was to blame. He’d made her a bunch of lofty promises and predictions when she was just a kid. And they simply hadn’t come true. He had told her, and he’d believed, that someone special would come along for her. Well, obviously that hadn’t happened. Could he help her now? No, he didn’t think so. Jane wasn’t his responsibility anymore. He couldn’t interfere.
But he definitely wanted to. His heart went out to her. He wanted to hold her and comfort her, just the way he had done when she was little. At 76th Street, Jane crossed Madison Avenue, then walked through the side entrance of the Carlyle Hotel, and into Bemelmans Bar.
Now what should he do? What were his options? Michael waited a few seconds, then decided to follow her inside.
That pink dress of hers was easy to track. And there Jane was at the bar.
Michael sat at the far end of the bar, positioned beyond two fairly large, out-of-towner types. From what he could tell, they were drinking the house Scotch with Budweiser chasers and gulping handfuls of peanuts.
Jane ordered a gin and tonic. She looked beautiful sitting there, in a tragic, Russian heroine kind of way.
C’mon, Jane, chin up! You’re so much better than this.
For a crazy second, he considered going over and talking to her. She wouldn’t remember him, after all. He would be just some guy. In truth, he didn’t know what to do. Which was very unusual. In fact, he’d never been unsure before, about anything.
What was he doing sitting in Bemelmans with Jane Margaux? Well, not exactly with her, but wishing that he were.
It made no sense. It was maddening, confusing, and just not a good idea. No, actually this was insane!
“What can I get you, sir?” the bartender asked.
“Uh, nothing, I’m afraid. I just remembered . . . I was supposed to meet somebody somewhere else. I’m sorry.”
The bartender shrugged, and Michael stood, feeling awful, unlike himself. Head down, he started for the door. He turned and took one last look at Jane.
What a beautiful woman she’d become. Just as special as ever.
“Good-bye, Jane,” he said, and then he left without talking to her. It was the only way. In fact, he wished he’d never seen her again.
Twenty-six
THE GIN AND TONIC was cold and fizzy and crisp. Tanqueray cut by lime. Just right. Was there any better place than Bemelmans to sit and think and feel disgustingly sorry for yourself?
I was a thirty-two-year-old woman who had everything and nothing going for her at the exact same time. I had a good job that was theoretically fascinating, but it consumed my hours and days and gave me almost no personal satisfaction.
I had a wealthy, successful mother, but she treated me like an idiot child and called it love. And worse, I desperately loved her anyway.
I had a boyfriend. Yes, that was for certain. Had a boyfriend. Past tense.
My mind began racing in a lot of bad directions all at the same time.
Maybe my goals were too long-term. Maybe I should figure out a way to be happy, not for a lifetime, but for an hour or two. Maybe there was somebody out there who wanted to sit around with me, and order in Japanese, and not hate watching a DVD of You’ve Got Mail or The Shawshank Redemption for the fourth or fifth time.
Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder, which almost made me jump and scream. In that suave, woman-of-the-world