Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [31]
“Would you like to see a menu, miss?” the waiter asked.
How did he know I was a “miss”? Was it in my eyes? The way I held myself?
I needed to seize control. “No. I’ll just have iced tea,” I said virtuously. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Then my sanity returned. Virtuous, schmirtuous — too late. I was wearing a diamond ring that I had bought for myself. “Wait! Hold up. You know what? I’ll have the hot fudge sundae. With coffee ice cream.”
“A much better choice.”
I was enjoying shooting diamond laser beams all over the Astor Court when the waiter returned with my ice cream sundae. The silver dish was bigger than Hugh’s head. There was no way I could finish this whole thing — and ever hold my head up again in public, anyway. How had I managed to do it when I was eight years old? Maybe I had been a little pudgier than I remembered. Or no — much better — it had no doubt been served in a much smaller dish back then. Yes. That was the ticket.
The first luscious spoonful brought everything rushing back. It was all very Proustian, Remembrances of Guilty Pleasures Past and all that good stuff.
How I had loved those Sunday afternoons, here, with Michael, and at Tiffany’s, wherever Vivienne wanted to go, as long as I was included.
My mother and her friends would sit gossiping or doing business, and Michael and I would wander into our own little imaginary world. Was that the last time I had actually felt happy? If it was, then I was more pitiful than I wanted to admit.
I took another spoonful, this time making sure that the ice cream was accompanied by just the right amount of fudge sauce. This was so, so what I needed. This, and the honking big ring on my right hand. I wiggled my fingers, letting it catch the light.
Speaking of pitiful, since I didn’t seem able to avoid it, I had to admit that I still believed in my imaginary friend from childhood. What should that tell me about myself?
And then . . .
I blinked, looked away, and blinked again.
What the . . . ?
I had noticed a couple sitting just a few tables away. A nice-looking couple. In fact, a perfect choice for the Jane-and-Michael game.
But that wasn’t what was so shocking.
I put down my spoon, slowly wiped my mouth with a napkin, and really stared.
Suddenly my hands and knees were shaking, and my lower lip was quivering.
The man . . . ? It couldn’t be . . .
Michael?
I blinked my eyes rapidly again, like a cat in a cartoon. I started to perspire and continued to tremble.
“Michael” was with a very pretty woman with silky, minky dark hair. She was gorgeous, actually. One of those model-beautiful women who seemed like exquisite freaks of nature. Michael had always told me that he could be an imaginary friend only to children. Eight years old was the limit. That’s why he had left me on my ninth birthday. What, had he gotten promoted or something? Could grown-ups have imaginary friends? If so, where was mine?
Or maybe . . . maybe it wasn’t Michael after all. I mean, of course it wasn’t Michael, who had been, after all, imaginary.
But it had to be. That smile was unmistakable. The amazing green eyes. He was as good-looking as ever, maybe even more so.
It crossed my mind that I was crazy.
Well, okay, maybe I would just run with that. What could I do about it now anyway? Call 911 on myself? It occurred to me: If I really was insane, then I wasn’t responsible for my actions. It kind of freed me up in a way.
I stood up from my table and headed toward them.
If this man wasn’t Michael . . . well, I’d throw my arms around him anyway. I’d probably kiss him. I might even ask him to marry me.
The day he left me, Michael had