Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [32]
Unless I had gone completely insane.
Could go either way.
Thirty-five
“IF I EAT this entire ice cream sundae, (a) it will be all your fault, not mine, and (b) I will not be able to get into the clothes for my shoot tomorrow morning. And (c) I’ll be fired.”
Michael laughed. “Ah, the silver lining. Then you’ll go back to school full-time, graduate, and become a brilliant teacher even sooner.”
She took a bite of the ice cream, a big bite, and made a funny face with food in her teeth, the kind that only gorgeous models and small children can make without grossing people out. Actually, maybe only models. “Is that what you think I should do?”
“Of co ——” Suddenly Michael was staring across the room.
“Earth to Michael?” Claire said. “Ground Control to Major Tom?”
Michael was still staring, and thinking, This can’t be happening. Cannot. Must not.
For a moment Michael panicked, then remembered that this was just a coincidence. She couldn’t remember him. They never did. They always, always forgot. That was what made it bearable.
He busied himself with his menu, eyes down.
Then he felt her standing at his table. Feigning nonchalance, he looked up.
Her blue eyes were huge, her lovely face pale. “Michael,” she said.
He didn’t answer her. He couldn’t put any appropriate words together yet. Or thoughts.
Jane spoke again. Not the little girl Jane, the full-grown woman Jane.
“Michael? It is you, isn’t it? Ohmigod, Michael? You’re here.”
Thirty-six
MY VOICE HAD COME OUT shaky and raspy, so that I almost didn’t recognize myself. I was on the edge of being very, very embarrassed. “You are Michael?” I asked again, thinking that if somehow I was wrong, I would have to turn and run.
He took a deep breath, and then he said, “You know me? Are you sure?”
Oh God, this might just be really happening. “Of course I know you. I’d know you anywhere . . .”
And then he said my name, just that. “Jane?”
The Astor Court is a large room, but it seemed to be closing in around me. The sound in the room was a little off too. Everything was suddenly unreal, to put it mildly. This couldn’t be happening, but clearly it was.
The beautiful woman with Michael was wiping her mouth with a napkin, and then she stood up at the table. “Ah, the mysterious Jane,” she said, but she said it kindly. “I have to go, Michael. Thanks for the ice cream, and the advice.” She gave me a smile, and I blinked, because she really was way more dazzling than I. “Take my seat. Please. Jane.”
Michael rose now, and I was afraid he was about to leave too. This time, I wouldn’t let him leave as I had when I was nine years old. This time, I would take him down in a flying tackle, right here in the Astor Court, if I had to. Right onto the Oriental.
But Michael pointed to the empty chair, “Please, sit. Jane. Jane Margaux.”
I sat, and then he and I stared at each other. It was like meeting someone out of your dreams, or fantasies, or a beloved character from a favorite book. How could this be? Any of it? There wasn’t a logical answer that I could think of. Good thing I had given up on logic when I was twelve and realized I was never going to marry Simon Le Bon. Michael still seemed to be somewhere between thirty and thirty-five. I saw the exact same recognizable pattern of freckles across his nose. His eyebrows, his ears, his hair, and finally, his eyes — they were all the same. Those beautiful green eyes, the kindest eyes I’d ever seen. I’d looked into those eyes a million times, and I was looking into them now. So incredibly green.
The next question couldn’t have been any more honest on my part, and it was something I desperately needed to know. “Michael, are you imaginary?”
He looked uncomfortable. “I guess that’s a matter of opinion.”
“What are you doing here? How can this be happening?”
He threw up his hands. “Honestly, I have no idea. I’m just in New York . . . waiting . . . for my next assignment.”
“Oh,