Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [42]
The rain had started up again, but Michael had brought an umbrella. They headed all the way to a restaurant on the Upper East Side called Primavera, talking as if it had been months since they’d seen each other, instead of hours.
“So do you watch TV?” Jane asked, avoiding a puddle by walking closer to him.
“Mostly cable,” Michael said. “Like Deadwood and Big Love.”
“I like those too!” Jane said. “What else do you do? What are some of your other interests?”
Michael thought. People didn’t usually ask him about himself. As Claire de Lune had said, he was a terrific listener. “Um, I love live football games,” he said. “I love Corinne Bailey Rae. NASCAR. Cézanne. The White Stripes.”
Jane laughed. “So . . . everything.”
He grinned. “Pretty much.”
“What did you do today?” Jane asked, looping her arm through his.
“I met some of my friends,” he admitted. “Friends who are . . . in the same line of work. And I went for a long run. And I napped.”
“Well, isn’t that special,” Jane teased him.
“Hey, I’m on vacation, remember?” he said. By that time, they were at the restaurant, and it struck Michael: Was this a date? It felt like a date.
Forty-eight
“SO HOW WAS YOUR DAY?” Michael asked as soon as we had sat down and sent the waiter bustling off to get a bottle of Frascati for us.
I made a face. “Not too bad, considering that I had six separate meetings with Vivienne.”
“Age sure hasn’t slowed her down.”
“Not much. Maybe a little bit. Lately, anyway. You know, I’m producing this film, a small movie, nothing major. A confection, I guess you could call it.”
“Like Chocolat,” Michael said, and he smiled. “I loved that movie.”
There was a pause. I was trying to think of how to say this without giving too much away.
“Go on,” Michael said. “Tell me about it. I like hearing about your work.”
“You’re probably the only one,” I said, trying not to laugh too bitterly. “Anyway, we have a coinvestor on the film named Karl Friedkin. When I went past Vivienne’s office this morning, after we got drenched in the rain, who should be sitting there but Karl Friedkin? So I asked MaryLouise, my secretary, about it. Know what she said?”
“That Vivienne is on the hunt for a new husband. Her fourth, right?”
I dropped the piece of Italian bread I’d been gesturing with and stared at Michael. “Amazing. MaryLouise knew too. I’m the only one who didn’t. I must be impossibly dense.”
“No. You’re just a nice human being. So your mind doesn’t go that way without some provocation.”
“And yours does?” I asked.
“Let’s just say that I’ve seen your mother in action. You know that she loves you, though?”
I frowned. “Who wouldn’t? I’m so nice.”
The waiter came by to take our order, which we split. I still didn’t have much of an appetite, which was strange, but good strange. I didn’t feel sick, just didn’t feel like eating.
AFTER TWO ESPRESSOS and two Sambucas, we were heading south on Park. The rain had stopped, and I was using Michael’s umbrella as a kind of walking stick. I started tapping it in rhythm, then suddenly I burst into a mortifying version of “Singin’ in the Rain.” It was like watching myself jump off a cliff but being unable to stop. “The suuun’s in my heeeart, and I’m ready for looove . . .” Finally I got a grip.
“Sorry. Don’t know what came over me. Just . . . goofy Jane,” I said, hot-cheeked with embarrassment.
“I like goofy,” said Michael. “Besides, you were being cute, not goofy.”
See? Things like that made me love him more. Looking up, I saw that we were only a few blocks away from my building already. We continued walking, both of us quiet for a change. Would I ask him up? I wanted to. I really, really wanted to.
Trying to gather my nerve, I looked up at Michael, and then suddenly we had stopped and he was taking me into his arms again.
My eyes flew open, then fluttered shut as Michael slowly, slowly leaned down. I almost gasped when I felt his lips press against mine, and my heart gave a giant leap that I was sure he could feel. My mind, which I thought of as being in tatters now anyway, was