Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [43]
In all my life, I’d never felt anything like it, nothing even close. Finally we broke apart. Staring up at him, pulling in air, I started to say —But then we were kissing again, and I wasn’t even sure who had started it, only that Michael was holding my face in his hands. Then he held me tight, tight, in a little bear hug that I loved. We inched apart, but then kissed again and again. Finally we clung to each other, not speaking, and it occurred to me that I’d be happy to do this for quite a long time, like maybe the rest of my life. And also that I was feeling light-headed. I didn’t want it to stop. Not ever.
Forty-nine
WHEN I GOT HOME from my “date” with Michael, and I definitely thought it had been a date, I didn’t have a chance to process any of what had just happened — because someone was in my apartment.
The light in the foyer was on, and the kitchen overheads, and at least one lamp in the living room.
I had a crazy thought: that it might be Michael. Who knows, maybe he could just make himself appear somewhere.
Or it could be Hugh, because I thought he still had a key to my place.
But if it was Michael, I didn’t want to call out “Hugh?” or vice versa. And what an ironic dilemma for someone who was historically so bad with relationships.
So I took a deep breath and said, “Hello?”
“Jane-Sweetie” came from inside the living room, and as I turned the corner, there was my mother, seated in one of my easy chairs.
“I thought I’d come over,” she said, “for a little talk.”
“Huh,” I said, thinking I’d rather be smeared with honey and tied to an anthill. “How did you get in?”
“I still have a key from the remodeling.”
Oh, and don’t get me started on that. Suddenly the idea of a little post-date (and it had totally been a date) cocktail sounded like an excellent idea. I headed for the cupboard where I kept my embarrassingly inadequate supply of liquor.
“Can I get you something, Mom?” Vivienne winced at the name, but I loved to call her that, loved to know that I had an actual mom-type person. Plus, she’d just broken into my apartment, so “Mom” it was.
“Sherry,” she said. “You know what I like, Jane-Sweetie.”
So I went and got her sherry — and a stiff shot of whiskey for her put-upon daughter.
I sat across from her in the other easy chair. “Cheers.”
“Jane-Sweetie,” she responded, “I don’t know what’s going on with Hugh, or the other one, or any others there might be in your busy life.” Her tone of voice suggested that the jury was still out on whether I had a busy life, or even a life, for that matter.
I just couldn’t help interrupting. “Wow, I’m impressed! My busy life!”
“Please.” Vivienne held up a hand, palm out. “Let me talk.”
I nodded and took a sip of my drink, making a face as the liquid fire trailed down my throat. I missed Michael a lot. Already.
“Jane-Sweetie, what I came here to say is that —” My mother stopped, seeming uncharacteristically at a loss for words. I frowned and sat up straighter. Was she already engaged to Karl Friedkin?
“Yes?” I said encouragingly, dropping the attitude.
“Well, I’m not going to be around forever, and when I’m gone the company will be yours, and you can make whatever decisions you wish.” She finished quickly, then took a deep drink of her sherry.
Okay, this was a completely new tack for her. I was starting to get concerned. “What do you mean, Mother?” I said.
“Don’t interrupt. There’s one more thing. I never told you this, but my mother died of heart failure when she was thirty-seven. You’re thirty-two. Think about it.”
Having said that, my mother rose to her feet, came over, and gave me a kiss on the cheek, and then she left the way she’d come in.
What the hell had that been about? She thought I was going to die of heart failure? She’d been odd and unlike herself. Was she telling me that she had a heart problem? No, she would have been way more dramatic, complete with sweeping gestures and Bette Davis swoons.
As usual, Vivienne had gotten the last word.
Fifty
OKAY, OKAY, OKAY. I understood that pushing the elevator