Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [49]
Jane was going to die.
That was why he was here in New York.
PART THREE
Candles in the Wind
Fifty-seven
CALL IT A MESSAGE, maybe. Or a wake-up call. An instinct?
I felt the need to come to one of our “places”: the front steps of the Met, my favorite view in New York since I’d been a little girl and had come here with Michael.
I’d been sitting on the steps for a while. When I had stormed out of my mother’s office, I’d automatically told the cabdriver to take me here. Now my anger had faded and transformed itself into something vaguely resembling strength. At least that’s what I was telling myself. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? I’d never particularly liked that cliché, but I wasn’t above using it now.
And every spring flower seemed to be in bloom. From where I sat, I could see pink apple blossoms, azaleas bursting with dynamic red. A gold-and-orange checkerboard of newly planted marigolds filled a garden near Fifth Avenue.
That’s better, much better.
Schoolchildren tumbled out of school buses in front of the museum. Old ladies with canes walked carefully up the steps, probably to see the Jackie Kennedy costume exhibit. I’d been there, done that.
A teenage couple sat a few steps away from me. They kissed longingly, and I enjoyed watching them, because for this moment, at least, they were hopelessly in love. Was I in love too, and was it hopeless?
The good news was that I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I was free of Vivienne, free of Hugh, free of the pressures of my job, free of nine to five (or, rather, nine to nine), free of worrying about whether I looked good or bad. At least for the next hour or so.
I wanted one thing in my life: Michael. I knew his presence was unreliable, and that it wasn’t entirely in his control. I knew he might disappear on me one day, and probably would. But love takes chances, and I wanted to take a chance right now. For once in my life, I knew what I wanted.
That was a start, wasn’t it?
I heard a voice, and I looked up and had to shade my eyes from the glare of the sun.
“Excuse me, miss. Is this step taken?”
It was Michael.
“How do you know I’m a miss?” I asked.
Fifty-eight
IT REALLY WAS MICHAEL. He’d found me. But, God, did he look like crap!
“What happened to you?” I asked, after I’d given him the once-over.
“What do you mean? What’s the matter with me?”
“You look like you haven’t slept in days. Your eyes are all bloodshot. Your clothes are wringing wet with perspiration. You’re . . .”
He sat next to me and held my hand. “I’m fine, Jane. I’m really fine.” He leaned in and kissed my neck. Gentle, strong. I didn’t know which, and I didn’t care. Then Michael kissed me on the lips, and every nerve inside me lit up. He kissed me a second time. And a third. I stared into his eyes and felt my whole body start tingling.
“Why aren’t you at work?” he asked.
With great effort, I concentrated on what he’d just said.
I could tell that he was wise to what had happened.
“Jane?”
“Why aren’t I at work? Because I punched the crap out of Hugh McGrath? I think I bruised my knuckles, too.” Michael kissed my hands.
“Because, for once, I told my mother where to stick it, and it felt just great, Michael. Because I quit my day job, which also happened to be my night job most of the time.”
Michael gave me a loving smile. “Hooray for Jane! Good for you!”
I laughed. “Hooray for Jane? Good for me? I hope this doesn’t mean you think your work is done here. Because it isn’t, not even close.”
“You are an endless project,” he said with another smile. “Changing, evolving, surprising.”
“Excellent sentence fragment. You’ve been practicing.”
Then I leaned over and kissed him again. “I’ve decided I’m done with being miserable and oppressed. I want to actually enjoy life. I want to have fun. Doesn’t everyone deserve that?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. “And you most of all.”
Suddenly he looked very serious, and his eyes avoided mine.
Uh-oh. “What?” I said.
“Jane, do you remember that time when you were little — and your dad