Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [5]
A little old lady who played the grandmother in The Problem with Kansas hooked me with the handle of her cane.
“You look like a nice girl,” she said.
“Thank you. I try to be,” I told her. “Can I help you with something?”
“I was wondering if you could go to that wet bar over there and get me a Jack Daniel’s and water,” she said.
“Sure. Straight up or on the rocks?”
“My goodness. You are a sophisticated one. Could you possibly be a midget?”
I laughed and glanced at Michael. He was whispering something to the piano player. What was he up to?
As I began to walk toward one of the bars, I heard a loud voice. “May I have your attention, please?” It was the piano player, and the crowd quieted down immediately.
“I’ve been told . . . and I’m not sure by whom . . . that this is a very special day for someone. . . . She’s nine years old today . . . Vivienne’s daughter.”
Vivienne’s daughter. That’s who I was.
I smiled, feeling happy and self-conscious at the same time. Everyone’s eyes turned toward me. The leading man from the show picked me up and stood me on a chair, and suddenly I was taller than everyone in the room. I looked for my mother, hoping she was smiling proudly, but I didn’t see her anywhere. The writer was gone too. Then music began, and everyone sang “Happy Birthday.” There’s nothing like having a professional Broadway chorus sing you “Happy Birthday.” I think it was the most beautiful “Happy Birthday” I’ve ever heard. A shiver went right through me, and it probably would have been the happiest moment of my life if my mother had been there to share it with me.
When it was over, the very nice actor put me down, everyone applauded, and the party went back to being an opening night party. The birthday part was over.
Then I heard a familiar voice call my name. “Jane! I think I know this big, beautiful girl.” I whirled to see my father, Kenneth. He seemed awfully tall and straight for someone who was supposed to be “spineless.”
“Daddy!” I shouted, and ran into his arms.
Six
GOD, DID I LOVE being hugged. Especially by my dad. He wrapped his arms around me, and I could smell cold air and a faint tinge of his aftershave. I breathed in deeply, so happy and relieved he had come.
“You didn’t think I’d forget your ninth birthday?” my father asked. He pulled away from me and tugged on my hand. “Okay, quick, out into the front hall. If your mother finds out that I’ve crashed her party, she’ll flip.”
“There’ll be people to catch her if she does,” I said. “But I’m not even sure that she’s still here.”
We pushed through the crowd, me holding my dad’s hand, and in the front hall were two surprises: a big box with a yellow ribbon — and my father’s current girlfriend. I remembered Vivienne saying something about Ellie’s chest, and how it wasn’t real, but I had no idea what she was talking about.
“You remember Ellie, don’t you, Jane?” Dad asked.
“Uh-huh. Hi, Ellie. I’m glad you could come.” Years of etiquette classes were paying off.
“Happy birthday, Jane,” she said. Ellie was very blond and pretty, and she seemed much younger than my mother. I knew Vivienne called Ellie “the schoolgirl” whenever her name was mentioned.
“Open your gift,” my dad said. “Ellie helped pick it out.”
I pulled on the yellow ribbon, and it came undone immediately. Inside was a lot of tissue paper, and I excitedly clawed my way through it. My fingers touched something soft and velvety — but not alive. I reached in and pulled out the biggest, purplest stuffed poodle I’d ever seen. It had a poufy topknot on its head, a rhinestone collar, and a heart-shaped gold tag that said “Gigi.”
Pretty much the total opposite of the puppy I had wanted.
“Thanks, Daddy,” I said, putting a big smile on my face. “This is so fun!” I tried to push all thoughts of a real, warm, wiggling puppy that would be mine, all mine, from my mind. No real puppy . . . stuffed purple poodle instead.
“Thank Ellie, too,” Daddy said.
“Thank you, Ellie,” I said politely, and she leaned down and kissed me. I recognized her perfume: Chanel