Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [52]
“You got a reservation? If not, we don’t have a room for you,” she said. “As in: no room at the India Street Inn.”
Michael gave her the name “Michaels,” and moments later they were sent to suite 21 on the second floor. There was one big room with a queen-size bed and lots of country pine antiques, a hand-painted mural on the wall, and fluffy white towels everywhere. A door from the bathroom led to another smaller bedroom. Connecting bedrooms. What Michael had asked for when he called.
“This is great” was all Jane said as she checked everything out.
She walked to the window in the larger bedroom and opened it wide. A cool breeze blew her hair back, and Michael thought she had never looked more beautiful. Could anything be more special than being here with Jane? He didn’t think so. Certainly no one had ever made his heart beat fast like this. He would remember if it had happened before, wouldn’t he?
Jane picked up a brochure from the desk, and she began reading, “Coffee in the front parlor starting at six in the morning. Windsurfing lessons on the far bay every Monday and Thursday. You can rent bikes. Also, visitors can go up in the tower of the Old North Church. Can we? I want to do everything. Okay?”
Michael could almost feel Jane’s happiness in the way she spoke. She wasn’t acting like a little girl, but she had the same wonderful qualities — enthusiasm, curiosity, innocence.
I love her, he thought, and said, “Okay. Anything you want.”
And he decided to leave it at that very good place for the moment.
Sixty-two
THE INNKEEPER GAVE THEM two old Schwinn bikes — nothing fancy, thick tires, rusted paint, pedal brakes, many creaking parts. She pointed them in the general direction of Siasconset, saying, “Most tourists think ’Sconset’s real pretty, and special. Because it is real pretty and special.”
Jane took off first, and Michael followed along on the Milestone Road. There wasn’t much traffic — an occasional Jeep; a motorbike; a fish delivery truck; a big, vulgar, taxi-yellow Hummer — then a bunch of kids on racing bikes, moving faster than some of the cars.
“Have a great honeymoon!” one of the kids shouted at them. Michael and Jane looked at each other and smiled. After four or five miles, they came upon a split-rail fence and a vista that looked amazingly like the Serengeti in Africa. Next they passed Tom Nevers Road and a grand view across cranberry bogs. Then came the Nantucket Golf Club, acres of rolling, manicured fairways and greens that actually made golf look like it might be fun.
Another hill came, higher than the rest. A wooden sign in the shape of an arrow said: SIASCONSET. They crested down, and there it was: a white beach that stretched out to the ocean. Michael wondered if Jane had known that a deep red afternoon sun would just be moving overhead, ready to set, ready to cast beautiful light down on them.
“Tell me you’ve ever seen anything this sweet before,” she said as they settled on the sand.
“Actually, I have.” He was looking into her eyes.
“Stop!” she said, laughing and blushing. “You’re going to lose all credibility, on our first day here.”
“Okay.”
“No, don’t stop.”
So he put his arm around her and watched her from the corner of his eye and lived in the moment.
I just love Jane. That’s all there is for now.
Sixty-three
ABOUT THAT SEX THING: It didn’t happen our first night on Nantucket, and I tried not to overthink it, and failed. Or to let it bother me at all, and failed a second time, pretty miserably.
Early the next morning, we headed off to what was supposedly the highest point on the island, called Folger Hill. We even had the good sense to slather ourselves with sunblock and wear long-sleeved shirts. I was loving this, every minute of it, every second. Despite not knowing what would come next, despite all the questions I still had, I was taking my own advice and just relishing everything, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.
The ride on Polpis Road seemed