Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [53]
Eventually, we made it to a small harbor town called Madaket. There was a bait store, a hardware store, and a gathering spot called Smith’s Point. At about 11:30, we ate fish and chips at a broken-down shack that we first thought had been abandoned.
“How’d you know about this place?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I just knew, Jane.”
Maybe to shut me up, Michael kissed me, which I never seemed to tire of, and then we ate the crispiest, most delicious deep-fried pieces of fish. The cook had wrapped them in pages of the Inquirer and Mirror newspaper. We doused the cod with malt vinegar. And because Michael believed you can never have enough fried foods at one sitting, we ordered a rolled newspaper cone of French fries, also doused with vinegar. Meanwhile, old Bob Dylan songs were playing from the open-air kitchen, and everything seemed so perfect and magical that I felt like crying.
Sometimes I would catch Michael looking off toward the roiling sea. When he did, he seemed to be drifting away again. I wanted to know where it was he was going, what he was thinking. Did he already know when he would leave me? I shut my eyes, unwilling to think about it. I wouldn’t think about it till it happened.
And it had to happen, right? That was how this had to end. Michael would leave to take care of a child somewhere, maybe not even in New York.
It was inevitable, so I put the sad thought right out of my mind, and stayed on vacation, stayed in love with him.
“What do you remember about me as a little girl?” I asked, and sat back, and listened to Michael’s memories for an hour or so. Interestingly, he seemed to remember everything now, even the coffee ice cream with rivers of hot fudge.
Sixty-four
“I NEVER THOUGHT I would say the words I am about to say,” I said.
“And those words are?”
“I’m too full to eat dinner.”
“Jane, we haven’t eaten anything since lunch.”
“You eat, I’ll just watch,” I said, and Michael looked at me, concerned.
Back at the India Street Inn, we showered and changed into jeans and T-shirts and windbreakers. Then we walked. That was us: walking and talking. We went away from the town center, away from the shops, away from worries, responsibilities, anything that had to do with the so-called real world, my job, Vivienne.
We walked past three-hundred-year-old houses, where sailors and whalers once lived, where patient, faithful wives waited for their husbands to come home from the sea; houses that had stood here long before the media celebrities, pop singers, actors, and authors had descended on the island.
We passed a windmill, lots of little ponds, walking tracks, and more “trophy” houses than you could throw a seashell at.
“Sure you’re not hungry?” Michael asked as we made our way back to the inn.
“There are only two things I’m sure of,” I said. “One, I’m not hungry, and two . . .” I paused, not for effect, but because I wanted to be sure about what I was about to say.
“Go on,” he said. “Two things you’re sure of, and the second is?”
“Two, I love you, Michael. I think I’ve loved you my entire life. I needed to say that out loud, not just inside my head.”
We stopped walking, and Michael held me by the hips and then moved his hands up my back, exciting me in a way that made me, well, up for just about anything. We kissed again, and he did that bear-hug-lifting thing that I loved, and then we walked the short distance back to the inn. I felt as if there was a neon sign glaring in the front window: NOW WHAT?
Sixty-five
“ALMOST DIDN’T RECOGNIZE you two without a bike between your legs,” the lady innkeeper said as we walked through the front door. I glanced at her, startled. I don’t think she meant it to sound the way it did because she clammed right up.
Michael and I laughed, then walked up to our room, holding hands, but quietly, not a word spoken between us for a change. I didn’t even have a question I wanted to ask him right now.
Inside the bedroom