Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [56]
On the way back from dinner, Michael said, “Have I ever told you about Kevin Uxbridge?”
“No. Was he one of your children? Your friends?”
“No. Kevin Uxbridge was part of the Douwd race, on Star Trek.”
“The original or Next Generation?”
“Next Generation. He met a woman named Rishon and fell in love with her so deeply that he decided to put aside his extraordinary powers to marry her and live a ‘mortal life.’ ”
“I hope it worked out for them,” Jane said. “I see a parallel here.”
“Well, actually, it didn’t work out that well,” Michael admitted. “Husnocks came and attacked their colony. Rishon was killed. Kevin Uxbridge was so furious and devastated that he destroyed the Husnock race completely, all fifty billion of them.”
“Gosh,” said Jane, “that seems a little excessive. But wait, are you Kevin, or am I Kevin?”
“Neither of us is Kevin,” Michael said, sounding almost testy.
“O-kaay,” said Jane, taking his hand again. “Personally, I always liked the tribbles best.”
Michael decided to drop it.
Meanwhile, every time Jane coughed, or looked the least bit weary, it slapped Michael back to reality. Every time she mentioned a leg cramp or her loss of appetite, he felt a shudder. But he couldn’t tell her . . . because . . . what would it accomplish other than to make these special moments into something terrible, too sad for words?
Sixty-nine
WHEN NIGHT COMES TO nANTUCKET, it can get much more pitch-black than it ever gets in New York City, especially if there’s a cloud cover. No moon, no streetlights, no noisy tourists navigating the brick roadways. Jane slept, and Michael stared out the window of their room. In the darkness he could barely see the nearby buildings.
How incredible meeting up with Jane again had been, getting to know her as a woman. And then the feelings growing between them, the dinners and talks, the laughter that could be convulsive at times. The nervous, tentative kisses that were almost like teases, then the passionate ones, where they joined together, heart and soul. And finally, lovemaking, holding Jane for hours, trying to imagine a future for the two of them that went beyond Nantucket.
At about 4:00 that morning, Michael sat at the edge of the bed, watching Jane sleep again, trying to come up with a plan, anything at all. Something must have told her he was up.
“What’s the matter, Michael?” she asked in a soft, sleepy voice. “What’s happening? Is something the matter? Are you sick?”
“Nothing, Jane. I don’t get sick, remember? Go back to sleep. It’s four o’clock.”
“Come lie down with me. It’s four o’clock.”
So Michael lay down with Jane, snuggling with her, until she slept again. He watched over her until his eyes stung. He would do anything in his power to save her. Even if it meant . . . the unthinkable.
Maybe that was it. He had a thought, an idea, a nugget of one, anyway. He found the logic of it hopeful. He was there to lead Jane out of this world, correct? That was his mission. But what if he wasn’t there anymore?
Pain stabbed through his heart as he pictured his grim, black-and-white, Jane-less existence. But it would be worth it, if she could live. If he wasn’t here to help her leave the world, wouldn’t she necessarily stay in it? Maybe?
He didn’t know. But at this moment, it was all he had.
Still trying to think his idea through, maybe grasping at straws, he began to throw things into his canvas bag, and then he shut the window so Jane wouldn’t catch a chill. He stared at her again. Am I doing the right thing, leaving her now?
Will this work? It might. It has to. Jane can’t die.
He wanted to kiss her good-bye, to hold her one more time, to talk to her, hear her voice. But he didn’t dare wake her. How could he leave her again? Maybe because he had no other idea, and therefore, no choice. “I love you, Jane,” he whispered. “I’ll love you forever.”
Carefully, he closed the door behind him, hurried along the hallway and down the stairs. There was a 5:30 AM ferry to Boston. He made a stop at the