Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [6]
“Okay,” Dad said, standing up. “Now we’re off to Nantucket.”
I felt my heart jump. “We are?” I almost screamed.
Ellie and my father looked at each other awkwardly.
“No, honey,” said my dad. “I meant that Ellie and I are off to Nantucket. Your mother would kill me if I took you away from your birthday party.”
Yeah, I’m sure she would notice, I thought bleakly. “I understand,” I said, trying hard not to cry on the spot. “It’s just that I love Nantucket. I really, really love Nantucket. And so does Michael.”
“We’ll go there again, Jane. I promise,” my father said. “And your friend Michael can come, too.”
I’m sure he meant it, because my father never said anything he didn’t mean. But it made me so sad to see him help Ellie on with her coat.
“You going to be okay?” Ellie asked. Actually, I liked her. She was always very kind to me. I hoped my father would marry her soon. He needed hugs, too. Everybody does. Maybe even Vivienne did.
“Of course. It’s my birthday. Who’s not okay on their birthday?”
We hugged one another. We kissed one another. We said good-bye, and then my father and Ellie got into the elevator and were gone into the night, on their merry way to Nantucket.
The opening night party was in full swing. It was as if no one had even sung “Happy Birthday” just a few minutes ago. There was no point in me staying.
I wove through the crowd of grown-ups and finally ran down the long, thickly carpeted, silent corridor that led to my bedroom. I slammed the door behind me and flung myself on my bed, burying my face in my pillow. Here, with no one to see me, I started to weep like the world’s biggest crybaby.
Then the door opened.
It was Michael. Thank goodness, it was Michael, come to save me.
Seven
JANE WAS SOBBING on her bed all by herself when he came in. She sure didn’t look like a birthday girl. But then, why would she, poor kid?
Michael sighed, then sat down beside her and wrapped his arms around the little girl who didn’t deserve to be hurt like this. No child did.
“It’s okay, honey. Let it all out,” he whispered against her hair, which always smelled of Johnson and Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. It was now one of his favorite scents.
“Okay. But you asked for it.”
Snuffling, her small face streaked with tears, Jane pulled off her shoes and dropped them on the floor.
“I think Vivienne totally forgot my birthday,” she said, and she shuddered with leftover tears. “And my dad came, which was good, but then he left in about two minutes. And he was going to Nantucket, my favorite place in the world! Without me! And I didn’t get a puppy, either.”
Jane held the purple poodle against her cheek. He had noticed that she often cuddled objects close to her — a winter coat, a pillow, a stuffed animal. She had a lot of hugs to give, but not enough people to give them to.
“You’re a good listener,” she said, with one last sniffle. “Thanks. I feel better.”
Michael looked around her room. It was pure Jane: stacks of chapter books written for much older kids. A real saxophone in the corner. A large poster with vocabulary words — in French. Over her desk, an autographed picture of Warren Beatty. Vivienne had brought it back from a three-month business trip to Los Angeles, during which she hadn’t come home once to see her daughter.
Now Michael had to talk to Jane. The place — her cozy room, away from that stupid party — couldn’t have been better. The timing — right after she’d been hurt by both of her parents on her birthday — couldn’t have been worse.
“You are an amazing, amazing girl,” Michael said. “Do you know that? You must.”
“Sort of, but only because you tell me every other day,” she said with a watery smile.
“You’re beautiful, inside and out,” he went on. “You’re incredibly smart. Well-read. Funny. Considerate. And generous. You’ve got so much to give.”
Suddenly Jane looked very alert. He had just said she was smart — and she was about to prove it to him, wasn’t she?
“Michael, what are you trying to say? What’s going on? Something bad.