Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [61]
And hearing this admission brought me tears, the ones I had been holding back for years. “I thought I was such a disappointment, because I wasn’t like you.”
“Oh, Jane-Sweetie. No, no, no. Never. You want to know something?”
“What?”
“You’re the only person I ever loved, the only one. You’re the love of my life.”
The love of her life.
My eyes hurt from the tears, my throat and chest ached, but my mother looked the picture of peace. And then I thought: So this is it? After so many years of yelling at stagehands, screaming at secretaries, fighting with investors. After the decades of ordering around maids and chauffeurs and caterers and decorators. After the acres of designer dresses and thousand-dollar shoes. After all the trips to Paris and London and Bangkok and Cairo. This is how it ends, a frail woman on a hospital bed. My mother, and me. Together at last.
“Come closer, Jane-Sweetie,” she said. “I won’t bite. Probably not,” she added with a weak grin.
I moved so close that our faces were almost touching.
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Of course, Moth —— Mom. What do you want?”
“For God’s sake, make sure they bury me . . . in that new Galliano brocade dress. Nothing black. I look terrible in black.”
I couldn’t help smiling. She was Vivienne to the end, so true to herself. “The Galliano,” I said. “Check.”
“And one more thing, Jane.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you wear black to the funeral either. Black makes most people look thinner. But for some reason it makes you look a little top-heavy.”
My smile broadened. “Okay, Mom. I’ll wear pink. I have just the dress.”
“You’re funny,” my mother said. “You always were. Pink at a funeral. Please do.”
I looked over at Michael. He was smiling now too.
My mother closed her eyes, and her body shivered. I hated the idea of losing her. My mom. Finally, she was my mom.
Michael stood and walked to the other side of the bed. I held one hand. Michael held the other. This was it, wasn’t it? It was all happening too fast and so suddenly.
I leaned in and kissed Vivienne on her soft, smooth cheek. She smiled and opened her eyes again. A slight nod of her head told me she wanted me closer again.
“Jane, the only thing I hate about dying is saying good-bye to you. I love you so much. Good-bye, Jane-Sweetie.”
“Good-bye, Mom. I love you so much too.”
And then my mother gave me one last kiss to remember her by always.
Seventy-seven
AS SHE WISHED, Vivienne was buried in the Galliano dress. She looked beautiful. In fact, the entire funeral was stunning, and also touching. Why not? Vivienne had planned it down to the tiniest detail.
I wore pink. Yves Saint Laurent pink.
The service was held on Park Avenue, at St. Bart’s, of course.
Two pianists played Brahms flawlessly, as if Vivienne were standing over them. Then a soloist performed show tunes from several of the musicals my mother had produced. A couple of times, the audience burst into song.
Finally, as the service ended, on a very warm spring day, we all stood and sang my mother’s favorite song, “Jingle Bells.” Which was so incredibly not Vivienne that it was perfect too. Just as she knew it would be. And I was happy for her. My mother had produced one last hit.
As we walked out of St. Bart’s to the waiting limos, Michael said to me, “If they had served cocktails, this could have been a Vivienne Margaux reunion party. As it should be.”
“I loved it,” I said, and hugged him. “Because she would have.”
Everyone who was anybody, or pretended to be, was there. Not just Elsie and MaryLouise and the people from the office. But very famous actors, directors, stagehands and choreographers, propmen and makeup artists. All there to honor my mother and her accomplishments, which were many, including raising me to be me.
My father was there with his wife, Ellie, and at age forty-eight Ellie was finally beginning to look older than thirty. Or maybe she just dressed down in honor of Vivienne.
Howard, my stepfather, was there. Sober, too. He told me that