Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [62]
My mother’s old hairdresser, One-Name Jason, was on hand. Like Vivienne, Jason was a testimony to perfect plastic surgery. And he had done my mother one final favor. He’d flown to New York from Palm Springs just to do her hair.
Even Hugh McGrath showed up. He shook my hand, hugged me as if I were an ex-wife, told me he was sorry for everything. I almost believed him, until I remembered, Hugh is an actor. And Hugh is a sonofabitch.
The graveside service at a cemetery in Westchester County was touching and brief, also according to Vivienne’s explicit direction. The minister reminded us that life was much too short, that we were destined for another world beyond this one, and that no doubt Vivienne would be producing shows in heaven. Well said, but enough said.
I placed a single rose on my mother’s coffin. My style. I prayed that my mom was at peace and, if she were looking down now, that everything had gone as she wanted. I wore pink, Mom!
Then Michael took my hand, and we began to walk.
“We have to talk,” he said, and a chill went through me.
Seventy-eight
THE SUN WAS WARM AND BRIGHT, and it lit the cemetery as though it were a stage set. The greens of the trees, the vibrant colors of the flowers, everything seemed so crisp and light and right. So why was I shivering?
“Gorgeous day,” I said.
“Even God wouldn’t mess with Vivienne.” Michael smiled. He had loosened his tie and removed his jacket. The jacket was hooked on his index finger and slung over his shoulder. Very Michael, who was always true to himself.
“So we know why I was sent back to New York,” he said. “And why I had those feelings about New York Hospital, and all the rest of it.”
I nodded but didn’t say anything. “I was here to help your mother. I’m almost sure of it, Jane.”
I stopped walking and looked at him.
“But you’re still here.”
He smiled. “Yes, I seem to be. Unless I really am your imaginary friend. It’s possible.”
I poked him in the stomach. “Did you feel that?”
“Oof. Yes, I did. And I cut myself shaving, quite regularly now.”
There was a pause. Michael’s green eyes squinted against the bright sun.
“I think I’m here because I want to be. And I’m here because you’re the only person I’ve ever loved too. I’m here because I couldn’t stand to leave you, Jane.”
I turned to him again, my heart full, and we came together and kissed gently. It was perfect.
“I have questions,” I said when we separated, “that must be answered.”
“I don’t know if I have answers. But I’ll try, Jane.”
“All righty, then. Let me begin with a toughie. Have you . . . ever talked to, you know, God?”
Michael nodded. “Yes. Of course I have. Many, many times. Unfortunately, He’s never talked back. He. She. Whatever. Next question?”
“So you believe in —?”
Michael looked around. “Well, how else to explain . . . all of this? Or me, of course? Or us? Snocones, Pokémon, the Simpsons, the justice system in America, iPods.”
“I get it. So are you an angel?”
“Sometimes. But occasionally I’m kind of devil-may-care.” He grinned, and his eyes twinkled at me. “I’m just trying to be honest.”
I stomped my foot. I needed to know about this. “Are you an angel, Michael?
He looked deeply into my eyes. “I honestly don’t know, Jane. Guess I’m like everybody else. I don’t have a clue.” He took me in his arms again. “See me, feel me,” he whispered. “We’ve made it this far.”
We continued to walk.
“Michael, I have to ask you something else. This has been really bothering me. Are you always going to look the way you look right now?”
“Exceptionally handsome, wildly debonair, unkempt?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“You mean, am I ever going to grow old, Jane?”
“Yes.”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Well, you have to promise me that we’re not just going to grow old together. I want us to actually look like we’re growing old together. That would mean a lot to me.”
“I’ll do my best to get wrinkled and stooped, and I’ll drive a big black Buick.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll do the same. And how about money?” I