Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [74]
Twenty-eight FINALLY, THE LAST of the scrambled eggs went onto the paper plate of an elderly woman who had no teeth and wore plastic bags over her hands and her shoes. “Make it through another day,” she kept repeating over and over. It was a little disturbing how deeply I related to that sentiment. Just before noon, I stepped out into the crisp spring morning of a Spanish Harlem Sunday in New York. My arms hurt and my head ached, but there was something basic and good about feeding people who are hungry. It was beautiful everywhere I looked, everything seemed full of life and promise, which, considering last night’s debacle, seemed like a miracle. On the steps of the church were five little girls dressed like miniature brides, kids about to make their First Communion. Nearby, serious-faced men drank cervezas and played dominoes on wooden cartons. I inhaled deeply. The smell of fried churros was in the air, and corn on the cob, and chili. I crossed over to Park Avenue, where the commute
Twenty-nine THE ONLY THING PRETTIER than the navy blue, sun-dappled sports car was the man driving it, and he knew it. Hugh was wearing Italian sunglasses and a light brown leather jacket that looked so soft you immediately wanted to touch it. And to give him a “regular guy” look, a New York Giants cap with the visor bent at the sides, just so. “Join me for a spin, beautiful.” Delivered in a humorous tone I knew he’d stolen from Mr. Big in Sex and the City. Hugh and the car made a lovely couple, but I was thinking I could do without either of them. After all, I didn’t care. I really didn’t. Well, I almost didn’t care. Oh, damn it, maybe I cared a little bit. “I’m supposed to meet my mother for lunch in an hour,” I said coolly. “She’s been a little under the weather lately.” The words floated out without my bidding, but they sounded great. “I’ll get you back in an hour. You know I wouldn’t dare piss off Vivienne.” “Hugh, after last night . . . I just can’t —” “C’mon. Come for a ride. I
Thirty HE HAD NOTHING but time. It was a beautiful day, and he was trying to kick his Jane habit, so Michael was headed out for a walk, maybe a movie. On his way out, he met Owen on his way in, coming up the stairs of the brownstone — with Patty, the waitress from the Olympia. Oh, no. What have I done? Owen and Patty? They were a cute enough couple, except that Michael didn’t trust Owen as far as he could throw him, and he really liked Patty. He didn’t want to see her hurt by a confirmed womanizer. “Hi, Michael.” Patty beamed, as she always did at the restaurant. “I was hoping I would see you. I wanted to thank you for bringing Owen to the Olympia that morning.” “Oh, it was nothing. Best pancakes around, right? How are you guys?” He tried to send Owen a warning glance, like, Hurt this girl and I’ll kill you, but Owen didn’t meet his eyes. Patty continued to smile and did seem happy. “I’m great. But this one, he’s a diamond in the rough. He’s funny. Another Dane Cook.” “I am not,” Owen
Thirty-one I MUST HAVE EVENTUALLY found a cab in Brooklyn. It must have gone back over the Brooklyn Bridge. And it must have dropped me off at my apartment on 75th Street. It must have happened, but I don’t remember any of it very well. I do remember seeing Hugh peel away; I remember the sharp gravel hitting my shins; I specifically remember giving him the finger. Next thing, Martin was holding open the door of my building, and I was staggering toward the elevator. As I opened the apartment door, the phone was ringing, and I answered it in a daze, not even thinking that it might be Hugh. “This is Jane,” I said mechanically, kicking off my shoes. “Jane-Sweetie!” My mother’s imperious voice. “Where are you? You said you were coming for lunch! I have that wonderful gravlax from Zabar’s. Karl Friedkin is here. And I have photos from the new Valentino collection. And —” “Sorry, I won’t be there, Mother. I’m not feeling too great.” Slight understatement. “I think what you’re feeling . . . is
Thirty-two WHENEVER