Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [78]
Forty-five GOOD NIGHT, JANE . . . I think I’d better go now. How could he have said that? How could it possibly be anything but a crazy, sleepless night for me after a whole day of getting lost in Michael’s eyes? I definitely didn’t want to be alone in my apartment, but here I was. I walked to the living room and looked out at the city as I munched a couple of Oreos. All right, four Oreos. My floor was high enough to let me see over the other nearby buildings, and I had a great view of Central Park. New York had always been the right place for me, but tonight it seemed even more so, maybe because Michael was out there somewhere. What was he, though? An “imaginary friend”? An angel? A hallucination? None of those made any sense to me. But I had no other answers. Just then the phone rang. No way did I want to listen to my mother or Hugh getting their panties in a twist. Let the machine pick it up. First I listened to myself telling the caller to leave a message. Then I heard my friend Co
Forty-six MICHAEL WAS THERE the next morning. Patiently waiting outside my building, just as he used to, so many years ago. In the flesh, so to speak. Not a hallucination. At least I didn’t think so. He had another beautiful white gardenia in his hand. “Hello, Jane,” he said, looking slightly rumpled and adorable. “Sleep well?” “Oh yeah, out like a light,” I lied. “You?” We began walking side by side, in perfect rhythm, just as we used to walk to school each day. So was he watching over me again? Protecting me? Why? Did he even know why himself? Why didn’t he have all the answers? He’d always known everything when I was little. He was never unsure, never hesitant. The fact that he seemed as confused about this as I was made him infinitely more human, somehow. The weather was chilly for spring, and the sky threatened rain, but nothing could get me down today. I was hopeful, wasn’t I? For the first time in a long, long while. While we walked, we talked nonstop about everything and nothin
Forty-seven MICHAEL WAS ACTUALLY really happy, in a tortured kind of way. So he got together with a few of his best friends and told them about Jane, about how they’d met again, that she had bizarrely remembered everything about him. “The hot fudge sundaes, our walks to school, the terrible, terrible day I left her, everything!” The group was supportive but astonished. None of them had ever experienced anything like it. “Just be careful, Michael,” said Blythe, whom he was probably closest to among them. “For your sake, and for Jane’s. They’re supposed to forget us. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked. Something strange is happening here.” “Oh, you think?” said Michael. AT 5:45, he showed up at Jane’s office, as he’d promised he would, and said good evening to his new friend, Elsie the receptionist. “I don’t think Jane’s expecting me,” he said. “Think again,” said Elsie. “She’s expecting you. She’s been expecting you for most of the day.” Elsie buzzed Jane, and a moment l
Forty-eight “SO HOW WAS YOUR DAY?” Michael asked as soon as we had sat down and sent the waiter bustling off to get a bottle of Frascati for us. I made a face. “Not too bad, considering that I had six separate meetings with Vivienne.” “Age sure hasn’t slowed her down.” “Not much. Maybe a little bit. Lately, anyway. You know, I’m producing this film, a small movie, nothing major. A