Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [81]
Fifty-seven CALL IT A MESSAGE, maybe. Or a wake-up call. An instinct? I felt the need to come to one of our “places”: the front steps of the Met, my favorite view in New York since I’d been a little girl and had come here with Michael. I’d been sitting on the steps for a while. When I had stormed out of my mother’s office, I’d automatically told the cabdriver to take me here. Now my anger had faded and transformed itself into something vaguely resembling strength. At least that’s what I was telling myself. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? I’d never particularly liked that cliché, but I wasn’t above using it now. And every spring flower seemed to be in bloom. From where I sat, I could see pink apple blossoms, azaleas bursting with dynamic red. A gold-and-orange checkerboard of newly planted marigolds filled a garden near Fifth Avenue. That’s better, much better. Schoolchildren tumbled out of school buses in front of the museum. Old ladies with canes walked carefully up t
Fifty-eight IT REALLY WAS MICHAEL. He’d found me. But, God, did he look like crap! “What happened to you?” I asked, after I’d given him the once-over. “What do you mean? What’s the matter with me?” “You look like you haven’t slept in days. Your eyes are all bloodshot. Your clothes are wringing wet with perspiration. You’re . . .” He sat next to me and held my hand. “I’m fine, Jane. I’m really fine.” He leaned in and kissed my neck. Gentle, strong. I didn’t know which, and I didn’t care. Then Michael kissed me on the lips, and every nerve inside me lit up. He kissed me a second time. And a third. I stared into his eyes and felt my whole body start tingling. “Why aren’t you at work?” he asked. With great effort, I concentrated on what he’d just said. I could tell that he was wise to what had happened. “Jane?” “Why aren’t I at work? Because I punched the crap out of Hugh McGrath? I think I bruised my knuckles, too.” Michael kissed my hands. “Because, for once, I told my mother where to st
Fifty-nine “FIRST QUESTION,” Jane said on the ride out to the airport. “You weaseled out of telling me if you ever dated. But have you ever fallen in love?” Michael made a face, sighed, then said, “The way it works, Jane, is that after a while, I seem to forget what happened in the past. That’s not my choice, by the way. In answer to your question, I don’t think so.” “So this would be the first?” asked Jane, and Michael smiled at her confidence in assuming that he had fallen in love with her. He hadn’t said so, but she’d been able to tell. And she wasn’t wrong. “How about sex?” she asked next. Michael started to laugh. “Let’s ease our way into this. One question at a time, okay? Now, let’s talk about something else, Jane-Sweetie.” “Okay. When I was a wee, small, little girl, I remember that we used to take Eastern Airlines up to Cape Cod. We’d go a couple of times every summer,” Jane said as the cab rattled up to the old Marine Terminal at LaGuardia Airport. Michael gave her a kiss, li
Sixty THE PLANE TOOK OFF, taking its sweet time finding its cruising altitude. In Michael’s opinion they were spending way too much time examining the rooftops of Queens. Even when they had moved up among the clouds, the plane made a putt-putt-putt sound that wasn’t exactly reassuring. Somehow, though, in about fifty minutes they were closing in on Nantucket. They could see miles of sandy shoreline down below, plus a few smaller islands. Then they landed — without a hitch. Jane finally let go of Michael’s hand. Even though it was only late spring, the place was crowded with people in summer-bright clothing. A sea of pinks and yellows and lime greens.