Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [84]
Sixty-nine WHEN NIGHT COMES TO nANTUCKET, it can get much more pitch-black than it ever gets in New York City, especially if there’s a cloud cover. No moon, no streetlights, no noisy tourists navigating the brick roadways. Jane slept, and Michael stared out the window of their room. In the darkness he could barely see the nearby buildings. How incredible meeting up with Jane again had been, getting to know her as a woman. And then the feelings growing between them, the dinners and talks, the laughter that could be convulsive at times. The nervous, tentative kisses that were almost like teases, then the passionate ones, where they joined together, heart and soul. And finally, lovemaking, holding Jane for hours, trying to imagine a future for the two of them that went beyond Nantucket. At about 4:00 that morning, Michael sat at the edge of the bed, watching Jane sleep again, trying to come up with a plan, anything at all. Something must have told her he was up. “What’s the matter, Michae
Seventy I WOKE the NEXT MORNING already smiling, stretching luxuriously, feeling intensely sated in that happy, secure, slightly dragged-through-a-hedge-backward kind of way that comes from making lots of love — making actual love, as opposed to having sex. I felt wonderful. Sunlight was pouring into the room, as if the sun were trying to shine brighter, just for us. Turning, I was disappointed not to see Michael right beside me. That stupid little travel clock on the wobbly nightstand said 8:55. No way was it that late, though. What had Michael and I planned to do this morning anyway? Let’s see, we’d talked about going back to an antiques store that had some kind of whale-tooth carving Michael liked. But first, breakfast at the coffee shop in town that specialized in blueberry pancakes, although I still wasn’t hungry. Maybe because I was shedding some weight and liking the feeling of my body. Or, more likely, because I was in love. Well, whatever, we were going to be late, weren’t we?
Seventy-one MEN SUCK! Even imaginary ones. I arrived in New York that day, and I felt like a stranger in my own home; everything in every room looked as though it belonged to someone else. Someone who wasn’t me. Was this my furniture? Had I selected the paintings on the wall? Who had picked out the drapes? Oh, wait. There was a reason it felt like someone else’s apartment. Like Vivienne’s apartment, for example. And who was that in the hallway mirror. It wasn’t just the dark smudges under my eyes that threw me. I was so thin! I lugged my valise into the bedroom and sat on the bed. My bleary eyes focused on the nightstand. The gardenias Michael had given me were gone. My housekeeper must have tossed the dead blossoms. Fresh tears welled in my eyes — and I’d thought I was all cried out. Not even close, Jane-Sweetie! Suddenly a horrible wave of nausea overwhelmed me. It invaded my stomach and chest, a burning, awful feeling. I barely made it to the bathroom, then knelt at the toilet, thro
Seventy-two MICHAEL’S WORRY, his anxiety, his guilt, his lack of sleep, finally caught up with him on the 5:30 ferry ride from Nantucket to the mainland. His eyes had started to burn again, and his cable-knit sweater wasn’t much protection against the damp morning chill blowing off the Atlantic. His terrible state of worry and confusion continued on the bus ride to the airport in Boston and then on the shuttle from Logan to LaGuardia, and the condition had a strange effect on his vision. It was as if everything he saw was drained of color; most things looked a sickening shade of gray; those that did have a tinge of color were washed-out and weak. Only hours ago he had been in Nantucket, where he’d been incredibly happy with Jane. The happiest he’d ever been in his life. Now everything was changed. HE ARRIVED at his apartment building and trudged upstairs. He heard laughter coming from inside Owen’s apartment. A woman’s voice.