Sundays at Tiffany's

by James Patterson

  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. Carefully distressed jeans and surfing jams. Seagulls squawking overhead as if they’d never seen tourists before, or maybe they’d seen far too many of them.

  Michael and Jane made their way to the taxi line. The sun was sharp overhead. The air was crisp and clean.

  As they waited, Jane reached up to Michael’s face and held it in both her hands. “Michael, where are you?” she asked.

  “What? I’m right here.”

  He didn’t know what to say, but knew he’d better pull himself together. He’d been thinking about Jane dying, but she was right here, wasn’t she? They both were. So why was he wasting precious time? Why did anybody? Why waste a second of the time that you have? It was so obvious to him now.

  “We’re together,” Jane said, looking into his eyes. “Let’s just enjoy this time, okay? Just put aside everything on your mind and be with me. Let’s take everything one day at a time. An hour at a time. Minute by minute. Okay?”

  Michael covered one of her hands with his and turned his head to kiss her palm gently. He smiled and nodded.

  “Yes,” he said. “Minute by minute. Hour at a time. Day at a time.” Cabs and jitneys kept pulling up to the little airport. People would load them up with canvas bags from L. L. Bean and shopping bags from Dean and DeLuca. Michael and Jane waited with growing impatience. Finally, they were at the head of the line.

  “Throw those valises in the trunk,” the cabdriver said.

  Valises. What a wonderful old-fashioned word to use. Hearing it made Michael smile, and seeing him smile made Jane laugh. “Good. You’re back.”

  “I’m right here, Jane. That’s my hand holding your hand. That’s my fast-beating heart you can hear.”

  Jane smiled, then took one last look around. Collecting memories, Michael thought. The tall sea grass bent in the wind. Gulls flew overhead. A blond teenage girl had set up a makeshift stand near the taxi line to sell homemade jams.

  The cabdriver could have been the brother of the pilot who had just flown them up. A down-home, no-nonsense New Englander, aged somewhere between sixty and eighty-five.

  “Now, where can I take you nice folks?” he asked.

  “The India Street Inn,” Michael said.

  “Good choice,” he responded. “Old whaling captain’s house, y’know.”

  Jane smiled and squeezed Michael’s hand tighter.

  “Good choice,” she repeated. “Love them whaling captains.”

  “And yes,” Michael suddenly said into her ear, “in answer to your question a while back. Yes, I have had sex before.”

  Sixty-one

  HERE’S WHAT JANE AND MICHAEL didn’t see driving into town: fast-food restaurants, souvenir stores, even a traffic signal. This actually was paradise. They did see a couple of homemade signs advertising the tenth Nantucket Wine Festival and the thirty-fifth Figawi Boat Race. A perfect beginning to their visit.

  Then their cab pulled up in front of the India Street Inn.

  “This is what a Nantucket bed-and-breakfast should look like,” Jane said as they walked through the front door. That had been Michael’s plan: something simple and beautiful, not overdone, just pretty and fresh and right for their trip.

  They certainly had it down to a fine science at this place, Michael thought: red geraniums in royal blue window flower boxes, colorful geometric quilts on the wall, sleigh-riding prints in the hallways, and, of course the crusty old New England woman who ran the place.

  “You got a reservation? If not, we don’t have a room for you,” she said. “As in: no room at the India Street Inn.”

  Michael gave her the name “Michaels,” and moments later they were sent to suite 21 on the second floor. There was one big room with a queen-size bed and lots of country pine antiques, a hand-painted mural on the wall, and fluffy white towels everywhere. A door from the bathroom led to another smaller bedroom. Connecting bedrooms. What Michael had asked for when he called.

  “This is great” was all Jane said as she checked everything out.

  She walked to the window in the larger bedroom and opened it wide. A cool breeze blew her hair back, and Michael thought she had never looked more beautiful. Could anything be more special than being here with Jane? He didn’t think so. Certainly no one had ever made his heart beat fast like this. He would remember if it had happened before, wouldn’t he?

  Jane picked up a brochure from the desk, and she began reading, “Coffee in the front parlor starting at six in the morning. Windsurfing lessons on the far bay every Monday and Thursday. You can rent bikes. Also, visitors can go up in the tower of the Old North Church. Can we? I want to do everything. Okay?”

  Michael could almost feel Jane’s happiness in the way she spoke. She wasn’t acting like a little girl, but she had the same wonderful qualities—enthusiasm, curiosity, innocence.

  I love her, he thought, and said, “Okay. Anything you want.”

  And he decided to leave it at that very good place for the moment.

  Sixty-two

  THE INNKEEPER GAVE THEM two old Schwinn bikes—nothing fancy, thick tires, rusted paint, pedal brakes, many creaking parts. She pointed them in the general direction of Siasconset, saying, “Most tourists think ’Sconset’s real pretty, and special. Because it is real pretty and special.”

  Jane took off first, and Michael followed along on the Milestone Road. There wasn’t much traffic—an occasional Jeep; a motorbike; a fish delivery truck; a big, vulgar, taxi-yellow Hummer—then a bunch of kids on racing bikes, moving faster than some of the cars.

  “Have a great honeymoon!” one of the kids shouted at them. Michael and Jane looked at each other and smiled. After four or five miles, they came upon a split-rail fence and a vista that looked amazingly like the Serengeti in Africa. Next they passed Tom Nevers Road and a grand view across cranberry bogs. Then came the Nantucket Golf Club, acres of rolling, manicured fairways and greens that actually made golf look like it might be fun.

  Another hill came, higher than the rest. A wooden sign in the shape of an arrow said: SIASCONSET. They crested down, and there it was: a white beach that stretched out to the ocean. Michael wondered if Jane had known that a deep red afternoon sun would just be moving overhead, ready to set, ready to cast beautiful light down on them.

  “Tell me you’ve ever seen anything this sweet before,” she said as they settled on the sand.

  “Actually, I have.” He was looking into her eyes.

  “Stop!” she said, laughing and blushing. “You’re going to lose all credibility, on our first day here.”

  “Okay.”

  “No, don’t stop.”

  So he put his arm around her and watched her from the corner of his eye and lived in the moment.

  I just love Jane. That’s all there is for now.

  Sixty-three

  ABOUT THAT SEX THING: It didn’t happen our first night on Nantucket, and I tried not to overthink it, and failed. Or to let it bother me at all, and failed a second time, pretty miserably.

  Early the next morning, we headed off to what was supposedly the highest point on the island, called Folger Hill. We even had the good sense to slather ourselves with sunblock and wear long-sleeved shirts. I was loving this, every minute of it, every second. Despite not knowing what would come next, despite all the questions I still had, I was taking my own advice and just relishin
g everything, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

  The ride on Polpis Road seemed long. Maybe I was just tired. Plus, it was overcast, the kind of foggy day that delayed the ferries and kept the supply boats from coming in on time.

  Eventually, we made it to a small harbor town called Madaket. There was a bait store, a hardware store, and a gathering spot called Smith’s Point. At about 11:30, we ate fish and chips at a broken-down shack that we first thought had been abandoned.

  “How’d you know about this place?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure. I just knew, Jane.”

  Maybe to shut me up, Michael kissed me, which I never seemed to tire of, and then we ate the crispiest, most delicious deep-fried pieces of fish. The cook had wrapped them in pages of the Inquirer and Mirror newspaper. We doused the cod with malt vinegar. And because Michael believed you can never have enough fried foods at one sitting, we ordered a rolled newspaper cone of French fries, also doused with vinegar. Meanwhile, old Bob Dylan songs were playing from the open-air kitchen, and everything seemed so perfect and magical that I felt like crying.

  Sometimes I would catch Michael looking off toward the roiling sea. When he did, he seemed to be drifting away again. I wanted to know where it was he was going, what he was thinking. Did he already know when he would leave me? I shut my eyes, unwilling to think about it. I wouldn’t think about it till it happened.

  And it had to happen, right? That was how this had to end. Michael would leave to take care of a child somewhere, maybe not even in New York.

  It was inevitable, so I put the sad thought right out of my mind, and stayed on vacation, stayed in love with him.

  “What do you remember about me as a little girl?” I asked, and sat back, and listened to Michael’s memories for an hour or so. Interestingly, he seemed to remember everything now, even the coffee ice cream with rivers of hot fudge.

  Sixty-four

  “I NEVER THOUGHT I would say the words I am about to say,” I said.

  “And those words are?”

  “I’m too full to eat dinner.”

  “Jane, we haven’t eaten anything since lunch.”

  “You eat, I’ll just watch,” I said, and Michael looked at me, concerned.

  Back at the India Street Inn, we showered and changed into jeans and T-shirts and windbreakers. Then we walked. That was us: walking and talking. We went away from the town center, away from the shops, away from worries, responsibilities, anything that had to do with the so-called real world, my job, Vivienne.

  We walked past three-hundred-year-old houses, where sailors and whalers once lived, where patient, faithful wives waited for their husbands to come home from the sea; houses that had stood here long before the media celebrities, pop singers, actors, and authors had descended on the island.

  We passed a windmill, lots of little ponds, walking tracks, and more “trophy” houses than you could throw a seashell at.

  “Sure you’re not hungry?” Michael asked as we made our way back to the inn.

  “There are only two things I’m sure of,” I said. “One, I’m not hungry, and two…” I paused, not for effect, but because I wanted to be sure about what I was about to say.

  “Go on,” he said. “Two things you’re sure of, and the second is?”

  “Two, I love you, Michael. I think I’ve loved you my entire life. I needed to say that out loud, not just inside my head.”

  We stopped walking, and Michael held me by the hips and then moved his hands up my back, exciting me in a way that made me, well, up for just about anything. We kissed again, and he did that bear-hug-lifting thing that I loved, and then we walked the short distance back to the inn. I felt as if there was a neon sign glaring in the front window: NOW WHAT?

  Sixty-five

  “ALMOST DIDN’T RECOGNIZE you two without a bike between your legs,” the lady innkeeper said as we walked through the front door. I glanced at her, startled. I don’t think she meant it to sound the way it did because she clammed right up.

  Michael and I laughed, then walked up to our room, holding hands, but quietly, not a word spoken between us for a change. I didn’t even have a question I wanted to ask him right now.

  Inside the bedroom we started kissing again. The kisses were hard, and then soft, soft and then hard, soft, brushing our lips against each other’s, listening to each other breathe. How far will this go? I wondered. How far can it go?

  “Your place or mine?” I finally managed a few words.

  “I… I,” Michael muttered, and he had a concerned look on his face.

  “I’ll take that as an ‘aye, aye,’ ” I said, and grinned. He looked solemnly into my eyes.

  “Michael, c’mon,” I said as I gently stroked the back of his neck and pressed myself against him. “This is good. This will be good. I swear. I promise. I hope? I think so.”

  He smiled then and took my hand, leading me into the smaller bedroom. “This will be good,” he muttered softly. “Has to be. It’s all been leading here, to this moment. And here we are. Are you okay?’ ’

  I smiled again. “You had me at ‘aye, aye.’ ”

  Sixty-six

  I WAS BOTH EAGER AND NERVOUS. Mostly eager, but… “This is always the worst part,” I said, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

  “What is?”

  “Taking my clothes off.”

  “Maybe for you,” Michael said teasingly. “For me, seeing you take your clothes off will definitely be the highlight of the last several years.”

  I started fiddling with the buttons on my blouse, and I suddenly had one of those weird, inconsequential concerns that always seemed to strike when I desperately needed to be focusing on something else. But here was a question for any ministers, priests, or rabbis out there: Is it all right to make love with your imaginary friend? Surely something filled with this much love couldn’t be a sin. But if it inexplicably was a sin, was it major or minor? Mortal or venial? What if your friend is an angel, or might be, but doesn’t know for sure himself?

  Whatever it was, Michael saw my hesitation and took matters, and my blouse, into his own hands. He was pretty skillful at unhooking my bra—one-handed, and in less than five seconds.

  “You’re good,” I said, feeling nerves fluttering in my stomach. I felt a blush rising on my neck and face.

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” he said, giving me a warm look.

  “Oh, I hope so.”

  “Me too.”

  We started to kiss again, and then Michael cupped my breasts in his hands, making me whimper in a way that would be totally embarrassing under any other circumstances. In this case, I have to say, it sounded kind of hot. He held me gently, as if afraid of hurting me, and softly rubbed his thumbs over my nipples, making me shiver. Gentle, sweet, as nice as could be. Next, he traced my stomach with his fingertips. I liked that too and felt myself melting under his touch.

  He had a beautiful touch. Sublime. Maybe he was an angel? At this point, I neither knew nor cared. The little hairs on my body were all standing on end, standing at attention, whatever happens at exquisite times like this. I had no idea: I’d never done exquisite before.

  “I love the way you touch me,” I whispered against his cheek. “No one’s ever touched me like this.”

  His breathing was getting rough, and he paused in kissing to say, “Me too.”

  He tugged me down on top of him. Then his tongue licked lightly at my nipples, and my breath left me in a whoosh. I stopped thinking about whether Michael was experienced at this or not. We were together, and I just loved being with him. Maybe because I could tell that Michael was happy to be with me too. I could feel it in his touch, and I could see it in his green eyes. He was loving this as much as I was.

  I kissed him again, tasted the sweetness of his mouth, then pulled my face away. I looked into his eyes and whispered, “Okay, yes, please.”

  “Okay, Jane, yes, thank you,” Michael said, and smiled like the sun rising. Then he rolled m
e onto my back, and I was opening up for him and feeling his delicious weight on me, the heat of his skin. Then he was inside me, and this had to be the right thing to do, it just had to be, because Michael said, “I love you so much, Jane. I always have, and I always will.”

  And that was exactly what I was thinking too, almost word for word.

  Sixty-seven

  THEY WERE TOGETHER for a long time that night, and Jane slept like a baby afterward, but Michael couldn’t. He lay in bed with his face inches from hers, and stroked her hair for what must have been an hour or more.

  Looking at her lying there so peacefully made him want to… break all the windows in the room. Life was unfair, he understood that, for the first time, really. Was that why he was here, so that he could learn to be more compassionate? If so, this sucked big-time, because he was already pretty damn compassionate. Anyone who was an imaginary friend to a child would have to be. So now who was he supposed to be in this little melodrama? An angel? An ordinary person? An imaginary friend? He had as many questions as Jane did, and no one was giving answers to either of them.

  He quietly swung around, sitting up on the side of the bed. He walked into the bathroom and looked into the mirror.

  You’ve got to tell Jane what’s going on, what’s going to happen to her.

  But he wasn’t sure if that was the right thing to do. It could be the wrong thing. He turned on the shower, as hot as he could stand it. The shower shelf was filled with Jane’s things—almond soap, Kiehl’s conditioner, shampoo.

  How sick was she? Was it cancer? Something to do with her heart? Yesterday, after the fish and chips, Jane had said she was so full that she wished she could call a cab and not have to bike back to the inn. Then she was tired on the walk through the village. And she wasn’t eating much, not by normal Jane standards.

  “Hey, there’s so much steam in here, I thought the bathroom was on fire.”