Sundays at Tiffany's

by James Patterson

  He heard her in the room, and he started to smile.

  “Michael? Are you in here?” she called out.

  “No, he’s not here. I’m just a guy with his voice.”

  Jane laughed as she pushed aside the shower curtain. “Oh! And here’s something else of Michael’s. My God, it’s large. And it’s growing. Somebody step on it. Hit it with a stick. Or… okay… I guess you could do that with it.”

  Sixty-eight

  AND HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED NEXT.

  They made love again, then slept again. In the morning they woke up with smiles on their faces, and a newfound, joyous sense of wonder and contentment. After breakfast, they went on a chartered whale-watching trip. Michael loved Jane’s excited amazement when they actually saw a humpback breech, impossibly close to the boat. After lunch, they went to the Brant Point Lighthouse. That was followed by a long walk on the beach, hand in hand, talking and not talking.

  Michael told Jane how long he’d been a “friend,” and he told her as much as he could remember. He could recall only the past few assignments; he had a sense that there had been others, but the memories had faded, like dreams. Seeing Jane now, as a grown-up, his memory of their earlier years came back. He honestly didn’t know if every kid had an invisible friend, but he hoped so.

  That night Michael called a local restaurant, and a taxi delivered lobster, steamers, and corn on the cob to them right on the beach. They went back to the inn, and made love again, and got even more comfortable with each other. And the sex was great, better than Michael could have imagined. Probably because they were so in love, and knew each other so well. Jane felt a little queasy during the night, but she was sure it was something that she ate, probably the steamers.

  Which led to the next morning, and renting a Sailfish, and then they were on a fishing boat. Jane caught about a dozen bluefish, while Michael caught none. He tried to memorize the way she looked, so delighted and triumphant, pulling in yet another flashing, wiggling bluefish. Her hair shone in the sun, her smile lit the sky. He couldn’t wait to go back to the inn with her.

  Before dinner, they made love again, with a fierceness that took them both by surprise. Afterward they didn’t talk about it, but got on the old bikes and pedaled back to picturesque Siasconset. On the way back to the inn, they stopped and picked armfuls of spicy-scented wild roses, which they put in their wicker bicycle baskets. They had dinner at Ozzie and Ed’s restaurant in town, where Ozzie and Ed practically adopted the two of them and kept calling them “adorable.”

  On the way back from dinner, Michael said, “Have I ever told you about Kevin Uxbridge?”

  “No. Was he one of your children? Your friends?”

  “No. Kevin Uxbridge was part of the Douwd race, on Star Trek.”

  “The original or Next Generation?”

  “Next Generation. He met a woman named Rishon and fell in love with her so deeply that he decided to put aside his extraordinary powers to marry her and live a ‘mortal life.’ ”

  “I hope it worked out for them,” Jane said. “I see a parallel here.”

  “Well, actually, it didn’t work out that well,” Michael admitted. “Husnocks came and attacked their colony. Rishon was killed. Kevin Uxbridge was so furious and devastated that he destroyed the Husnock race completely, all fifty billion of them.”

  “Gosh,” said Jane, “that seems a little excessive. But wait, are you Kevin, or am I Kevin?”

  “Neither of us is Kevin,” Michael said, sounding almost testy.

  “O-kaay,” said Jane, taking his hand again. “Personally, I always liked the tribbles best.”

  Michael decided to drop it.

  Meanwhile, every time Jane coughed, or looked the least bit weary, it slapped Michael back to reality. Every time she mentioned a leg cramp or her loss of appetite, he felt a shudder. But he couldn’t tell her… because… what would it accomplish other than to make these special moments into something terrible, too sad for words?

  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, Michael?” she asked in a soft, sleepy voice. “What’s happening? Is something the matter? Are you sick?”

  “Nothing, Jane. I don’t get sick, remember? Go back to sleep. It’s four o’clock.”

  “Come lie down with me. It’s four o’clock.”

  So Michael lay down with Jane, snuggling with her, until she slept again. He watched over her until his eyes stung. He would do anything in his power to save her. Even if it meant… the unthinkable.

  Maybe that was it. He had a thought, an idea, a nugget of one, anyway. He found the logic of it hopeful. He was there to lead Jane out of this world, correct? That was his mission. But what if he wasn’t there anymore?

  Pain stabbed through his heart as he pictured his grim, black-and-white, Jane-less existence. But it would be worth it, if she could live. If he wasn’t here to help her leave the world, wouldn’t she necessarily stay in it? Maybe?

  He didn’t know. But at this moment, it was all he had.

  Still trying to think his idea through, maybe grasping at straws, he began to throw things into his canvas bag, and then he shut the window so Jane wouldn’t catch a chill. He stared at her again. Am I doing the right thing, leaving her now?

  Will this work? It might. It has to. Jane can’t die.

  He wanted to kiss her good-bye, to hold her one more time, to talk to her, hear her voice. But he didn’t dare wake her. How could he leave her again? Maybe because he had no other idea, and therefore, no choice. “I love you, Jane,” he whispered. “I’ll love you forever.”

  Carefully, he closed the door behind him, hurried along the hallway and down the stairs. There was a 5:30 AM ferry to Boston. He made a stop at the front desk and spoke to the night clerk. “My friend is up in suite twenty-one. Can someone check on her in the morning? Tell her I had to leave suddenly. A… friend is sick. Make sure to tell her it’s a friend. A child.”

  Michael walked through dark Nantucket streets, which were completely empty. He felt alone, isolated and adrift. He was having trouble just catching his breath, which was unusual. His legs felt incredibly heavy. Finally, tears began to roll down his cheeks. Real tears. Among his first ever.

  He pulled his windbreaker tight and waited at the dock. The boat would arrive in about half an hour. There was already a trace of sunlight on the horizon. Could that mean there was hope?

  There had to be, because Jane couldn’t die. It was too heartbreaking even to imagine.

  Jane can’t die now.

  Seventy

  I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING already smiling, stretch-ing 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 t
his 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? Any day we spent together wasn’t long enough.

  We had to seize every minute. Plus, Michael loved to eat, probably because he never put on an ounce. The creep.

  I was just about to jump out of bed when I had a flashback to the night before. My mind wandered to a conversation that Michael had wanted to have, something he needed to tell me. I remembered waking up during the night, and Michael lying down with me.

  Where was he?

  “Michael?” I called, and got no answer. “Michael, are you there? Michael? Mikey? Mike? Hey, you!”

  I got out of bed, pushed the hair out of my eyes, and looked around. No Michael. Michael wasn’t anywhere.

  I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. I glanced around for a note but saw none.

  Dumbstruck, I put my hand to my mouth. He just couldn’t have.

  Somehow I stumbled back to my room, where the wrecked bedsheets seemed to mock me. The idea that Michael would literally love me and leave me had never occurred to me. I didn’t know whether to feel worried or furious or just painfully, heartbreakingly agonized.

  “Michael,” I whispered in the empty room. “Michael, how could you? Didn’t you love me? You were the one person who did…” Oh my God, that was it, wasn’t it? What he had wanted to tell me, why he hadn’t been able to sleep.

  He’d left me again for another child, right? He was back being somebody else’s imaginary friend.

  I ran around the two bedrooms like a crazy person in search of a lost shred of sanity. All of his stuff was gone. His duffel bag—gone. I pulled out bureau drawers, threw open closet doors. Nothing of Michael’s was anywhere. No signs that he’d even been here.

  I looked out the window at a day as bright and pretty as any we’d had so far in Nantucket. A perfect day for bike riding and antiques shopping, supper at Ozzie and Ed’s, being with someone you loved more than life itself.

  “Oh, Michael,” I said, “how could you leave me all alone? Again.”

  This time I wouldn’t forget him, because I couldn’t ever forgive him—for breaking my heart twice.

  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, throwing up Nantucket’s finest shellfish and clutching my stomach. Finally, the wave subsided and I washed my face in the sink. My hands were still shaking, and I looked pale and faintly green in the mirror. Food poisoning. Just what I needed.

  When I felt up to it, I checked my messages, hoping against hope that Michael had left some word, some kind of explanation. But first, of course, there was my mother: “Jane-Sweetie, I’m worried about you. Seriously worried. Please call. Your mother.”

  Actually, I suddenly felt as if I did need to call Vivienne. Even though she would be apoplectic about my absence. In fact—and I really mean this—I was surprised she hadn’t sent out detectives looking for me.

  I tapped Vivienne’s number on speed dial. It wasn’t answered by either her houseman or her maid and instead went to her outgoing voicemail message.

  “You have reached Vivienne Margaux…”

  As my mother spoke, I rehearsed the message I was going to leave. I heard the beep.

  And then I completely fell apart, and my rehearsed speech fled.

  “Mom, it’s me. It’s Jane. Listen. Michael’s left me. Please call me. I love you.”

  I actually needed one of my mother’s kisses right now. More than I ever had in my life.

  I couldn’t speak after that, so I hung up the phone and lay facedown on my bed. Suddenly I was sobbing again, but also coughing, and my throat hurt.

  There was no fighting the next bout of nausea. I stumbled into the bathroom and retched horribly. The nausea finally ended. But the coughing wouldn’t stop. I tried swallowing hard, but that only made it worse.

  The nausea swept over me again, scaring me now. It was burning and blistering inside. There was nothing left to throw up. Just dry heaves. And cold sweats. I collapsed onto the bathroom floor and rested my head on the throw rug. I was burning up and shaking with chills at the same time. I felt like death. The best I could do was to blink my eyes.

  I could hear the phone ringing in my bedroom, but I didn’t think I was strong enough to stand, or even crawl, to answer it. It had to be Vivienne, though, and I wanted to talk to her.

  Or maybe it was Michael?

  I pushed myself up off the floor, and I started to hobble.

  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. Another conquest? My God, was that what Jane would think she had been to him? Would it seem like that to her? Of course it would.

  He dropped his bag inside his apartment, but he couldn’t stay there. Not right now, not in this state.

  Minutes later, he was walking up Broadway fast, watching gray people, gray cabs, and grayer-than-gray New York City buildings. He missed Jane with an ache that felt life-threatening, a terrible pain deep in his chest. He wondered what she was doing, if she was okay. Had his plan worked?

  Finally he couldn’t bear it anymore: He called her apartment. After listening to the phone ring several times, he heard Jane’s voice. “This is Jane. Please leave a message. It’s important to me. Thanks.”

  God, he loved her voice.

  Near Lincoln Center he barely avoided being hit by a motorcycle that was making a perfectly legal right turn. “Wake the fuck up, asshole!” the driver shouted. Good advice. He would love to wake up out of this horrible nightmare.

  He walked another block, determined to keep moving, and suddenly it struck him: I’m going somewhere, headed to a specific place!

  But where?

  Northeast, it seemed.

  At last he realized that some outside force was making him move. And then he knew, at least he thought he did.

  Now he was running.

  His eyes filled with tears, and then th
e tears wouldn’t stop. People were staring, and a few offered their help. Michael kept running. He definitely knew where he was going now.

  New York Hospital.

  And he knew what he was going to find there.

  “Oh God, Jane! Don’t let this be happening.”

  I wish, Michael thought, that I had kissed and hugged Jane more.

  I wish that I had stayed on Nantucket.

  I wish—

  Seventy-three

  YORK AVENUE AND 68TH STREET, finally. Michael was almost there.

  He burst through the front doors of New York Hospital. Ironically, he’d been to this unfortunate place before, when Jane had her tonsils out as a kid. He went right past the front desk, remembering where the elevators were.

  Down the long hallway, to the right.

  He was supposed to go to the seventh floor.

  Room 703.

  Ahead of him, people streamed into the elevator. Two nurses with their hands linked, a doctor, some visitors, a little girl who was crying for her grandfather. Why was all this suffering permitted to happen? Suddenly he was filled with questions.

  “I don’t think we can squeeze anyone else in here,” a doctor said to him.

  “Sorry,” he said. “We can squeeze, we can fit. You’d be amazed what we’re capable of.”

  We, he’d thought, and said. We.

  The people in the elevator exchanged glances, the kind of nervous looks that seemed to say: We’ve got a crazy on board.

  The doors finally closed, and the car began to move upward.

  “I shouldn’t have left her,” Michael muttered to himself. I should have stayed with Jane no matter what. And now look what’s happened. His foolish plan hadn’t worked. He’d caused her pain for no reason. He’d been so stupid!

  The elevator finally arrived at the seventh floor. Michael pushed out first, then raced past the nurses’ desk. He slowed down as he approached room 703.