22 Sundays at Tiffany's by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Suspense
ISBN: 9780446536318
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2009-05-26T07:00:00+00:00

Thirty-nine

I HAD A FAINT SENSE that it was morning, and that I was waking up, and that something about my life had changed dramatically. Then I remembered Michael, and my eyes opened wide. Please, God, let it not have been just a dream, I begged silently.

Feeling fragile, like glass, I slowly turned my head toward my bedside table. There was my white gardenia, the one Michael had given me yesterday.

I touched the flower to make sure it was real — it was — and then I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. It hadn’t been a dream.

So this is how “happy” feels, I thought. The energy, the automatic smile. This is what it’s like to look forward to the day, to believe there could be good things coming. It was a new and different feeling.

Out in the kitchen, I poured myself a large glass of orange juice. My answering machine was blinking urgently at me, and I drank my juice and hit the Play button before it had a heart attack.

“Jane, it’s me. What can I say? I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I feel just awful about the car thing in Brooklyn. Call me and —”

Erase.

“Jane-Sweetie, I think it was a tad cavalier of you to skip lunch. I didn’t get to give you your kiss. And you know, Karl Friedkin is vitally important to —”

Erase.

“Jane-Sweetie, I was just thinking about that fourth-scene entrance in Thank Heaven. I don’t know what Hollywood hack you got to write this screenplay —”

Erase.

I didn’t bother with the other nine messages. I just pressed the Erase button.

I took a shower, letting it run colder than usual. The cold was invigorating, and I felt so alive, skin tingling, blood pumping. As I dried off, for once my eyes didn’t avoid the full-length mirror. You know, I wasn’t half-bad. My skin was fresh and rosy. My wet hair was thick and healthy. Was I overweight? Hell, no. I was voluptuous, with a woman’s curves. This is what a woman looks like, I told myself.

I slipped on pale purple silk panties and walked to the closet, already knowing that I wouldn’t be wearing any of my usual black skirts and shirts today.

I slipped on my favorite pair of soft, comfy, faded jeans. I pulled on a white blouse that I’d always liked. I hooked an old cowboy belt around my waist.

Now I was carefree and happy, comfortable in my own skin, for maybe the first time since I was eight years old.

Just before I left the apartment I held the gardenia to my face and smelled it.

Then I slipped on my new diamond ring and headed for the office.

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