Sundays at Tiffany's by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson [Patterson, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Romance, Fantasy, Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Contemporary, Mystery Fiction, Fiction - Romance, Popular American Fiction, Romance: Modern, Romance - Contemporary, Imaginary companions
ISBN: 9780446536318
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2009-05-26T05:00:00+00:00

Thirty-eight

“WHERE SHOULD WE GO FIRST?” I asked him, when we stood in the massive entry hall of the Met.

“I’d like to show you —” Michael began, then laughed self-deprecatingly. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve seen it, a million times. But I always wanted to see it with you. Okay?”

“Yes.” Frankly, at that moment he could have said, “I think I’ll eat a bunch of cat food. Join me?” and I would have said yes. Michael took my arm. It seemed a very natural thing for him to do, but it made me shiver and feel almost light-headed — in a good way. Except, of course, if I actually did faint dead away. That would be not so good.

Arm in arm, we proceeded up the grand staircase. I loved being with him here, but I was aware that it didn’t actually matter where we were, because I had to be dreaming, didn’t I?

We turned left, walked through a large wooden doorway, and then we were standing in one of the most beautiful rooms in the world. Enormous canvases of Monet’s water lilies covered the walls, surrounding us, taking us to a different world.

“Why do things this beautiful make me want to cry?” I asked Michael as I leaned into him. It was an unguarded question, one I’d never have asked of Hugh.

“I don’t know,” said Michael. “Maybe beauty, true beauty, is so overwhelming, it goes straight to our hearts. Maybe it makes us feel emotions that are locked away inside.” He blinked and gave a bashful smile. “Sorry. I’ve been watching Oprah again.”

I smiled back, delighted with this man who could actually laugh at himself. The exact opposite of Hugh: not Grant, not Jackman, not in my life anymore.

We walked around the spectacular room, filling our eyes and our hearts, not speaking for a few moments. After a while, it seemed that we both knew that it was time to leave.

“I’ll walk you home,” Michael said. “Do you mind?”

Did I mind? Of course I didn’t mind. “No, that’d be great,” I said. “It’s not far from here, over on Park. In the Seventies.”

“I know,” he said.

“How do you know that?” I asked, surprised.

He paused. “I just know, Jane. You know how I am. I just know certain things.”

As the afternoon turned into evening, the air got cooler, and the sky grew darker. We walked east, toward Park Avenue, but Michael didn’t hold my arm anymore, and I began to dread saying good-bye. I didn’t know if I could bear to. I knew I wouldn’t have a choice.

On 80th Street we passed an exquisite building. Through its glass doors, we saw that the lobby was filled with French antiques, the walls covered in gold leaf. In the middle of the lobby was a large enameled pot holding the largest gardenia bush I’d ever seen.

“Oh,” I said. “I love gardenias. Their scent. They’re so pretty.”

“Keep walking,” Michael said. “I’ll catch up.”

Nervously praying he wouldn’t disappear, I walked slowly, trying not to look back. A few moments later, Michael was back at my side, holding a single white gardenia.

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