James Patterson - Sundays at Tiffanys

Also by James Patterson

Sams Letters to Jennifer

Suzannes Diary for Nicholas

A complete list of books by James Patterson can be found at the end of this book.

For more information about James Patterson, go to www.jamespatterson.com.

WHEN MY SON, JACK, was four, I had to make a trip to Los Angeles. I asked him if he was going to miss me. Not so much, Jack told me. Youre not going to miss me? I said. Jack shook his head, and he said, Love means you can never be apart. I think thats the basis on which this story was built, and I suppose that it revolves around a belief that nothing is more important in life than giving and receiving love. At least, that has been my experience.

And so, this is for you, Jack, my wise son, with much love. And for Suzie your mom, my best friend and wife, al in one.

And, final y, for Richard DiLal o, who helped tremendously at a key point in the development of the final story.

J.P.

Janes Michael

MICHAEL WAS RUNNING as fast as he could, racing down thickly congested streets toward New York Hospital Jane was dying there when suddenly a scene from the past came back to him, a dizzying rush of overpowering memories that nearly knocked him out of his sneakers. He remembered sitting with Jane in the Astor Court at the St. Regis Hotel, the two of them there under circumstances too improbable to imagine.

He remembered everything perfectly Janes hot fudge and coffee ice cream sundae, what they had talked about as if it had happened yesterday. Al of it almost impossible to believe. No, definitely impossible to believe.

It was just like every other unfathomable mystery in life, Michael couldnt help thinking as he ran harder, faster.

Like Jane dying on him now, after everything they had been through to be together.

Once Upon a Time in New York

One

EVERY DETAIL of those Sunday afternoons is locked in my memory, but instead of explaining me and Michael right off, Il start with the worlds best, most luscious, and possibly most sinful ice cream sundae, as served at the St.

Regis Hotel in New York City.

It was always the same: two fist-sized scoops of coffee ice cream, swirled with a river of hot fudge sauce, the kind that gets thicker, gooey and chewy, when it hits the ice cream. On top of that, real whipped cream. Even at eight years old, I could tel the difference between real whipped cream and the fake-o nondairy product you squirt from a can.

Across from me at my table in the Astor Court was Michael: hands down the handsomest man I knew, or have ever known, for that matter. Also, the nicest, the kindest, and probably the wisest.

That day his bright green eyes watched me gaze at the sundae with undisguised delight as the white-coated waiter set it in front of me with tantalizing slowness.

For Michael, a clear glass bowl of melon bal s and lemon sherbet. His ability to deny himself the pleasure of a sundae was something my childs brain couldnt wrap itself around.

Thanks so much, Michael said, adding extreme politeness to his list of enviable qualities.

To which the waiter said not a word.

The Astor Court was the place to go for a fancy dessert at the St. Regis Hotel. That afternoon it was fil ed with important-looking people having important-looking conversations. In the background, two symphony-worthy violinists fiddled away as if this were Lincoln Center.

Okay, Michael said. Time to play the Jane-and-Michael game.

I clapped my hands together, my eyes lighting up.

Heres how it worked: One of us pointed to a table, and the other had to make up stuff about the people sitting there. The loser paid for dessert.

Go, he said, pointing. I looked at the three teenage girls dressed in nearly identical pale yel ow linen dresses.

Without hesitation, I said, Debutantes. First season. Just graduated from high school. Maybe in Connecticut. Possibly probably Greenwich.

Michael tilted his head back and laughed. Youre definitely spending too much time around adults. Very good, though, Jane. Point for you.

Okay, I said, gesturing toward another table. That couple over there. The ones who look like the Cleavers in Leave It to Beaver. Whats their story?

The man was wearing a gray-and-blue-checked suit; the woman, a bright pink jacket with a green pleated skirt.

Husband and wife from North Carolina, Michael rattled off easily. Wealthy. Own a chain of tobacco shops. Hes here on business. She came to do some shopping. Now hes tel ing her that he wants a divorce.

Oh, I said, looking down at the table. I let out a deep breath, then took another spoonful of sundae and let the rich flavors unfold in my mouth. Yeah, I guess everyone gets divorced.

Michael bit his lip. Oh. Wait, Jane. I got it al wrong. Hes not asking for a divorce. Hes tel ing her that he has a surprise hes made arrangements for them to go on a cruise. To Europe on the QE2. Its their second honeymoon.

Thats a much better story, I said, smiling. You get a point. Excel ent.

I looked down at my plate and saw that somehow my ice cream sundae had completely vanished. As it always did.

Michael looked around the room dramatical y. Heres one you wont get, he said.

He pointed to a man and a woman just two tables away.

I looked over.

The woman was about forty years old, wel dressed, and stunningly pretty. You might have taken her for a movie actress. She wore a bright red designer dress and matching shoes and had a big black pocketbook.

Everything about her said, Look at me!

The man she was with was younger, pale, and very thin. He was wearing a blue blazer and a patterned silk ascot, which I dont think anyone was wearing even back then. He waved his arms enthusiastical y as he spoke.

Thats not funny, I said, but I couldnt help grinning and rol ing my eyes.

Because, of course, the couple was my mother, Vivienne Margaux, the famous Broadway producer, and that years celebrity hairdresser, Jason. Jason, the hothouse flower, who didnt have time for a last name.

I looked over at them again. One thing was for sure: My mom was beautiful enough to be an actress herself. Once, when I asked her why she hadnt become one, she said, Honey, I dont want to ride the train. I want to drive the train.

Every Sunday afternoon when Michael and I had dessert at the St. Regis, my mother and a friend had dessert and coffee there too. That way she could gossip or complain or conduct business but stil keep an eye on me, without actual y having to be with me.

After the St. Regis, we would cap off our Sundays at Tiffanys. My mother loved diamonds, wore them everywhere, col ected them the way other people col ect crystal unicorns, or those weird ceramic Japanese cats with the one paw in the air.

Of course I was okay, those Sundays, because I had Michael for company. Michael, who was my best friend in the world, maybe my only friend, when I was eight years old.

My imaginary friend.

Two

I SNUGGLED CLOSER to Michael at our table. Want to know something? I asked. Its kind of a bummer.

What? he asked.

I think I know what my mother and Jason are talking about. Its Howard. I think Viviennes tired of him. Out with the old, in with the new.

Howard was my stepfather, my mothers third husband. The third one I knew about, anyway.

Her first husband had been a tennis pro from Palm Beach. Hed lasted only a year.

Then had come Kenneth, my father. Hed done better than the tennis pro, lasting three years. He was real y sweet, and I loved him, but he traveled a lot for business. Sometimes I felt as if he forgot about me. Id heard my mother tel Jason that hed been spineless. She didnt know Id overheard. Shed said, He was a good-looking jel yfish of a man who wil never amount to anything.