Sundays at Tiffany's Read online

  Michael, who was imaginary.

  Michael, who didn’t exist.

  Had I wished so hard for Michael that he had reappeared for a second?

  Wake up, Jane. It had to be a trick of flashing light. Maybe a cigarette lighter.

  I took a twenty-dollar bill from my purse and left it on the bar. Then I walked outside and headed home.

  I knew I hadn’t seen Michael, of course, but the much more important question was why hadn’t I ever been able to forget him?

  Twenty-seven

  WELL, ON TO BETTER, and definitely more meaningful, subjects. On Sunday mornings, I worked at a women’s shelter on East 119th Street, Spanish Harlem. No big deal, no Purple Hearts necessary, but it was something I could do to help out a little, and it brought much-needed perspective to my life. Six hours at the shelter, and I came home feeling blessed beyond belief. I kind of thought of it as going to church, only better—more useful, anyway.

  So there I was ladling out scrambled eggs and beans, hard rolls and squares of margarine. Paper plates for the food, plastic cups for the orange juice. It felt good to know that these people would have full stomachs this morning. “Can you give my son more eggs?” a mother with a five- or six-year-old boy asked. “You do that for me?”

  “Of course,” I said. I gave him another scoop of eggs with a hard roll on top.

  “Say thank you to the lady, Kwame.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You going to be able to eat all that, Kwame?” I gently kidded the boy.

  He nodded shyly, and his mother spoke in a whisper: “Tell the truth, he eat some now.” She took a wrinkled piece of tinfoil from a shopping bag. “Finish the rest for supper.”

  The line kept moving, hungry people coming, and I kept dishing out eggs for them, saying “Thank you, please come again,” trying to make everybody feel as welcome as possible.

  An old, good-hearted Italian woman from St. Rose’s Parish worked alongside me, pouring orange juice and milk. “Look over there,” she whispered, pointing with her elbow to the middle of the line. “She’s just a girl herself.” I spotted a rail-thin woman, no more than eighteen, if that, with a baby in a worn Snugli. A little boy clung to the woman’s skinny legs. What really set her apart, though, were two black eyes and a soiled bandage twisted around her limp right arm. Stuff like that made my jaw clench and my stomach turn, to think that anyone would get away with hurting someone like that.

  When she came to my spot on the line, I told her, “Go sit down. I’ll bring the food over to you and the kids.”

  “No, I can manage it.”

  “I know you can. Let me help anyway. That’s my job.”

  I found a plastic tray and piled it with eggs and rolls. I took two cups and a full can of orange juice. I even grabbed three bananas from the kitchen, where the nuns kept fresh fruit for special occasions or delicate situations.

  “Hey, thank you,” the girl said softly when I got to her table and unloaded the food. “You’re a nice white lady.”

  Well, I try.

  Twenty-eight

  FINALLY, THE LAST of the scrambled eggs went onto the paper plate of an elderly woman who had no teeth and wore plastic bags over her hands and her shoes. “Make it through another day,” she kept repeating over and over. It was a little disturbing how deeply I related to that sentiment.

  Just before noon, I stepped out into the crisp spring morning of a Spanish Harlem Sunday in New York. My arms hurt and my head ached, but there was something basic and good about feeding people who are hungry. It was beautiful everywhere I looked, everything seemed full of life and promise, which, considering last night’s debacle, seemed like a miracle.

  On the steps of the church were five little girls dressed like miniature brides, kids about to make their First Communion. Nearby, serious-faced men drank cervezas and played dominoes on wooden cartons. I inhaled deeply. The smell of fried churros was in the air, and corn on the cob, and chili.

  I crossed over to Park Avenue, where the commuter trains come out of the underground tunnel, and where this ragtag Harlem neighborhood eventually turns into the fancy Upper East Side. I kept walking, feeling pretty good now. I was pretty much over last night at the Met.

  As I crossed the next street, my own building came into sight, and some jerk began honking his car horn at me.

  I turned around and saw that the obnoxious jerk was Hugh.

  There he sat, looking bashful and apologetic in a shiny blue Mercedes convertible, his angel’s face sending all rational thought fleeing.

  Oh, how our eyes can tell lies to our brains.

  Twenty-nine

  THE ONLY THING PRETTIER than the navy blue, sun-dappled sports car was the man driving it, and he knew it. Hugh was wearing Italian sunglasses and a light brown leather jacket that looked so soft you immediately wanted to touch it. And to give him a “regular guy” look, a New York Giants cap with the visor bent at the sides, just so.

  “Join me for a spin, beautiful.” Delivered in a humorous tone I knew he’d stolen from Mr. Big in Sex and the City.

  Hugh and the car made a lovely couple, but I was thinking I could do without either of them. After all, I didn’t care. I really didn’t. Well, I almost didn’t care. Oh, damn it, maybe I cared a little bit.

  “I’m supposed to meet my mother for lunch in an hour,” I said coolly. “She’s been a little under the weather lately.” The words floated out without my bidding, but they sounded great.

  “I’ll get you back in an hour. You know I wouldn’t dare piss off Vivienne.”

  “Hugh, after last night… I just can’t—”

  “C’mon. Come for a ride. I want to talk to you, Jane. I came all the way up here from the Village.”

  “I really don’t know that we have anything to talk about, Hugh,” I said, keeping my voice mild.

  “I’m a changed man,” Hugh said, channeling deep sincerity, “and I can even tell you why. Give me a chance to talk.”

  I sighed and looked reluctant for a full thirty seconds before giving in and climbing into the car. Hugh happily gunned it down Park Avenue.

  Suddenly he swerved the SL55 to the left, and soon we were speeding along FDR Drive, which was moving just fine, but moving where?

  “I’ve got to tell you what I always seem to be telling you, Jane.”

  If he said, “Give me the part,” I swear, I was going to shove a pen right into his ear.

  “I’ve got to tell you that I’m sorry,” he said, totally taking me aback. “I’m so sorry, Jane. I didn’t know what Felicia and Ronnie had planned, I swear to God. Then my stupid tongue and temper got the best of me.”

  My brain told me that couldn’t be true, even as my heart was registering how incredibly sincere he sounded. I was starting to soften up a little bit, and I didn’t like it. Trying to stay strong, I didn’t respond, just kept my eyes focused on the horizon. We were going bumpity-bump over the Brooklyn Bridge now. Heading where? And why? On the other side of the bridge, Hugh drove to a spot with an incredible picture-postcard view of Manhattan. Honestly, the city looked as if it had been carved out of a perfect piece of silver. I’d never been here with Hugh, and I suddenly wondered who had been?

  “I guess I assumed we were on the same wavelength about the movie part, Janey,” he went on. “I saw myself in the role. I did it on Broadway. It’s part of me. I assumed you just saw me as perfect for it too.” He shot me a gorgeous smile, contrite and cocky at the same time.

  Okay, as motivation it almost made sense. “You just weren’t listening, Hugh.” As usual.

  He draped his arm over my seat and lightly stroked the back of my neck.

  “You know, Jane, I also thought that this project, this little movie, could turn us into the team I know we can be. I pictured us working together. It would be fantastic. Together in our personal lives and in our professional lives. You know, I’d be there for you. I could help you, support you. I’ve thought about it a lot. It’s my dream. Honestly.”
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br />   His voice was low and sincere. He was holding my hand, rubbing my knuckles gently. What was going on here? I was getting a little dizzy. I was weakening, wasn’t I?

  He opened the glove compartment and reached in. My eyes almost popped as he pulled out a robin’s-egg blue jewelry box.

  Inside my chest, my heart seized. He couldn’t… he wouldn’t… This, I hadn’t been expecting.

  When Hugh opened the Tiffany’s box, there was a lovely diamond. It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t small, either. I tried not to suck in a wheezing breath.

  “Jane, I know we can be great again. I’ve got the ring, and you’ve got the movie. Let’s make a trade, sweetheart. Do we have a deal?”

  Time stopped. The earth tilted beneath me. Oh. My. Freaking. God. Oh, my God. No, this didn’t just happen. I felt as if I had just been punched very hard in the chest. A long pause followed while my stunned brain tried to decide on a response: Instant tears? Rage? Pathetic humiliation? This had been my first and only marriage proposal, and I couldn’t imagine it sucking more. Was Hugh insane, or was I just a much bigger loser than even I had suspected?

  Hugh stopped smiling, watching my face.

  Finally, my synapses started firing jerkily, and I searched for breath. “I’m sorry, Hugh,” I said tightly, in a colossal understatement. “About so many things… giving you another chance, caring for you in the first place. And I’m most, most sorry about what you just said to me. Let’s make a trade, sweetheart? Do we have a deal? How could you possibly say such a thing?” My voice had risen with each sentence, and I was aware of a strident, anger-constrained tone that should have made him run for the hills.

  “I’m not a speechwriter, I’m an actor,” he muttered. “Okay, maybe I didn’t pretty it up enough, and I apologize. But I was going for direct honesty. Isn’t that what you always say you want?”

  “Pretty it up enough?!” I sputtered. “Are you nuts? Try ‘biggest insult of my life!’ Try ‘worst disaster of a heinous proposal ever!’ ”

  Hugh’s face had gone cold and stony. “Jane, you’re making a huge mistake in judgment. Maybe you should check with Vivienne.”

  I’d thought I couldn’t be more stunned, but I was sadly mistaken. I was now officially more stunned. “Oh, Hugh” was all I could manage, starting to choke up. “Get me out of here. Take me home. Right now.”

  Hugh looked at me for several long moments, disbelief marring his handsome face. As if he couldn’t imagine what I was so upset about. Finally he shifted his body back toward the steering wheel. He turned the key in the ignition.

  “Then I’ll see you around.” He leaned across me, flicked my door open, then popped my seat belt loose. He leaned against his seat and waited, disdain oozing out of every pore.

  “Whaaaat?”

  “Get out.” His tone was icy, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. When I didn’t immediately move, he turned and started yelling. “Get out of my fucking car!”

  My face burning, I jumped out of the car. He was throwing me out? And he was doing it in Brooklyn.

  Without waiting for me to close the door, Hugh peeled out backward and sped away, kicking up gravel that hit my legs.

  He had done it. He’d taken me to the middle of Brooklyn and then kicked me out with no ride home.

  Strangely, I didn’t shed a tear.

  Not for the first six and a half seconds, anyway.

  Thirty

  HE HAD NOTHING but time. It was a beautiful day, and he was trying to kick his Jane habit, so Michael was headed out for a walk, maybe a movie. On his way out, he met Owen on his way in, coming up the stairs of the brownstone—with Patty, the waitress from the Olympia. Oh, no. What have I done? Owen and Patty?

  They were a cute enough couple, except that Michael didn’t trust Owen as far as he could throw him, and he really liked Patty. He didn’t want to see her hurt by a confirmed womanizer.

  “Hi, Michael.” Patty beamed, as she always did at the restaurant. “I was hoping I would see you. I wanted to thank you for bringing Owen to the Olympia that morning.”

  “Oh, it was nothing. Best pancakes around, right? How are you guys?” He tried to send Owen a warning glance, like, Hurt this girl and I’ll kill you, but Owen didn’t meet his eyes.

  Patty continued to smile and did seem happy. “I’m great. But this one, he’s a diamond in the rough. He’s funny. Another Dane Cook.”

  “I am not,” Owen said, looking offended. “How could you think that? And who’s Dane Cook?”

  “See?” said Patty affectionately. “He knows Dane Cook’s a comedian.”

  “Yeah, Owen’s a card, all right,” Michael said, wanting to come right out and warn Patty. Owen wasn’t deliberately cruel, but Michael didn’t see how this could end well. “Okay, see you guys.”

  “Bye!” Patty said, and Michael sighed and continued downstairs. He was nervous for Patty—and her little girl. Owen had flat out told him that every woman he’d ever known had been a sex object to him, even his wife. Great, that was great. Well, maybe Patty would save him from himself.

  He looked back up the stairs at the two of them, and there it was, Owen’s get-away-with-anything smile. Great. “Don’t be judging, Mikey!” Owen called out, and grinned.

  And God, he had brought them together. Some friend he’d been to Patty.

  Once Michael was out on the street, he didn’t know what he wanted to do. He’d decided not to go near Jane again, so that was out. It was the weekend, so the streets weren’t as crowded, which was always nice. But the sight of Patty going up to Owen’s had gotten to him, ruined his day before it had begun. Plus, in general he hadn’t really recovered from seeing Jane in the first place.

  Then he had an idea, he hoped not inspired by Owen. Maybe it was just the ticket to save the day.

  He gave Claire de Lune a call, and she was home on this beautiful Sunday, and yes, she’d love to see him.

  Thirty-one

  I MUST HAVE EVENTUALLY found a cab in Brooklyn. It must have gone back over the Brooklyn Bridge. And it must have dropped me off at my apartment on 75th Street.

  It must have happened, but I don’t remember any of it very well.

  I do remember seeing Hugh peel away; I remember the sharp gravel hitting my shins; I specifically remember giving him the finger. Next thing, Martin was holding open the door of my building, and I was staggering toward the elevator.

  As I opened the apartment door, the phone was ringing, and I answered it in a daze, not even thinking that it might be Hugh.

  “This is Jane,” I said mechanically, kicking off my shoes.

  “Jane-Sweetie!” My mother’s imperious voice. “Where are you? You said you were coming for lunch! I have that wonderful gravlax from Zabar’s. Karl Friedkin is here. And I have photos from the new Valentino collection. And—”

  “Sorry, I won’t be there, Mother. I’m not feeling too great.” Slight understatement.

  “I think what you’re feeling… is maybe Hugh McGrath?” my mother said playfully. “Bring the dear boy along. It will be fun. We can chat about Thank Heaven.”

  Oh, that was so not going to happen.

  “Hugh isn’t here, and I’m not feeling well. I’ll talk to you later, Mother.”

  I didn’t wait to hear her say good-bye. I immediately decided that I couldn’t bear being in my empty apartment. Anywhere but here. Well, anywhere but here and Brooklyn. I changed my gravel-ruined pants for some jeans and a Music in the Park T-shirt and started walking downtown. No destination in mind.

  In twenty minutes or so I was heading west. There was Hermès. And the Robinson Galleries. And then, my childhood home away from home: Tiffany’s.

  The sign in the window read: OPEN SUNDAYS, 11–6. Which I knew, of course. How many Sunday afternoons had Vivienne and I spent here, trying on estate jewelry and looking at diamonds through a loupe? I had probably been the only seven-year-old who could knowledgeably discuss facet proportions and the merit of an Asscher cut versus a brilliant one.<
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  I leaped through the revolving door on 57th Street, timing it as if I were jumping rope. In no time I was near the Fifth Avenue entrance, and, all of a sudden, I was shopping for a diamond ring.

  Thirty-two

  WHENEVER I WAS INSIDE Tiffany’s, memories rushed back. The feel of the carpet beneath my feet, the shine of the wooden panels, the heat of the lamps under the glass counters. This was the one place where Vivienne and I had gone alone, without her entourage, and we were like a real mother and daughter. This was where my mother seemed most herself—even more than when she was at the theater—and happiest.

  I studied the display case as if I were planning a June wedding, which, oops, I guess I had put the kibosh on earlier today. The diamond rings were like a constellation, all lined up in a divine, predestined order: from the smallest, barely visible single-stone band to exquisite natural pink and yellow square-cut and pear-cut diamonds set in platinum, each ring worth more than some luxury automobiles.

  “May I show you something?” a young saleswoman had appeared out of the ether. She was my idea of elegance in a simple black suit with a lovely string of pearls, everything just so.

  “Um,” I said.

  I saw her surreptitious glance at the naked fingers of my left hand.

  “You know,” she said confidingly, expertly unlocking the case, “lots of women are gifting themselves with diamonds for their right hand.” Gifting themselves. Now there was a phrase. It sounded so much better than, say, ridiculously indulging.

  Yes, I had actually seen the ads in Vanity Fair and Harper’s Bazaar. Every ring has its own meaning. A special day. A dream come true. A wonderful secret. Blah. Blah. Blah. But obviously the sales copy had worked on me, at least a little.

  “May I see that one?” I asked, pointing to an elegant Tiffany Celebration ring, more than a dozen flawless diamonds set in a platinum band.