THE PROBLEM WAS WHAT to do with all his keys.
Jack stood in the jogging lane of the Prospect Park roadway staring down at his baggy new sweatpants. They had pockets, but when he put his house keys and car keys in there, they slapped against his leg with every step, and he jingled like one of Santa’s reindeer.
He clutched the keys in his fist and set off around the park in the early morning light. Well, not around the park—he would have been happy to make it a quarter of the way. He prided himself on having a pretty trim physique for a middle-aged man, but he was still not entirely recovered from his gunshot wound, and this jogging business was turning out to be surprisingly hard work.
He reached down and patted his stomach. Three or four pounds off would do it. He was breathing heavily now, only three hundred yards down the road, but he pressed on, determined. This exercising was not just for him; it was for Michelle, too. His fiancée, just hours from now, if all went well. Tonight was New Year’s Eve, and he had the ring and the dinner reservations, and a woman who loved him, and the sun was shining, sparkling on the park’s little lake, and he could see his breath in the crisp December air, and he felt good despite the complaints from his knees and the crick in his side. He felt even better after he breezed past a little old geezer in a fancy running outfit, but then was brought down to earth as a couple of pastel-suited girls bounced past him, chatting merrily without even pausing for breath.
He smiled at himself. Okay, so he’d have to keep at this for a while to get his wind up. Not a problem. Maybe he wasn’t a great runner, but he was a damn good detective. He was moving forward inexorably on the Sperry case, and he had a strong hunch that something was going to pop very soon on his private investigation. Balfa’s girlfriend was holding something back, and either she’d give it up voluntarily or he would pry it out of her. He shrugged off these thoughts, rolling his head like a boxer warming up. He had the day off; for once he was going to have a personal life, and to hell with work.
He was loosening up, despite the cold, and wondered if he was hitting some kind of stride. If those things were kicking in—what were they called? Endorphins. Life was a lot different here in the park when you weren’t zipping by in a sealed-off car. He listened to the steady shuffle of his footsteps on the asphalt and to the jagged rhythm of his breath. He started noticing the different kinds of trees, and the way a goose waddled down to the water’s edge, and then he was pondering why the goose hadn’t flown farther south for the winter, and where its comrades were, and soon—pleasantly, and for the first time since he had looked down at the boy in the box—he wasn’t thinking about much of anything at all.
HE DIDN’T BAT AN eye at the prices on the dinner menu, even though they were so high they would have made both of his parents faint. He didn’t bother hiding the ring in any desserts. He didn’t even wonder which knee to get down on. That morning he had had a major realization—an epiphany, really—and it had come from the most unlikely source.
He had come back from a run—he liked the way that sounded, even though it had been more of a plod—and taken a hot bath. He came out feeling good and sporty, as if he were in a locker room. He went into the kitchen in search of breakfast, turned on the little TV over the microwave, and there was Regis Philbin with some pert blonde, and they were chatting jovially with some singer Jack didn’t know, a handsome young guy wearing a cowboy hat and boots.
“How did you pop the question?” Regis was saying. “Did you take her for a carriage ride around Central Park and open a bottle of champagne?”
The singer shook his handsome head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He had a shy, modest manner that clearly drove the women in the studio audience wild. “I didn’t do any of that,” he said. “No violin players, no hidin’ the ring, no pretendin’ or foolin’ around. I just wanted it to be a really simple moment, you know. Authentic.” The camera cut to several middle-aged women in the audience, nodding their heads, mesmerized. “I took her hand and told her that I loved her and that I hoped she would spend the rest of her life letting me make her happy.” A number of women in the studio audience wiped their eyes.
And that was it. Jack stood there in his kitchen, open-mouthed, holding two eggs he was about to crack over a frying pan. Keep it simple. What a fool he had been, thinking that the moment should be about some clever trick or elaborate setup, when all he needed to do was speak from his heart.
Now here he was in this too-fancy Midtown restaurant, with red leather booths and subdued lighting glowing from behind polished wood panels on the walls, but it was okay, it still felt right. Michelle was wearing a dress that he loved, and she looked gorgeous. (He noticed several model-like women sitting with rich older men, and they looked glamorous in a superficial way, but he was proud to be here with his date.) He didn’t fidget, didn’t check to see if he had remembered the ring. He didn’t for one second wonder if he was doing the right thing. He just felt it, in his heart, like he was floating, like he was in the zone, Michael Jordan swooping serenely up for a three-point half-court swish.
A waiter went around with a silver tray handing out noisemakers and party hats. The countdown to midnight was coming up, but suddenly Jack didn’t want to wait anymore—he didn’t want the moment swallowed up in a crowd of shouting revelers.
He raised his champagne glass. “To the most beautiful woman in the room.”
Michelle clinked glasses with him. She hadn’t eaten much this evening, said she was saving up for the post-midnight snacks, but that was okay. This wasn’t about having some kind of perfect meal—this was about starting their future together, and he didn’t care if it happened over a couple of Big Macs.
He pushed aside the votive candle in the middle of the table and reached out and took Michelle’s hand. “You know what?” he said, brushing aside the cowboy’s words, which were still bouncing around in his head. “I know this has been a crazy year, what with my time in the hospital, and…you know…” He didn’t want to mention September 11, not now…“And then there was my little swim, and everything. But even so, I wanna tell you that these have been the best few months of my life. Because of you.” He looked down for a moment, embarrassed to find himself choking up. Still holding on to her hand, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the little velvet ring box, and set it on the table. “Will you marry me?”
Michelle’s eyes widened. “Oh my God,” she said. She pulled out of his grasp and knocked over her water glass as her hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Oh my God,” she repeated, and her eyes crinkled up.
A nice couple at the next table realized what was going on and they smiled encouragingly. Jack grinned back. As he mopped at the table, Michelle began to cry. He reached out to offer his napkin, but then realized that it was wet.
Michelle cried, and cried.
After a minute, Jack’s grin faltered.
She couldn’t seem to stop.
He reached out for her hand again, but she just shook her head and blubbered something through her tears.
“What’s this?” he said gently.
“I’ve been seeing someone.”
He stared at her, bewildered, a foolish grin still plastered on his face. “You’ve been going to a shrink?”
She shook her head, weeping. “I’ve been seeing someone.”
He sat there, frozen. After a minute, he heard words coming out of his mouth. “I know I’ve been busy at work and all…”
She shook her head again. “It’s nothing to do with you. I didn’t plan it. It just happened.”
“Michelle…” He reached out for her, but she stood abruptly, knocking her silverware off the edge of her plate. It clattered to the floor, causing several nearby diners to look over.
She grabbed her purse and fled.