James Patterson - You’ve Been Warned

Penley is going to be gone all day at some fancy-schmancy kitchen tour out in South Hampton – so she says, anyway – so instead of taking the kids to school, I call there to say they have the flu, and then we play hooky.

I really feel that Dakota and Sean need this. Especially Dakota. And so do I.

First things first, we have a total pig-out breakfast at Sarabeth’s, our favorite restaurant in all of New York. Blueberry and chocolate-chip pancakes, with loads of syrup, for everybody. Then we head off to Central Park with only one purpose in mind: to get absolutely filthy dirty, to be real kids for a change, to have a blast.

For three hours, we run and jump and scream our brains out, play tag, play catch, play keep-away, and I don’t have a single crazy thought, don’t smell anything bad, don’t even see any dead people.

We end up at a little concrete playground with swings and slides, and Dakota and Sean are grimy dirty – which I love, and they love too. In fact, I’ve never seen such big smiles on either of their faces.

Of course, I have to take photographs of the kids. Dozens and dozens of beautiful shots. So cute, so picture-perfect.

And then – disaster strikes!

Sean catches his bright red Keds sneaker on the ladder at the top of the slide, and he literally goes head over heels. I watch and I can’t believe what I’m seeing as he tumbles way too fast, then hits the pavement with his face. I swear to God, with his forehead.

Ten minutes later, we’re at the emergency room at Lenox Hill, and amazingly, miraculously, Sean is totally okay and doesn’t even need a stitch. He even gets a lollipop, and so does Dakota.

It’s quiet in the cab from Lenox Hill going home, and then Dakota leans into me and puts her head on my shoulder. I wish I could take a picture of the two of us.

“It’s all right, Miss Kristin. It’s all right,” she says. “We won’t tell.”

“Promise,” says Sean. “We won’t tell. We love you, Miss Kristin.”

And I love these kids so much.

I just love Dakota and Sean to death. Who wouldn’t?

I also feel guilty, and I don’t know how to get away from that. Not about playing hooky for one stupid day, which was great – but about everything else.

And I mean everything else.

HELL, I SHOULD JUST TOSS my alarm clock out the window. What’s that joke Sean likes to tell? About seeing time fly?

Really, what’s the point of an alarm clock when I’ve got this dreaded dream to wake me every morning? I get the feeling it’s going to be with me for an awfully long time. Like forever.

Same for all the other bizarre stuff filling my days. And all I can do is wonder, Can I really handle this?

Can I get on with my life, such as it is?

Damn it, I’m going to try. With a little help from my friends.

Beth and Connie conference call me on my cell phone minutes after I drop off Dakota and Sean at school. They want to take me to lunch and won’t take no for an answer.

Of course, what they really want to do is see if I’m okay or completely mashed potatoes. The social worker in Connie undoubtedly has her hyperconcerned after my surprise sleepover-cum-meltdown at her apartment. Naturally, Beth heard all about it.

Imagine if I tell them everything that’s occurred since.

Only that’s not going to happen.

That monster Delmonico has me scared silent. About everything. I can still feel his grip on my neck, the look in his eyes.

Anyway, it’s with an “all’s well” attitude that I walk into the Comfort Diner – how fitting – on 45th Street between Second and Third. Connie and Beth are already seated at a table by the window, and I make sure to greet them with a healthy smile.

Unfortunately, the rest of my body didn’t get the memo.

“You look like shit, Kris,” says Beth almost immediately.

Connie rolls her eyes while I enjoy a much-needed laugh. There’s blunt, and then there’s Beth. No wonder she has such a hard time finding acting work. She once told Martin Scorsese that he needed to “trim those caterpillars” above his eyes.

“You do look a bit tired, Kristin,” says Connie, trying to be a little more diplomatic and gentle. “Have you been getting enough sleep?”

“I certainly got plenty at your place the other night,” I say.

“Until you woke up screaming like my apartment was in a wing at Bellevue,” she points out.

As if I need to be reminded.

“Have you been to see a doctor?” asks Beth. “Maybe you’ve got a virus.”

“And what about seeing your psychiatrist again?” says Connie in tow. “Have you given that any more thought?”

Call me crazy, but I think I’m done with psychiatrists.

I look at the two of them, their faces full of genuine concern. “Listen, I know you guys are trying to help and I appreciate it, I really do. But right now, the best thing for me is to have a fun lunch with my girlfriends. Can we do that? You think?”

They both nod, getting the point. I need to be distracted, not prodded. So they dig deep into their daily lives and share the best stories they can think of.

Connie kicks things off by telling us about the guy from her office who got caught making photocopies of his penis. I don’t believe her, but she swears it’s true.

“I bet he was using the enlarge button,” quips Beth.

We laugh and order, and by the time our food arrives, the conversation has made its way around to my job and the wonderful Penley.

“Let me guess,” says Beth. “While we’re stuffing our faces, the Pencil’s at the gym, burning off her last remaining calorie.”

“She definitely is a gym rat,” I say. “Though right now she’s out in Greenwich for some charity lunch.”

“You know, we really should meet her,” says Connie.

Beth raises a brow. “Why on earth would we want to do that? ”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. What do you think, Kris?”

“I think she’s better left to your imagination,” I say with a chuckle. God, that feels good.

Connie smiles and digs back into her chef’s salad. I’m reaching for my iced tea when Beth starts to giggle. She’s looking out the window.

“Check out that serious PDA going on across the street,” she says, pointing.

Connie and I follow her finger to see a man and woman engaged in a serious lip-lock right under a “Don’t Walk” sign. There’s not an inch of daylight between them as their “public display of affection” seems to last forever. Eventually, the woman pulls back, playfully pushing the man while glancing about as though to see if anyone’s watching.

“Omigod!” I sputter.

Connie and Beth turn to me in unison. “What is it?” asks Connie.

“That’s Penley!”

“Are you serious, Kris? You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking.”

“I thought you said she was out in Greenwich,” says Beth.

“I know. That’s what she told me.”

The three of us look back out the window. The man is whispering something in Penley’s ear. Sweet nothings, it appears.

“Wow,” says Beth. “You never mentioned how good-looking her husband is.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Only that’s not her husband.”

I JUMP UP FROM MY CHAIR, jolting the table and nearly knocking over my iced tea. I sprint for the door with a hurried “good-bye” to my friends.

“Kris, wait!” I hear Connie call.

But I don’t. I can’t. This could be important, a key to unraveling everything.

Spilling out of the restaurant, I immediately look across the street. The “Don’t Walk” sign now reads “Walk.” And Penley’s gone.

So is Stephen. Tall, dark, and handsome Stephen. Her lover, from the look of it.