Review: Sundays at Tiffany’s

I’m not so naive these days.  Twice divorced, once bitten, and all of the rest.  But I’m still a sucker for a good romantic story.

Super-selling novelist James Patterson has teamed with children’s book author Gabrille Charbonnet for a mushy departure from his detective stories called Sundays at Tiffany’s.  It was my Valentine’s gift (along with some sinfully smooth Godiva chocolates because what’s romance without chocolate?) and it was impossible to put down.  I had to force myself to give the book a rest for short stretches just so I could savour it. 

It’s a story as light and frothy as foam on a latte.  Jane is the daughter of a powerful Broadway producer Mom who wears her like an accessory and a Dad who drops by with his latest trophy wife once a year, without fail, for about five minutes.  Jane has an imaginary friend named Michael whom only she can see.  Under the “rules” of imaginary friends, the kid is supposed to forget him once he leaves on her 9th birthday.  That’s another rule – the friends can only hang around until the age of 8.  But Jane doesn’t forget Michael and his memory soothes and haunts her into adulthood, through a disastrous relationship and success on the stage that threatens to eclipse that of her relentlessly ambitious mother.

Sundays at Tiffany’s is such a sweet tale.  Michael has no idea how he became what he is and only knows some of the rules because of experience. Is he an angel? He doesn’t think so but he’s really not sure.  Jane is struggling to accept herself in a world where she’s constantly second-guessed and criticized.  She wants to trust herself and her decisions but she’s usurped at almost every turn.  The story is delightful and if you suspend disbelief, it’s easy to get a little swept away.  Sundays at Tiffany’s is about as deep as a wading pool and lighter than a feather but it has perfect aim for sending Cupid’s little arrow smack into its target.