The Jinx (7 page)

“Me, too,” I said, suddenly feeling as awkward in his presence as I had at eighteen. Not that I'd actually ever stood this close to him when I was eighteen. “I guess I'll talk to you later.”

“Sure thing,” he said. And while I was figuring out whether or not it made sense to shake his hand, he bent down and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

I was out the door and a few steps down the hallway, feeling the familiar blush spreading across my face with renewed vigor, when he called after me.

“Hey, Rachel?”

I turned, hoping that my color wouldn't show in the fluorescent light of the corridor. He stood in the doorway to his office, his blue eyes bright.

“I hope it's not another ten years before I see you again.”

I flashed him a smile and a wave and scurried off.

It wasn't until I was outside that I realized I hadn't thought of Peter once since I'd entered the building, much less mentioned him to Jonathan.

I
had to tell someone about what had just happened. It's not every day that you run into the love of your life. Even though, I reminded myself, I'd only thought Jonathan was the love of my life when I was young and naive. Now I had Peter, the real love of my life, even if he had been acting a bit preoccupied of late and even if Jonathan's presence had been enough to erase all thoughts of him from my head for the better part of an hour. Still, I was bursting with the news.

I pulled out my phone as I hurried across the business school campus. My first thought was to try Emma, but if she was really starting a new series, she'd be too distracted to be of much use, so I dialed Jane's number instead. The familiar voice that answered was throaty, with faint traces of an exotic accent.

“Luisa?”

“Rachel? Is that you?”

“It is,” I confirmed.

“How are you, darling? I can't wait to see you tomorrow.”

“Me, too. But you'll never guess who I just had lunch with.”

“Rachel, I took an overnight flight and I've gotten three hours of sleep in the last two days. You can't honestly expect me to guess.”

“No need to be cranky. You give up?”

“Indeed. And I'm not cranky.”

“Jonathan Beasley!”

“Who's Jonathan Beasley?”

“Who's Jonathan Beasley?” I repeated, amazed that she could have forgotten and forgetting myself that I had pretty much forgotten until I'd crashed into him. “Only the love of my life.”

“Peter's the love of your life, darling. Nice try.”

“I know he is. I'm talking about the love of my previous life.”

“I thought that was Chris the Sociopath?”

“This predates Chris the Sociopath. Don't you remember? The guy from English 10?”

“No.”

“The
Love Story
guy? You honestly don't remember him?”

“Hold on a sec.” I heard her open a door and close it and then the sound of her lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. “Sorry, needed to step out onto the porch. I think Jane would have me arrested if I smoked in the house. Of course, she doesn't seem too worried about my dying from exposure.”

“Come on, Luisa. Pay attention. Jonathan Beasley. Blondish hair, bluish eyes. Incredible smile. So beautiful. Just like Ryan O'Neal but smarter looking. And with a better voice. And maybe with some Robert Redford thrown in. A much younger Robert Redford. You must remember.”

“Maybe I do. Dressed really preppie?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you'd sit there like a lump, ogling him and not doing anything about it? Just sort of pining away instead?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but that pretty much describes a lot of your behavior in college. At least when it came to matters concerning the opposite sex.” I heard her take another deep drag.

“Nice to talk to you, too.”

“Okay, tell me, since you clearly want to. Where did you encounter Jonathan Beasley?”

I gave her a quick but comprehensive account of the events of the past twenty-four hours as I picked my way among the piles of slush and patches of ice on the bridge across the river.

“It sounds like you've had an action-packed visit so far,” she commented. “I hadn't realized Cambridge had gotten so dangerous. I thought things had shaped up since we were in college. But someone attacked this woman—what is her name again, your client?”

“Sara. Sara Grenthaler.”

“And they don't know who did it?”

“No.” I filled her in on the various theories that had been floated so far. “But it was probably just a random thing. I can't imagine someone would really want to hurt her.”

“I hope not. Anyhow, enough of this. I want to hear about Peter.”

I hesitated. Seeing Jonathan Beasley had provided a welcome distraction from my earlier unease about Peter. And if I actually put my unease into words, talked about it out loud, would I make it true? But pretending everything was fine when it wasn't would invite the wrath of the Jinxing Gods. Not that I believed in them anymore. “He's been acting sort of weird,” I hedged.

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know, really. I mean, he was fine last night, but he seems really stressed-out about work, and he's barely had time to speak to me today.”

“He's probably just busy.”

“I know. And I'm probably overreacting.”

“But?”

“He has this new colleague.”

“Let me guess. The colleague's a she, and you're jealous.”

“She looks like Christy Turlington.”

“Who's Christy Turlington?”

“The one who does all the perfume ads for Calvin Klein.”

“Oh. That's not good.”

“She called him twice between eleven last night and seven this morning.”

“They are working together,” Luisa pointed out. “And you know what start-ups are like. The pace is frantic.”

“Two calls, Luisa. At times when people should be asleep. And I could hear her laughing in the background this morning when I called him. They were in her hotel room, together. He said they had work to do and rushed me off the phone.”

“Darling, even if she does look like this Christy person, I think you may be imagining problems where there aren't any.”

“I hope so,” I answered, but the sense of foreboding was still there.

I reached the hotel and pushed through the revolving door. “Listen, Luisa, I need to get back to work. What do you have on tap for the rest of the day?”

“Jane and I had talked about a visit to Newbury Street to do a little shopping when she gets back from school.” Jane taught math at a local private school, and this early in the semester it would be easy for her to skip out after classes ended.

“Give my regards to Armani. Is Hilary going, too?”

“No, she's off doing research. She's really excited about her book. And what about you? You're seeing Peter tonight?”

“Yes. Dinner.”

“Good. You'll have a wonderful time and realize that you're making yourself crazy for no reason.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so. We'll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” I echoed and rang off.

 

I waited impatiently for the elevator, strategizing as to how I would explain playing hooky from recruiting that morning should Scott Epson ask. A young man came up beside me, wearing a dark overcoat over a dark suit.

He looked me over. “Interviews?” he asked.

I gave him a preoccupied smile. “Sort of.”

“Nervous?”

I almost laughed. With a pleasant shock of surprise, I realized that he thought I was a student here to be interviewed, rather than to interview students. This was better than being carded at a bar. An interaction like this one was good for canceling out being called “ma'am” at least two or three times.

“Not really,” I answered. The elevator arrived, and we got in.

“Floor?” he asked.

“Four.”

“Me, too. Winslow, Brown?”

“Yes.”

“They're really hard-core. They can get pretty much whoever they want. The competition's really intense this year.”

“Yep,” I agreed.

“And I've heard the interviewers are being really tough. No softballs.” Now it was a struggle not to laugh. Not only did he think I was a student, he was trying to psyche me out.

“I think I can handle it.” The elevator doors slid open, and we both turned down the corridor.

The door to the recruiting suite was ajar, and we entered together. Several students were milling about, waiting to be called for their interviews. “I think we're supposed to check in over there,” my new friend told me, indicating the table where Cecelia sat.

“Thanks,” I said.

Cece spotted me and waved me over. “Everything under control?” she asked.

“Sort of,” I answered. “I'll fill you in later. How's everything been going here?”

“The usual.” She turned to my companion and gave him a professional smile. “And you are?”

“Uh, Kevin. Kevin Sweeney.” Kevin looked uncomfortable. I guess he'd figured out I wasn't another student.

“Well, Kevin, it looks like you've already met Rachel Benjamin. She's heading up recruiting this year. But you're a bit early—your interviewer's still out at lunch. He should be back in a few minutes. Please help yourself to a soda if you'd like.” Cece pointed in the direction of the bar that had been set up in a corner of the room. She waited until he was out of earshot before continuing. “So, I've got good news and bad news for you. Which do you want first?”

“Any chance that the bad news will go away?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Let's get it over with.”

“There's somebody here who wants to see you.”

“Who?”

“Gabrielle LeFavre? She's been here since this morning. I've tried to get rid of her, but she insisted on talking to you.”

“Drat.”

“Yes.”

“Where is she?”

“Waiting in the other room.”

I managed not to grimace. “Okay. I'll go talk to her.”

“Don't you want to hear the good news?”

“Oh, I forgot about that. What is it?”

“I've gotten you out of interviews for the afternoon. We have enough people, and I thought you'd appreciate some free time.”

“You are a goddess.”

“I know, but it's still nice to hear people say it. Thanks.”

 

I steeled myself for what was probably going to be an unpleasant discussion and crossed into the bedroom of the suite. Gabrielle was standing with her back to me, looking out the window. At least, I assumed it was she. From the back, it could have been anyone of any gender. She was tall, with short strawberry-blond hair and the requisite navy pantsuit. I wondered if she'd heard about Sara yet.

“Gabrielle?”

She gave a little start and turned around.

“Ms. Benjamin?”

“Rachel, please.” From the front, she was most definitely not a man. Her hair was elaborately styled, and even the professionally cut suit couldn't hide her curves. And if you couldn't tell she was from the South from her accent, her frosted lip gloss and long nails, painted in a glossy bright pink, were a dead giveaway.

I shook her hand. “It's nice to meet you in person,” I said. “Sara mentioned you to me.”

“Thank you. Listen, Ms. Benjamin, I mean, Rachel, I don't know if you got the message I left for you—”

“I did,” I interrupted as gently as I could. “And I'm really sorry, Gabrielle, but unfortunately there's just not much I can do. We have so many students coming through the process that we have to stick to the rules or things just get crazy. But I can probably arrange for the people who interviewed you to give you some coaching—that way you'll be even better prepared for your interviews with other firms.”

“I don't want to work at another firm. Winslow, Brown is the best.”

“There are a lot of great firms out there, and I'm sure you'll find a terrific job with one of them. And if you really feel so strongly about Winslow, Brown, you can always interview again in a couple of years when you have some more experience under your belt.”

“But, you must need women. I mean, Winslow, Brown is so committed to diversity. That's what all of its brochures say.”

I stifled a sigh. I was in no mood to tell her that this was neither about her gender nor about meeting quotas. There were plenty of women who'd made it through the first round of interviews—Gabrielle just wasn't one of them.

We went back and forth for several minutes—Gabrielle trying a variety of angles that I had to rebuff tactfully but firmly. She really didn't want to take no for an answer.

Finally I interrupted another impassioned argument. “Gabrielle, have you heard about Sara?”

“You mean about what happened to her at the boathouse?”

I nodded.

“Yes. But Edie said she's all right. That she wasn't really hurt.”

“No, she'll be fine.”

“She really shouldn't have been in the boathouse. It's dangerous so early in the morning, when it's still dark out.”

That seemed like a strangely unsympathetic response from one of Sara's roommates, and my first thought was to just chalk it up to Gabrielle's current agitated state.

“Anyhow,” she added, “that's one less woman vying for a job.” This response, on the other hand, was nothing short of bizarre.

“What do you mean? Sara isn't even going through recruiting.”

Gabrielle looked away, running a manicured hand through her hair. I noticed that one of her nails was broken. “All of these perfect girls around here, with everything handed to them on a silver platter,” she muttered, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “Money, jobs, men. It makes me sick.”

The business school could be a scarily competitive place, but Gabrielle's words took scary competitiveness to a whole new level. I remembered, belatedly, Sara's comments the previous evening about Gabrielle's crush on Grant Crocker, and her jealousy. I wondered if Sara was even aware of the extent to which she probably personified everything that Gabrielle resented.

Gabrielle seemed to recover herself and realize what she'd said was inappropriate. “Anyhow, about Winslow, Brown—”

She'd tried my patience enough. I cut her off. “Listen, Gabrielle. I'm afraid there's just not anything more to be done here. If I can give you advice about any of the other firms you're interviewing with, please don't hesitate to let me know.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, but the expression on my face silenced her. Wordlessly, she gathered up her long hooded overcoat and scarf and left the room.