The Jinx. Jennifer Sturman

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      I nearly purred with contented anticipation. Peter and my best friends, all in one place, for an entire weekend. It would be perfect.

      The only thing I had to worry about was recruiting. And Sara Grenthaler.

      The next day, I planned to skip the morning’s schedule of interviews to attend a memorial service for Tom Barnett, who had been my client and the CEO of Grenthaler Media. He had suffered a heart attack the previous Friday and was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. That evening I had plans to dine with Sara Grenthaler—Tom’s goddaughter, Grenthaler Media’s largest individual shareholder, and a friend of mine. I was uneasy about the dinner—I sensed that Sara was distraught about more than Tom’s death when we spoke by phone earlier that week, and she’d been insistent that we meet, sooner rather than later. But when I pressed her, asked her what was wrong, she simply said that it would be better to discuss things in person. And I was hardly in a position to disagree.

      I wondered why she felt so strongly about seeing me that night.

      I shared a cab with Scott to the Charles Hotel in Harvard Square. The ride passed painlessly enough, although it occurred to me that perhaps I should worry that I evaluated so much of my life in terms of pain avoidance. I made polite responses to Scott’s various attempts to one-up me, and he didn’t seem to notice that I wasn’t feeling one-upped. Fortunately, he had some business of his own to attend to, so he didn’t even try to tag along for dinner.

      I stowed my bag and briefcase with the hotel concierge and then headed up Eliot Street toward the restaurant where I was meeting Sara. On the way, I pulled out my cell phone and called Jane.

      “Hey, there! Are you in town?” Her greeting was warm.

      “I just landed half an hour ago. I’m on my way to a dinner, but I wanted to say hello.”

      “Great. Hilary’s already here, and I spoke to Emma and she’s at Matthew’s, as usual, and Luisa’s getting in tomorrow morning. It looks like everyone’s on schedule—wait, Hilary wants to talk.” I heard the fumbling noise of the phone changing hands.

      “Rach! Is Peter here, too?”

      “Not until later tonight. His flight gets in around ten, I think.”

      “As if you don’t know the exact time it gets in and haven’t calculated to the second how long it will take him to get to the hotel,” she pointed out, no small trace of amusement in her tone.

      I had, of course, but I knew better than to admit it. Hilary’s talent for mockery was finely honed, and I had no desire to supply her with ammunition. Instead, I changed the subject. “What’s the new project you’re working on? I can’t wait to hear about it.” Asking Hilary about Hilary was a guaranteed way to divert her attention.

      “It’s a book,” she told me with enthusiasm.

      “A book?” I asked. “What happened to journalism?”

      “This is journalism. It’s just like a long-form article. I’ll tell you all about it on Friday, but it’s a true crime book. I figure I’ll write it, it will be a bestseller, I’ll sell the movie rights for a fortune, and then I can stop chasing all over the globe for random stories.”

      Knowing Hilary, it probably would be a bestseller, so I didn’t bother to question her lofty expectations. “I thought you liked chasing all over the globe for random stories?” I asked.

      “I’m getting a little sick of it, to tell the truth.”

      “Don’t tell me. Your nesting instinct is finally kicking in.”

      “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But it would be nice to have a fixed address. What are you—” I heard more fumbling, and then Jane came back on the line.

      “Hilary’s decided to use us as her fixed address for the time being,” she said, her voice neutral. When Jane’s voice was neutral, you knew that she was actually freaking out.

      “Has she given you any sense of how long she’s planning on using your guest room as her base of operations?”

      “Nope,” she answered with false cheer.

      “Well, you know Hilary. I’m sure she’ll move on quickly.”

      “Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound convinced.

      “How much luggage did she bring with her?”

      “Enough.”

      “Oh.”

      “Oh is right. Anyhow, I know you’re busy with work and Peter, but we’ll see you on Friday for the kickoff dinner, right?”

      “Absolutely. Is there anything I can bring? Anything I can do?”

      “Don’t even start, Rach. We’re not going to let you cook.”

      Two

      Upstairs on the Square was new to Harvard Square since my student days. The space it occupied had been a bar and restaurant called Grendel’s when I was in college and business school. I’d spent a lot of time there, particularly as an undergrad, and mostly in the cellar bar, which had been a low-budget affair with scarred wood tables and rickety chairs. The restaurant above hadn’t been much better, so I was unprepared for the grandeur of its current state.

      The walls of the foyer were now a deep lacquered red, and I checked my coat at a polished wood counter. I’d opted for the Monday Club Bar on the first floor for dinner, which was more casual than the Soiree Room upstairs and slightly funky, with zebra-striped carpet and red-cushioned gilt chairs. I was a few minutes early for our seven-thirty reservation, but I let the hostess lead me to a corner table, ordered a glass of Pinot Noir, and wondered again why Sara had been so anxious to see me tonight.

      Sara’s company, Grenthaler Media, had become a Winslow, Brown client due to the efforts of Nancy Sloan, the firm’s first female partner. Nancy had been a mentor to me, a dynamo of a woman with tremendous confidence. I’d learned a lot from her about not letting myself get stepped on by the wingtips and tasseled loafers that roamed Winslow, Brown’s halls.

      Two years ago, at the age of forty-one, Nancy met an artist, fell in love and quit the firm. She and her artist now lived in Vermont with their year-old baby boy, and Nancy divided her time between the baby, managing her stock portfolio and writing the business column in their local newspaper.

      She’d bequeathed to me several of her clients, including Grenthaler Media. Sara’s father, Samuel Grenthaler, founded the company in 1958 with the launch of a groundbreaking journal on international affairs. He went on to introduce several other magazines, ranging from the obscure and erudite to more popular weeklies, and he became an American success story in the process—a Holocaust refugee who had worked his way up from nothing. In the late 1970s, he’d met Anna Porter, a graduate student studying physics at M.I.T. Anna was the blue-blooded, bluestocking daughter of Edward and Helene Porter, scions of Boston society. Their marriage had been an unlikely one, given their differences in background and age, but by all accounts it had also been a happy one.

      Seven years ago, the couple died in a car accident on icy roads. They had been en route to their ski house in Vermont, where their eighteen-year-old daughter СКАЧАТЬ