The Jinx

Thirty

T hankfully, Sean insisted that all of the menfolk accompany him to the basement to inspect the progress that he and Matthew had made on the cradle. I couldn’t understand the fascination that anything involving dangerous tools like saws and hammers held over people with a Y chromosome, but it was a convenient way to get Beasley out of the room. As soon as they were safely downstairs, I told my friends about my suspicions.

“You know, Rach, just because you’re upset that Jonathan isn’t Mr. Right doesn’t mean that he’s a crazed stalker,” said Hilary. “I’m not the guy’s biggest fan, but you may be jumping to conclusions-again-for the wrong reasons.”

“I think what she’s saying makes sense,” said Emma. “I was watching him, too, and he was really getting upset when we were joking about the letters.” Emma was quiet by nature, and she tended to be unusually observant, probably because she didn’t spend as much time as the rest of us trying to figure out how to get a word in.

“There is something weird about him,” Luisa said. “I thought he was going to blow a gasket when Jane corrected him before.”

“What does that mean, anyhow, blowing a gasket?” asked Hilary.

“Most people would have just laughed it off, but he seemed to take it really personally,” said Emma.

“But he’s Sara’s professor,” Jane pointed out. “To write those letters would be really crossing a line.”

“The letters do reference a ‘forbidden love,’” I reminded her.

“Ick,” said Hilary, reaching for a nearly empty bottle to top off her wineglass.

“Well, maybe he wrote them,” Jane said. “But would he really attack her?”

“You clearly have not been watching enough Lifetime Television for Women,” I answered. “Stalkers always end up trying to kill the women they love.”

“How much Lifetime Television for Women is enough Lifetime Television for Women?” countered Luisa.

“Okay,” said Jane. “Maybe Beasley is behind the letters. But how can we prove it?”

“I have an idea,” I told them. “But I’m going to need help.”

There was some debate about whether we should simply confide in O’Connell, but while I’d redeemed myself somewhat with the capture of Grant Crocker, I wasn’t willing to formally make another accusation against Jonathan without tangible proof. We came up with an alternative plan and none too soon. The guys trooped up from the basement just as we were finalizing the details.

“You all look like you’re plotting something,” said Matthew, taking in the five of us seated around the kitchen island with our empty wineglasses. My friends talking over the remains of a drinking session was a sight he’d seen on far too many occasions not to be suspicious of what we might be hatching.

“Oh, you know, the usual. Just figuring out how to overthrow the patriarchy,” said Hilary brightly.

“I thought you’d already done that.”

“We’re moving on to the second phase,” Emma said, taking hold of Matthew’s hand and looking up at him. “Beware, white males.”

“We stand warned,” he answered good-naturedly.

I stretched and let forth with an enormous yawn. “I’m sorry to be the first to break up the party, but I’m exhausted.”

Fortunately, Jonathan offered to drop me back at the hotel. It took a while to say good-night to everyone, but we had one more dinner planned for the following night, so these weren’t final goodbyes. Ten minutes later, Jonathan was unlocking the door of his car and helping me into the passenger seat. As he walked around the front of the car, I transferred my cell phone from my purse and into my left hand. I dialed Jane’s cell-phone number, heard her pick up and lowered my hand under the seat, so the phone wouldn’t be visible to Jonathan when he got in the car.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been an awkward ride home in a banal way. I’d realized that he wasn’t for me. And I’d also realized that while Jonathan may have been going through the motions of pursuing me, he didn’t really have his heart in it. Even before I’d decided Jonathan was Sara’s stalker, something in the dynamic between us had shifted, and I had a feeling that he sensed it, too. The banality would be due to the loss of the initial enthusiasm of which we wouldn’t speak but that would tinge the drive with a stale and slightly sour quality. Tingling was a thing of the past, and while I would mourn its potential efficacy in calorie-burning, I couldn’t say I would mourn its source.

But the good news was that I had more important things to do than make awkward small talk to fill up the ten minutes it would take us to get to the hotel.

“That was a nice dinner,” said Jonathan. “Your friends are really neat.”

There were many adjectives I would use to describe my friends, but “neat” wasn’t high on the list. Still, I let it pass, saying instead, “So, Jonathan, do you want to tell me about writing the letters to Sara?”

The car swerved into the opposite lane, and then nearly hit a parked car when he overcorrected back to our side of the road. “What? What are you talking about?” The note of surprise in his voice sounded strained, and it erased any last doubt I may have had.

“I’m talking about you being the one who wrote the letters to Sara. It’s pretty obvious that it must have been you.”

Headlights from behind us flashed in the rearview mirror, and Jonathan busied himself with adjusting its angle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeated through clenched teeth. A nerve twitched along the line of his chiseled jaw. “Haven’t you made enough ridiculous accusations for one day?”

“Look, I understand why it’s hard for you to admit. Writing love letters to a student is probably against some code of behavior the business school makes you agree to or something.” Harvard would likely find how badly written the letters were to be even more objectionable than Jonathan crossing the boundaries of professional behavior.

“Rachel, I really don’t know where this is coming from. Why are you doing this?” The nerve had gone from twitching to jumping.

I carefully laid out the reasons behind my conjecture, as if I were structuring an answer to a particularly tricky exam question, being as gentle as I could when I pointed out that both Jonathan and the letters shared a frequent habit of misquoting poetry or misattributing the poetry to the wrong poet. “When you add it up, it all points to you.”

There was silence as I waited for him to respond. “You can’t prove it,” he said, a new and hostile tone to his voice that I smugly took as evidence of a usually hidden violent streak.

“You’re admitting that you wrote the letters?”

“Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.” He made a sharp turn onto a deserted side street.

“Where are you going?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice level. Our plan allowed for the possibility that Jonathan might deviate from the route back to the hotel, but the speed with which he was maneuvering on the slick roads was unnerving.

“I’m driving you back to the Charles.”

“This isn’t the way. There’s no reason to go down-” I looked in vain for a street sign so I could broadcast where we were. One flashed by, but I couldn’t make out the words. Glasses, I thought. I definitely needed glasses.

“If you tell anyone about this, I’ll lose my job. You know that, don’t you?” He made another sharp turn onto another equally deserted side street.

“Well, I don’t know how you’re going to be able to do your job from jail. And are you sure this is the way to the hotel?”

“Now what are you talking about?” he exploded, jamming his foot down on the accelerator as he swung the car into another turn. The wheels skidded in the snow, and there was a hair-raising moment when we were hurtling toward a tree. I was bracing myself for the impact when I felt the wheels gain traction under us.

“Don’t you think you should slow down?”

“Why would I go to jail?”

“Don’t be dense, Jonathan.” The reckless way he was driving was making me testy. “For attacking Sara Grenthaler, of course. And slow down already. The roads are too slippery for you to be driving like this.”

“I’ve got snow tires.”

“Snow tires or not, you’re still going to jail.”

“I love her, dammit! I love her! I love her,” he repeated.

And then he slammed the car to a stop.