The Key

chapter ten

W e left 21 a little after three. I’d only had a glass and a half of wine when all was said and done, but I could definitely feel it as we walked back to the office. The bourbon seemed to have no effect whatsoever on Jake.

His cell phone rang on the walk back, and while nothing he said into it was particularly revealing, there was something about the way he spoke that made me think he was talking to a woman. An uncomfortable feeling washed over me. It took a moment to identify what, precisely, it was, and when I did, I wished I hadn’t.

Jealousy.

This was inappropriate in every possible way, and I did my best to shunt it to the back of my mind, where it festered quietly for the rest of the day.

Four hours later I was sitting with another glass of white wine before me, but this time in the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis Hotel on East 55th Street. The rich colors of the Maxfield Parrish mural that gave the room its name glowed from the wall above the bar, tarnished somewhat from decades of cigar and cigarette smoke. Now the place was smoke-free, thanks to Mayor Bloomberg, and while the nicotine-deprived might complain, business was still going strong. Every table in the small lounge was full, and a throng of people occupied the remaining floor space, drinks in hand as they vied for the next empty table.

Fortunately, my friends had arrived before me and secured a cozy corner spot for us. It wasn’t unusual for any of them to be in New York on occasion, but I couldn’t remember the last time they’d all been here at once. Luisa had trained as a corporate lawyer and was even affiliated with a local law firm, but mostly she did work on behalf of her family in South America. Their international holdings were extensive and complex, and their affairs brought her here regularly. Emma, an artist, was a Manhattan native, but she’d been living in Boston with her boyfriend, Matthew, for the last few months. She was in New York to go over preparations for a gallery show that was going up in April. Hilary was a journalist, and she’d been camped out in Jane’s guest room in Cambridge of late, putting the final touches on a true crime book about a string of serial killings that had occurred in the area. When she heard that Emma would be driving down, she hitched a ride and scheduled meetings with several publishers who’d shown interest. And when Jane heard that all of our other former roommates would be here at the same time, she’d arranged for a substitute at the school where she taught and insisted on coming along. “I’m nearly six months pregnant-this may be my last opportunity to go anywhere for a while,” she explained.

“When’s Peter getting here?” asked Emma.

“He’s not,” I said. “I thought it would be nice for it to be just us tonight.” Peter had been concerned when we’d finally spoken by phone that afternoon. I had filled him in on what had happened that morning and the possibilities Jake and I had discussed. He urged me to pack it in early and head home, but I’d wanted to see my friends.

“How’s the living-in-sin thing going?” asked Hilary, poking through the bowl of mixed nuts with her cocktail stirrer, searching for whichever kind she liked best.

“It’s good,” I said.

Jane, usually the most even-tempered among us, grabbed the bowl of nuts from Hilary. “Either take a nut, or don’t take a nut,” she snapped.

“How’s the living-in-Jane’s guest room thing going?” Luisa asked pointedly. Hilary scowled.

Jane turned to me. “I’m sorry, Rach. What were you saying?”

“Nothing. Just that living with Peter is good.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just good? Not wonderful? That’s the word you usually use when it comes to Peter.”

“No, it is wonderful. Really. He even cooked for me last night-lasagna.”

“With what?” asked Emma. She’d spent a lot of time in my apartment.

“Apparently, I own a casserole dish.” I took a sip of wine. “Anyhow, it’s great to have him here. I think it’s just going to take some time to get used to actually living together. The apartment’s sort of small for two people, and there’s definitely not enough closet space for two. I could barely fit my own stuff before. And Peter has his own stuff, and it’s all over the place, and I don’t know where we’ll put everything. And I’ve been swamped at work, and I don’t think he really realized before what my hours are like, much less the pressure of it all. And he doesn’t seem to understand that sometimes I have to work late, and on weekends. And I gargled with his aftershave this morning, and it was really gross. And the whole thing is just sort of strange. To have someone there all of the time. It was never like that before.”

As soon as all of these words spilled out of my mouth, I regretted them. I was lucky to have Peter, and I knew it, but I kept finding myself in the guilt/annoyance loop: first guilt for not loving every part of having him in my life, then annoyance about feeling guilty, and then a fresh wave of guilt at being annoyed.

“He lived in California before,” Luisa reminded me. “And you only got to see him on weekends, after flying across a continent. I can’t believe they don’t let people smoke in bars in this fascist city.” She was fidgety without her cigarettes.

“I know. It’s much better this way than trying to sustain a relationship long-distance. Really. It’s just that it’s so…permanent.”

“The last time I checked, you guys were getting married,” Hilary said. “You might want to get a bit more comfortable with permanence.”

“I am,” I said, taking another fortifying sip of wine,“comfortable with it. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Anyhow, ignore me. I’m babbling. It’s just that it’s been a really weird day.”

“Why?” asked Emma.

“Somebody died in front of me. This morning, at work.”

“Talk about burying the lead,” said Hilary. “You’re like Hart to Hart.”

I stared at her. “I’m not following.”

“Did you spend the eighties in a land with no TV? Hart to Hart. ‘When they met, it was murder.’ Only with you it’s more like, ‘Where she goes, there’s murder.’”

The reference clicked in my mind. “Promise me you’ll stage an intervention if Peter and I start driving matching Mercedes or get a dog named Freeway.”

“A houseman might be sort of cool, even if he was named Max,” said Jane.

“Besides, what makes you think it was murder?” I asked.

“Was it?” asked Emma.

“Well, yes. It seems to have been.” I filled them in, rehashing the same material Jake and I had gone over that afternoon.

“What’s the story with this Jake guy?” asked Hilary.

“Yes, his name is coming up quite a lot,” added Luisa.

“He’s just a friend from the office, and then he ended up working on the deal, too. He transferred in from Chicago a couple of months ago.”

“Single?” asked Jane.

“Uh, divorced.”

“What’s he like?” asked Hilary.

“Standard-issue banker type.”

“So, he’s probably an utter jerk.”

“No, not at all. He’s a really good guy.”

My friends exchanged not-so-subtle knowing looks with each other.

“What?” I asked.

“Somebody should do a case study on you,” said Luisa.

“One of those relationship experts who writes self-help books about how to get men over their commitment issues,” said Hilary. “Only it would be about getting women over their commitment issues. You could be an entire chapter.”

“Just a chapter?” asked Luisa. “Rachel could fill more than a chapter.”

“Now what are you talking about?” I asked.

“Your commitment issues,” said Jane.

“I don’t have commitment issues,” I protested. I looked to Emma for backup.

“Sorry, Rach,” she said. “You have commitment issues.”

“Peter just moved in and instead of enjoying it you’re whining about closet space and aftershave,” said Hilary.

“I wasn’t whining-”

“And every other word out of your mouth is the name of another man,” said Luisa.

“Jake’s just a friend-”

“A friend you spend more time with than you do your own fiancé,” said Jane. “And who you tell things you avoid telling Peter.”

“What are you scared of?” asked Emma.

“What do you mean, what am I scared of?”

“You must be scared of something,” she said. “Why else would you be looking for reasons to shut Peter out?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but it turned out I didn’t have to because our waiter chose that moment to deliver a round of fresh drinks. His timing couldn’t have been better as far as I was concerned. “Compliments of the gentlemen across the room,” he said, depositing the glasses on the table.

“Oh?” Hilary craned her head to give our benefactors an appraising look. “Good Lord. What is it with men and goatees? They’re so 1995. And they weren’t even cool then.”

“Could we tell them thanks but no thanks?” Emma asked. “And keep the drinks on our tab?”

“Why would we want to turn down free drinks?” asked Hilary.

“There’s no such thing as a free drink. If we accept, they’ll want to sit with us,” said Luisa. The waiter left to deliver the message, but Hilary continued her inspection of the room.

“Of all the men here, only the goateed ones send us drinks. Why is that? I mean, check out the guy at the bar. How come guys like that never offer to buy us drinks?” she said. “In fact, I think he’s checking you out, Rach. Why isn’t he checking me out?”

I followed her gaze, catching a glimpse of a man with close-cropped dark hair across the room. He stood out in the sea of navy suits, dressed in faded jeans, an oxford-cloth shirt and suede jacket. For a fleeting instant our eyes met, but then he looked down at the beer he was nursing.

“I guess you’re just a goatee magnet, Hil,” said Jane.

“I know. It’s a curse.”

“Maybe you should stop fighting destiny,” I suggested, relieved I was no longer the topic of discussion. But I was distracted, too. I’d seen the man before, and recently, but I couldn’t remember where.

“It would probably feel nice and scratchy against your face,” said Emma.

When I looked up again, a few minutes later, he was gone.

We went to a nearby restaurant for dinner after drinks. I was exhausted, but it was such a rare treat to have all of my friends in town that I lingered with them over the meal. We said our goodbyes on the pavement outside, making plans to get together later in the week. Jane was staying with Emma at the loft she still owned in the city, and Hilary was staying with Luisa at her family’s apartment, so I was awarded the first cab since I was on my own.

I gave the driver my address on East 79th Street, and as he turned up Madison Avenue, I dug my BlackBerry out of my bag and used it to check messages, squinting at the small screen. There was only one voice mail, timestamped 7:05 p.m., and I listened to it as we sped past Barney’s.

“Rachel. It’s Dahlia Crenshaw. Sorry to bother you, especially after the day we all had, but I was watching the news, and I saw something that-well, it got me wondering about something, and I wanted to talk to you about it. Will you phone me when you get this?”

She left her mobile number.

I dialed it in and pressed Send, but then I heard the beep of call waiting. I fumbled a bit with the various buttons. “Hold on,” I said to whoever was calling as I tried to flip back to the call I’d placed.

“Dahlia?”

“Uh, no. It’s Jake.”

“Did I call you?” I asked, confused.

“No-I called you.”

“Whoops, hold on.” Jake must have been the incoming call. I pressed another few buttons but landed on Jake again. “Sorry about that,” I said. “Still trying to master call waiting.”

“No problem. Is it too late to phone?”

“No, of course not. You know I’m a night owl. What’s up?”

“You seemed pretty shaken up today. I wanted to make sure you’re doing all right.”

“I am. Thank you. That’s really kind of you to ask.”

“Glad to hear it. And no more anonymous e-mails?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t checked that account yet. I’m actually in a cab right now, on my way home.”

“And you thought I’d be Dahlia?”

I explained about her message. “I was just calling her back, and then you called.”

“I wonder what she wanted?”

“She said it was about something she’d seen on the news. But maybe she just wanted to talk. Who knows? She must be pretty shaken up, too.”

“Who could blame her? When did she call?”

“A while ago. Around seven.” Then I checked my watch. It was after midnight, and she was probably long since in bed-it was a good thing my call hadn’t gone through. “I’ll catch up with her in the office tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Anyhow, I’ll let you go. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Thanks, Jake.”

The apartment was silent when I let myself in, and a quick peek into the bedroom showed me that Peter was fast asleep, although he’d left the lamp burning on the nightstand on my side of the bed. I returned to the study and waited impatiently as the computer booted up. My conversation with Jake had reminded me I needed to check the new e-mail account we’d set up the previous evening.

I entered my user name and password and waited expectantly for a message to appear. But Man of the People hadn’t written back.

I felt both relieved and disappointed. It would have been nice to have some answers about the Thunderbolt deal. Gallagher’s death had created enough intrigue for one day.

I undressed as quietly as I could and slid into bed beside Peter, careful not to wake him.

And all of my late nights and early mornings paid off for once, allowing me to drift quickly to sleep. Which was good, because the last thing I wanted to do was think.