We'll Meet Again

12

Peter Black drove through the darkened streets to his home on Old Church Road. Once it had been the carriage house of a large estate. He had bought it during his second marriage, which, like his first, had ended within a few years. His second wife, however, unlike his first, had had exquisite taste, and after she left him, he had made no effort to change the decor. His only alteration was to add a bar and stock it plentifully. His second wife had been a teetotaler.

Peter had met his late partner, Gary Lasch, at medical school, and they had become friends. It was after the death of Gary ’s father, Dr. Jonathan Lasch, that Gary had come to Peter with a proposition.

“Health management is the new wave of medicine,” he had said. “The nonprofit clinic my father opened can’t go on like this. We’ll expand it, make it profitable, start our own HMO.”

Gary, blessed with a distinguished name in medicine, had taken his father’s place as head of the clinic, which later became Lasch Hospital. The third partner, Cal Whitehall, came on board when together they founded the Remington Health Management Organization.

Now the state was on the verge of approving Remington’s acquisition of a number of smaller HMOs. Everything was going well, but it wasn’t a done deal yet. They had reached the last step on the tightrope. The only problem they could see was that American National Insurance was fighting to acquire the companies too.

But everything still could go wrong, Peter reminded himself as he parked at his front door. He knew he had no intention of going out again tonight, but it was cold, and he wanted a drink. Pedro, his longtime live-in cook and housekeeper, would put the car away later.

Peter let himself in and went directly to the library. The room was always welcoming, with the fire burning and the television set tuned to the news station. Pedro appeared immediately, asking the nightly question: “The usual, sir?”

The usual was scotch on the rocks, except when Peter decided on a change of pace and asked for bourbon or vodka.

The first scotch, sipped slowly and appreciatively, began to calm Peter’s nerves. A small plate of smoked salmon likewise appeased his slight feeling of hunger. He did not like to dine for at least an hour after reaching home.

He took the second scotch with him while he showered. Carrying the rest of the drink into the bedroom, he dressed in chinos and a long-sleeved cashmere shirt. Finally, almost relaxed, and with the worrisome sense that something was going wrong somewhat abated, he went back downstairs.

Peter Black frequently dined with friends. In his renewed status as a single man, he was showered with invitations from attractive and socially desirable women. The evenings he was at home he usually brought a book or magazine to the table. Tonight, though, was an exception. As he ate baked swordfish and steamed asparagus and sipped a glass of Saint Emilion, he sat in silent reflection, thinking through the meetings that were still to come concerning the mergers.

The ring of the telephone in the library did not interrupt his thought process. Pedro knew enough to tell whoever it was that he would return the call later. That was why, when Pedro came into the dining room, the cell phone in his hand, Peter Black raised his eyebrows in annoyance.

Pedro covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Excuse me, Doctor, but I thought you might want to take this call. It is Mrs. Lasch. Mrs. Molly Lasch.”

Peter Black paused, then downed his glass of wine in a single gulp-allowing himself none of the customary time to savor the delicate taste-and reached for the phone. His hand was trembling.