Jennifer Sturman - The Jinx

I stood and crossed to the window. The room had a view across the small park to the river, which was still and dark in the moonlight. A vague feeling of unease settled over me as I listened to Peter’s one-sided conversation. Peter had hired Abigail to be his head of business development a few months ago, and even though I was more secure in this relationship than any I’d ever been in before, it was hard not to feel a tiny bit threatened by the knowledge that my boyfriend spent most of his waking hours with a woman who was brilliant, accomplished and bore more than a passing resemblance to Christy Turlington.

Peter finished his call after a few minutes and came to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on the top of my head.

“What’s going on?” I asked, leaning back into his embrace. “Is everything all right?”

“Um, yeah. It’s just that we’re, uh, trying to sign up a new client. They’ll be at the conference.”

“That’s good, right?”

“Yes. The only problem is that there are a couple of other companies trying to beat us out, and they’ll be at the conference, too. Abigail and I have been working pretty hard on our pitch-it’s going to be a hectic few days.”

“How’s Abigail?” I asked, striving for a casual tone.

“She’s great. A real firecracker. Hiring her was one of the best decisions I’ve made in a long time. She’s been instrumental in going after this new business.”

“I’m glad,” I said, trying to sound like I was. But I would have been a lot more glad if I didn’t know what Abigail looked like. Or if she’d been a man. Or gay. Or, at the very least, only brilliant and not beautiful.

“Anyhow, enough work talk. I brought you something.”

“A present?” I spun around to face him, thoughts of Peter’s brilliant, beautiful, model-material colleague nearly forgotten. “Where? What is it?” I loved gifts. Especially surprise gifts.

“Don’t get too excited. Just a little something from the airport.” He unzipped his suitcase and began rummaging through it, extracting a paper bag. He handed it to me.

I shook it. “Hmm. It doesn’t rattle.”

“Good. It’s not supposed to.”

I opened the bag and withdrew an oversize bar of Ghirardelli chocolate. “Yum.” Peter had known me long enough to recognize that I considered chocolate to be one of the four major food groups, along with caffeine and alcohol. I always forgot what the fourth one was. “Should we eat it now or later?”

“I’m thinking later,” he said, a gleam in his eye. He had hold of the dangling end of my bathrobe’s belt and was pulling me toward the bedroom.

It occurred to me that perhaps I should be annoyed that Peter’s gift hadn’t shown much forethought, but instead had been picked up at the newsstand on his way to catch the plane. But he quickly put any such peevish thoughts right out of my head.

I was sleeping like the proverbial baby, sweetly tangled in Peter’s arms, when he gently untangled himself and got out of bed.

“Where are you going?” I asked, still half asleep.

“Shh. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Then come back.”

“I can’t. I have to meet Abigail before the conference starts. We need to go over the pitch we’re making one more time.”

“But it’s dark out.” There was only the faintest glimmer of murky light coming through the windows.

“It’s nearly seven. I’m supposed to meet her at the convention center at eight.”

“She won’t mind if you’re late.”

“Yes, she will. And I will, too, if we don’t get this client signed up. The company we’re pitching is hot.”

“But how can you even be effective if you’re sleepy?”

“I can’t be sleepy when I’m this stressed.”

“You’re stressed?” Peter? My calm, unflappable, good-smelling Peter was stressed?

“A little. Nothing to worry about.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“I know an excellent way to relieve stress,” I offered, holding out my arms.

“I’m sure you do.” But he was already out of reach. “I’m just going to jump into the shower.”

I leaned back against the pillows. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Funny.”

“You can’t expect great wit in the middle of the night.”

“It’s not the middle of the night,” he protested, then thought better of trying to argue with me before I’d had any caffeine. “Never mind. Go back to sleep.” I heard the bathroom door shut behind him and the sound of the shower running.

I rolled over, trying to recover the nice dream-state I’d been in, but it was no use. I was awake, and there was no going back. I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, bending down to pick up the bathrobe I’d discarded the night before. I wrapped it around me, tying the belt tightly around my waist, and ran my hands through my hair to restore some semblance of order. Perhaps I should call room service for breakfast, I thought. At least I could make sure Peter was well fortified for his stressful day.

Then I had a better idea.

I knocked on the bathroom door but received no answer, so I pushed it open. Peter was in the shower, whistling an unrecognizable tune. I let my robe slip to the floor, pulled the shower curtain aside and stepped in behind him.

Between the running water and his whistling, Peter hadn’t heard me come in. When I reached around him he gave a shout of surprise.

“Jesus Christ! Are you trying to give me a coronary?” His hair was lathered with shampoo, standing up in a sudsy Mohawk.

“That would be counterproductive,” I said. “Your hair looks cute like that. May I have the soap?”

He laughed. “Allow me.”

The shower took longer than Peter had expected, so he was racing around the room, frantically getting dressed, when his cell phone rang. “Peter Forrest,” he answered, holding the phone with one hand while he awkwardly tried to buckle his belt with the other. “Oh, hi, Abigail.” He listened for a moment. “You’re kidding.” He listened some more. “I knew they’d be all over this. Listen, I’m out the door right now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. See you soon.”

“Problem?” I asked.

“Hamilton Tech trying to outmaneuver us. Nothing we can’t handle. Abigail just saw Smitty Hamilton having breakfast with the head of the company we’re trying to-I mean, that we’re pitching.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure they’d much rather hire you than anyone named Smitty.”

“I hope so.” Peter pulled a dark green V-necked sweater over his head.

I reached up to smooth his damp hair, and he gave me a quick peck on the lips. “I’ve got to get going.” He picked up his overcoat and briefcase. “I’ll see you later?” he asked.

“Definitely,” I said, wrapping my arms around him for a hug.

He returned the hug but let go way too soon. “I need more affection,” I said. “That was completely insufficient to sustain me for a whole day.” He sighed and hugged me again, tightly, but I kept holding on after he let go.

“Rachel,” he said, trying to extricate himself. “Really. I’m not that great.”

I laughed and relinquished my grasp. “Go get ’em, Sparky.”

So much for a romantic hotel-room morning and leisurely breakfast.

I dried my hair and put on the black suit I’d packed for Tom Barnett’s memorial service. I wasn’t due at my recruiting meeting until half past eight, so I took a Diet Coke from the minibar and called into voice mail to clear out any messages that had accumulated.

It had been only nine hours since I had last dialed in-hours when normal people were asleep-but I already had five new messages. Four were from colleagues in our Asian offices. The last message made my heart sink. It was time-stamped 2:00 a.m., never a good sign. It was from Gabrielle LeFavre.