Jennifer Sturman - The Key

“Sure,” I said.

It was good to know we were in this together.

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.