Jennifer Sturman - The Key

“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.

I overslept the next morning. Peter had turned off the alarm before it sounded.

“I made an executive decision,” he told me. “You’ve been working too hard, and then you had to deal with this Gallagher guy dying at your feet. You deserved a decent night’s rest.”

It was a good thought, and he did bring a nice cold Diet Coke with him when he eventually woke me up at eight, but already running late so early in the day put me off-balance.

I managed to shower and get dressed without imbibing any of Peter’s toiletries, although I knocked over his deodorant while drying my hair, which set off a domino-like tumbling of all of the products lined up on the counter next to it. It would have been fun to watch if I hadn’t been in such a hurry.

Peter was on the phone in the living room when I emerged from the bedroom and crossed over into the study. I wanted to check e-mail again, to see if maybe Man of the People had written during the night, and it wouldn’t do to log in from my work PC. I opened up the Web browser and selected “history” to get to the link for my new account. Without really looking, I selected the most recent listing, assuming that it would be the one I needed, since I thought I’d been the last one to use the computer. But instead of the page I expected, I found myself on the Winslow, Brown Web site, looking at Jake Channing’s photo and professional biography.