The Jinx

“Oh, the usual.” Unable to resist the opportunity to prey on Scott’s insecurities, I mentioned a couple of high-profile deals in progress. “And then there’s the entire HBS effort. It’s a big time commitment but Stan did ask me to take it on—I couldn’t say no. You know how it is when the partners really want you to do something.” I gave Scott my most winning colleague-in-arms smile.

Winslow, Brown was growing rapidly, and to fuel its growth we had intensified our efforts to recruit new MBAs. When Stan asked me to head up the process, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, it was a prestigious role that offered significant exposure to the firm’s partners. On the other hand, I resented that it seemed always to be the few female bankers at the firm who were asked to spearhead such activities as recruiting and training. However, I knew that Scott had been angling for the honor himself, probably because he derived so much of his identity from his own Harvard MBA. It didn’t help matters that Stan seems to enjoy setting the two of us up in competition.

He eyed me with an expression that was either jealousy or indigestion and straightened his tie. It was a nifty little number featuring white whales on a navy background. “Well,” he harrumphed. “I guess women have a special knack for that sort of thing, what with all of this emphasis on ‘diversity.’” The way he said diversity made it sound like a curse word, which I guessed it was if one had the misfortune to be born a white male.

“Oh, definitely. We really do have a knack for these things,” I agreed innocently. “Well, I wish I could spend the whole flight talking, but I need to catch up on a few things. Do you mind?” I asked, indicating my briefcase.

“Oh, me, too. I’m just incredibly busy. Just an incredible amount of stuff going on.”

I pulled some papers from my black leather portfolio, hoping that he didn’t notice the copy of People poking out from the inside pocket. Eager to demonstrate his equal if not superior level of busyness, Scott started punching numbers into his calculator.

I began flipping through my papers, but it was hard to concentrate on facts and figures, much less a stack of student résumés. I had more on my agenda for this trip than recruiting. The best part was Peter, my boyfriend of nearly five months. Peter ran a start-up in San Francisco, but he would be joining me in Boston to attend a high-tech conference. To my utter amazement, not to mention that of my friends and family, I seemed to be in a successful relationship for the first time ever. The New Year’s we’d just spent together had been pure romantic bliss—a remote ski cabin, very little skiing and lots of snuggling in front of roaring fires. This was in stark contrast to New Year’s with boyfriends past, particularly the New Year’s Eve Massacre three years ago, when my date had taken me to a nightclub and forced me to listen to live jazz as he explained that he’d decided to marry his college girlfriend. Of course, the Valentine’s Day Massacre of two years ago completely trumped the New Year’s Eve Massacre. My date had shown up with his mother, whom he’d surprised with a dozen red roses and a Tiffany heart on a delicate chain. He gave me a pair of mittens.

With Peter, I’d finally stopped waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’d even stopped worrying that I’d jinx everything by referring to him as my boyfriend and making plans more than a week in advance. And I had an elaborate theory of jinxing, one that wasn’t easily discarded. To feel secure, particularly in a relationship with an attractive man, was to invite the wrath of the Jinxing Gods, a nasty pantheon watching from above, taking note of any occasion on which I became too sure of myself and gleefully ensuring that I was punished with an appropriately confidence-depleting blow.

But Peter was honestly what he seemed to be—smart, funny, handsome, considerate. He even smelled wonderful. The time I’d spent with him had thoroughly vanquished the Jinxing Gods. I’d sent them packing, assured that I was no longer their plaything.

The only drawback—there had to be one—was that Peter lived on the opposite side of the country. I’d managed frequent trips to San Francisco for work, and he had made a number of trips to New York. We’d spent the holidays together—Thanksgiving with my family and Christmas with his—and everyone had gotten along wonderfully. Still, being with him was bittersweet, always knowing that it wasn’t long before one of us would have to get on a plane.

At least this time I’d have him with me for the better part of a week. He was due in Boston that night and would be staying on after the conference for my annual reunion with my college roommates, which we always held on the second weekend in January. This year Jane, who lived in Cambridge with her husband, Sean, was the designated host. It was convenient for me since I already had to be in the area. Emma purported to live in New York but had been spending most of her time of late with Matthew, a doctor who worked in South Boston, so it suited her nicely. Hilary, a journalist, didn’t really live anywhere, but she was working on a new project and had said that Boston was exactly where she needed to be for her research. Luisa would be flying up from South America and had recently ended her relationship with her girlfriend of three years; she seemed eager for an excuse to flee any continent on which Isobel lived, regardless of the distance she’d have to travel.

I nearly purred with contented anticipation. Peter and my best friends, all in one place, for an entire weekend. It would be perfect.

The only thing I had to worry about was recruiting. And Sara Grenthaler.

The next day, I planned to skip the morning’s schedule of interviews to attend a memorial service for Tom Barnett, who had been my client and the CEO of Grenthaler Media. He had suffered a heart attack the previous Friday and was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. That evening I had plans to dine with Sara Grenthaler—Tom’s goddaughter, Grenthaler Media’s largest individual shareholder, and a friend of mine. I was uneasy about the dinner—I sensed that Sara was distraught about more than Tom’s death when we spoke by phone earlier that week, and she’d been insistent that we meet, sooner rather than later. But when I pressed her, asked her what was wrong, she simply said that it would be better to discuss things in person. And I was hardly in a position to disagree.

I wondered why she felt so strongly about seeing me that night.

I shared a cab with Scott to the Charles Hotel in Harvard Square. The ride passed painlessly enough, although it occurred to me that perhaps I should worry that I evaluated so much of my life in terms of pain avoidance. I made polite responses to Scott’s various attempts to one-up me, and he didn’t seem to notice that I wasn’t feeling one-upped. Fortunately, he had some business of his own to attend to, so he didn’t even try to tag along for dinner.

I stowed my bag and briefcase with the hotel concierge and then headed up Eliot Street toward the restaurant where I was meeting Sara. On the way, I pulled out my cell phone and called Jane.

“Hey, there! Are you in town?” Her greeting was warm.

“I just landed half an hour ago. I’m on my way to a dinner, but I wanted to say hello.”

“Great. Hilary’s already here, and I spoke to Emma and she’s at Matthew’s, as usual, and Luisa’s getting in tomorrow morning. It looks like everyone’s on schedule—wait, Hilary wants to talk.” I heard the fumbling noise of the phone changing hands.

“Rach! Is Peter here, too?”

“Not until later tonight. His flight gets in around ten, I think.”

“As if you don’t know the exact time it gets in and haven’t calculated to the second how long it will take him to get to the hotel,” she pointed out, no small trace of amusement in her tone.

I had, of course, but I knew better than to admit it. Hilary’s talent for mockery was finely honed, and I had no desire to supply her with ammunition. Instead, I changed the subject. “What’s the new project you’re working on? I can’t wait to hear about it.” Asking Hilary about Hilary was a guaranteed way to divert her attention.

“It’s a book,” she told me with enthusiasm.

“A book?” I asked. “What happened to journalism?”

“This is journalism. It’s just like a long-form article. I’ll tell you all about it on Friday, but it’s a true crime book. I figure I’ll write it, it will be a bestseller, I’ll sell the movie rights for a fortune, and then I can stop chasing all over the globe for random stories.”

Knowing Hilary, it probably would be a bestseller, so I didn’t bother to question her lofty expectations. “I thought you liked chasing all over the globe for random stories?” I asked.

“I’m getting a little sick of it, to tell the truth.”

“Don’t tell me. Your nesting instinct is finally kicking in.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. But it would be nice to have a fixed address. What are you—” I heard more fumbling, and then Jane came back on the line.

“Hilary’s decided to use us as her fixed address for the time being,” she said, her voice neutral. When Jane’s voice was neutral, you knew that she was actually freaking out.

“Has she given you any sense of how long she’s planning on using your guest room as her base of operations?”

“Nope,” she answered with false cheer.

“Well, you know Hilary. I’m sure she’ll move on quickly.”

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound convinced.

“How much luggage did she bring with her?”

“Enough.”

“Oh.”

“Oh is right. Anyhow, I know you’re busy with work and Peter, but we’ll see you on Friday for the kickoff dinner, right?”

“Absolutely. Is there anything I can bring? Anything I can do?”

“Don’t even start, Rach. We’re not going to let you cook.”

Two

Upstairs on the Square was new to Harvard Square since my student days. The space it occupied had been a bar and restaurant called Grendel’s when I was in college and business school. I’d spent a lot of time there, particularly as an undergrad, and mostly in the cellar bar, which had been a low-budget affair with scarred wood tables and rickety chairs. The restaurant above hadn’t been much better, so I was unprepared for the grandeur of its current state.

The walls of the foyer were now a deep lacquered red, and I checked my coat at a polished wood counter. I’d opted for the Monday Club Bar on the first floor for dinner, which was more casual than the Soiree Room upstairs and slightly funky, with zebra-striped carpet and red-cushioned gilt chairs. I was a few minutes early for our seven-thirty reservation, but I let the hostess lead me to a corner table, ordered a glass of Pinot Noir, and wondered again why Sara had been so anxious to see me tonight.

Sara’s company, Grenthaler Media, had become a Winslow, Brown client due to the efforts of Nancy Sloan, the firm’s first female partner. Nancy had been a mentor to me, a dynamo of a woman with tremendous confidence. I’d learned a lot from her about not letting myself get stepped on by the wingtips and tasseled loafers that roamed Winslow, Brown’s halls.

Two years ago, at the age of forty-one, Nancy met an artist, fell in love and quit the firm. She and her artist now lived in Vermont with their year-old baby boy, and Nancy divided her time between the baby, managing her stock portfolio and writing the business column in their local newspaper.

She’d bequeathed to me several of her clients, including Grenthaler Media. Sara’s father, Samuel Grenthaler, founded the company in 1958 with the launch of a groundbreaking journal on international affairs. He went on to introduce several other magazines, ranging from the obscure and erudite to more popular weeklies, and he became an American success story in the process—a Holocaust refugee who had worked his way up from nothing. In the late 1970s, he’d met Anna Porter, a graduate student studying physics at M.I.T. Anna was the blue-blooded, bluestocking daughter of Edward and Helene Porter, scions of Boston society. Their marriage had been an unlikely one, given their differences in background and age, but by all accounts it had also been a happy one.

Seven years ago, the couple died in a car accident on icy roads. They had been en route to their ski house in Vermont, where their eighteen-year-old daughter was to meet them for the Christmas holidays, when their car skidded off the road, tumbled into a ravine and burst into flames, leaving Sara a very wealthy orphan.

Tom Barnett, Samuel Grenthaler’s best friend and business partner, stepped into the role of CEO. While Tom proved to be a visionary leader and a superb manager, he viewed himself as a caretaker of his friend’s company, and he began grooming Sara to take over. During her vacations from college, she worked in a variety of roles at Grenthaler, and after college, she spent two years at a management consulting firm before enrolling at Harvard Business School. She’d spent the previous summer as an intern at Winslow, Brown, learning the essentials of corporate finance to supplement her formal business education before returning to HBS for her second and final year.