LITMIR.BIZ

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to shave only a couple of times a week.

      “Hi,” I greeted him when he’d caught up to me. “How are you?” I gave myself a mental pat on the back for the warmth I’d mustered in my tone.

      “Busy, busy, busy,” answered Scott with an exaggerated sigh. “We were up all night running the numbers on Stan’s new deal. The client has completely unrealistic expectations as to how quickly we’ll be able to close, but of course Stan told him we could get it done.”

      Stan Winslow is the head of Winslow, Brown’s Mergers and Acquisitions department, or M&A. Scott spends a great deal of time trying to ingratiate himself to Stan. This can be highly amusing to watch, because our trusty leader is largely oblivious to much of what goes on around him. His attention is usually focused on his next golf game, his next martini and his new, significantly younger wife. The primary value Stan brings to Winslow, Brown is his surname (which is, in fact, related to that on the firm’s letterhead) and his overstuffed Rolodex, the product of an adolescence enrolled at an elite New England prep school and a young adulthood engaged in drinking, puking and otherwise bonding with future leaders at Yale.

      Scott and I advanced down the gateway together, and he blustered on about his incredible deal and how incredibly pivotal his role in the entire endeavor truly was. I prayed that the flight would be too full for us to possibly sit together. Alas, an empty row beckoned right up front. I slid into the window seat and Scott took the aisle. We put our coats and briefcases on the middle seat as a silent deterrent to anyone who might be interested in sitting there. Not that I would have minded a buffer between us in the form of a disinterested third party, especially since Scott was all ready to settle in for an amiable chat.

      “So, Rach,” he asked, “how goes it with you? What have you got in the hopper?” I hate being called Rach by anyone but a close friend, and even then I’m ambivalent.

      “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

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