The Jinx (25 page)

“We'll be there in a minute.”

Fortunately, the opportunity came soon enough. A sturdy-looking pine tree ahead of us had a nice, flexible-looking branch that protruded onto the path before us. I sized it up as we approached. It would have to do.

I pretended to slip again in the snow, and reached for the branch, grasping it firmly. Summoning up every ounce of force I possessed, I pushed it back toward Adam as hard as I could.

It hit him full in the face. The impact wasn't much—I'm a bit of a weakling—but it dislodged a spray of snow and ice that temporarily blinded him. He sputtered, trying to wipe the debris out of his eyes.

And while he was sputtering and blinded, I took a few steps back to make sure I had a running start.

The feeling of my foot connecting with his groin felt even more satisfying than when it had connected with Grant Crocker's groin the previous day. The practice paid off. The blood drained from Adam's face, and he collapsed wordlessly to the ground.

A
dam seemed to be unconscious, but I wasn't taking any chances. I gave him another kick in the groin, but it didn't even elicit a grunt. He still had the gun, but it was loosely held in his limp fist, and I took it from him without a struggle. I was squeamish about handling a gun; I was about as fond of the NRA as I was of Adam himself, but I didn't want to risk leaving it there. It was heavier than I expected, and I grasped it gingerly. Now all I needed were his keys. Fortunately, he'd put them in his coat pocket, so I didn't have to rummage very deeply into his clothing, which would have been distasteful even in the best of circumstances.

He moaned, signaling that he was returning to the land of the living. I probably didn't have much time, and I wasn't willing to shoot him, so I decided to take advantage of whatever head start his temporary incapacitation might afford. I scurried back up the path with the gun in one hand, dodging tree roots and branches as best I could. By the time I got to the car I realized I was limping, and I did a quick check to figure out what I'd hurt. Bodily, I seemed to be intact, but the heel of my right shoe was missing, which accounted for my uneven gait.

The Porsche was where we'd left it, and I got in on the driver's side, enjoying the sense of security provided by the clicking of the locks but wishing I'd had the good sense to learn how to operate a stick shift. Miraculously, I still had my handbag, and with shaking hands I managed to withdraw my cell phone. Even if Adam recovered, I was safe in a locked car, with a gun and a phone. Nothing could happen before the police got here. Right?

I was freezing, and I knew how to start the car, even if I couldn't drive it, so I turned the key in the ignition and cranked the heat up to high. I opened up my phone to call O'Connell, wondering as I did if I should be concerned that I knew the number for the police station by heart. This really hadn't turned into the weekend I'd so happily planned.

I keyed in the digits and hit Send, but the call didn't go through. I looked at the screen. Not only was there no signal, the phone was emitting a strange beeping noise, as if it were angry with me.

It was an unfortunate moment for a technology failure. Especially since when I looked up, I could see Adam emerging from the trees. He was hunched over as if in pain, but then I met his gaze, and that seemed to revive him. He managed to straighten up a bit, and now I could see that he looked angry. I had to admit, I couldn't blame him.

I swore and tried to make the call again but with no luck. I told myself not to panic. After all, I was safe in the locked car. Adam reached the car and began pulling fruitlessly at the door. I smiled up at him when he started banging on the window, but that seemed to antagonize him further. It was probably a good thing that I couldn't hear what he was yelling. I leaned over the passenger seat to double-check that the other door was locked.

When I turned back, Adam was still at the window. But this time he had a large rock in his hand. I could sense a moment of hesitation—he really loved this car—but he got over any reservations. He pounded the rock into the driver's-side window.

It cracked, but it didn't shatter. Still, my nice safe feeling had evaporated. I had to get away.

Horrified, I surveyed the gear shift on the console. Why, why would anyone build a car with a manual shift when some brilliant engineer had seen fit to invent the automatic transmission? There were three pedals at my feet, and I knew enough to recognize that the one on the far left was the clutch and that you were supposed to push it in while changing gears. But that was pretty much the extent of my knowledge.

The rock struck the window again, but the glass continued to hold. Holding my breath, I jerked the gear shift into a slot and eased up on the clutch. To my relief, the car didn't stall. It rolled back toward the entrance to the park at a rapid clip.

Adam started to run after the car, but it was hard for him to run when he was in too much pain to stand up straight. He threw the rock in his hand, a last attempt to keep me from getting away. It hit the windshield, spreading a spider's web of cracks across its expanse. Which was fine, because I wasn't looking out the windshield. I was twisted around to see the road behind me. I didn't want to risk stalling the car by attempting to switch gears, so I stayed in reverse until I reached the strip mall we had passed earlier.

I backed into a parking space and turned off the engine. Then I lurched into the only open store, a White Hen Pantry, in search of a phone and a well-earned Diet Coke.

 

It was mid-afternoon by the time I returned to the hotel. A couple of people in the lobby turned to stare as I passed, and when I caught sight of my reflection in the elevator doors, I could easily understand why. There were sticks in my hair, my coat was covered with patches of mud and I had one three-inch heel and one missing heel. This didn't even begin to take into account the shredded suit underneath adorned with white cat hair, courtesy of Krystle, much less the fact that I still had a raging hangover.

Regardless of my hangover, the only thing that kept me moving was the vision of a stiff drink, to be sipped in a scalding bath. I walked unevenly down the hall to my room and slipped the key card into the lock.

But the door opened before I could turn the latch, and music poured out into the corridor.

I looked up into Peter's smiling face as violins played “Fascination.”

“Gypsies,” he said.

“G
ypsies?” I repeated in disbelief.

But sure enough, there they were, in the corner of the suite's living room. A quartet of white-coated men, playing “Fascination” on a quartet of violins. The table was set with white linen and crystal and silver-domed serving platters. A bottle of champagne stood waiting in an ice bucket next to a vase holding at least three dozen red roses.

Peter was trying to take off my coat. “Just like the movie, right?” he asked eagerly.

It was perfect. I was speechless.

The speechlessness, however, lasted all of five seconds.

“WHERE. DO. YOU. GET. OFF?”

I shook my arm from his grasp.

“What?” he asked, stepping back, a look of concern washing over his face. “What do you mean? What's wrong? And why do you have twigs in your hair?”

“And you,” I said in the direction of the Gypsies, who, on closer inspection, weren't really Gypsies. In fact, one was a woman and another was Korean. “Please stop playing.” The music skidded to a halt.

“But, Rachel—” Peter began.

“Now, you look here. This doesn't make up for anything.”

“Make up for what—”

“I can't even begin to describe the weekend I've had. I've been chased by serial killers. I've been attacked by überdork egomaniacs. And cats named after
Dynasty
characters. I've had to thwart a hostile takeover single-handedly. I had to drive stick, in the world's cheesiest expensive car, and you would think that a car that expensive would at least include an automatic transmission, but oh no, it doesn't, so I had to drive in reverse. And then there was no Diet Coke—”

“Rachel—”

“—I had to drink Tab instead. Tab sucks. And my suit is ruined, and so are my shoes. And to top it all off, you're missing in action. No, you're not missing in action. You're worse than missing in action—”

“Rachel—”

“—you're sashaying around Boston with Abigail, buying her jewelry and making out in malls.”

“Sashaying?”
he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Sashaying,” I said. “And have I mentioned how many people I've kicked in the balls in the last twenty-four hours? Two people, Peter. I've kicked two people in the balls. And I still have one good shoe. Maybe I should make it three. Do you want me to make it three—”

“Rachel—”

“And you didn't even call,” I concluded, forlorn. “I mean, it's all my fault, because I jinxed everything, but still…”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Are you done?” he asked.

I scowled up at him.

“First of all, what do you mean I didn't call?”

“You didn't call. Oh, except for lame messages here at the hotel, where you knew you wouldn't have to talk to me in person.”

“I called. But I think there's something wrong with your cell phone. For the last couple of days I call and I just get a strange buzzing noise. Except for yesterday, when you told me you'd call me back. And didn't. And then your phone doesn't even go into voice mail. Are you sure it's working?”

“Humph.”
A likely story. Although, my trusty Blackberry had been through a lot of late. And its collision with the wall after yesterday's board meeting probably hadn't been good for it. And I had been dropping it a lot. And there had been a strange dearth of messages, not only from Peter, but from anyone at all. In fact, its performance had been nothing short of erratic.

“And when I e-mail you, the messages get bounced back. Is your e-mail on the fritz, too?”

E-mail, too, had been strangely empty of late. I might have to learn how to stop throwing my communications gadgets at unyielding objects.

“Then I called the hotel this morning, and you grunted and hung up on me.”

“That wasn't you. That was the wake-up call. And I didn't grunt.”

“You grunted.”

“I didn't grunt. Anyhow, that's neither here nor there.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, you've been totally AWOL. In ‘negotiations' with Abigail. Nothing requires that much negotiating.”

He unfolded his arms and ran both hands through his hair. “Do you want to know what I was really negotiating?”

“Yes. No. I guess.”

“I—we—my company, has bought another company. It was going to be a surprise.”

“Why? Why did it have to be a surprise?”

“Because they're based in New York.”

“So?”

“So, now I can move to New York.”

“Why would you want to move to New York?”

“Are you a complete idiot?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“If that's an apology for being missing in action for the last four days, it's not a very good one.”

“Rachel,” Peter said, speaking slowly and evenly, clearly struggling to keep his temper in check. “I want to move to New York so that I can be with you.”

“Why would you want to be with me when you're so busy canoodling with Abigail—”

“—I thought I was sashaying with Abigail—”

“—or is she moving to New York, too?”

He took a deep breath. “Rachel, Abigail is not moving to New York. She's going to stay in San Francisco and run everything there.”

“Well, good for her. I'm sure everyone in San Francisco will be very impressed by all of her new jewelry.”

“Now what are you talking about?”

“You. Buying Abigail jewelry. Jane and Luisa saw you on Newbury Street. Then we all saw you in Copley Place. Coming out of Tiffany's. And making out.”

“Rachel, we weren't making out,” he started to say, but then he made an odd choking noise. “We weren't making out,” he said again, but he made the choking noise again. Then he started to laugh.

“This is funny?”

He was laughing too hard to speak. He just nodded.

“You really think this is funny.”

“Absolutely,” he managed to get out between spasms of hilarity.

“That's it. I'm out of here.”

“It's your suite.”

“Fine. You're out of here.” I threw open the closet door and pulled out his suitcase.

“Rachel. Abigail is gay.”

“What?” I asked from the closet, where I was busily pulling his clothes off hangers.

“Abigail is gay.”

I stopped pulling clothes off hangers. “Really?”

“Really.”

Suddenly I remembered Luisa's comment from the previous day, her suggestion that maybe we were on the wrong track. Was this what she'd meant?

“But then why were you buying her jewelry? And making out with her?”

“We weren't making out. I'm pretty sure that what you saw was an innocent kiss on the cheek, viewed from the wrong angle. And we weren't buying her jewelry.”

“Then why were you hitting every jewelry store in town?”

“Abigail was—Abigail has great taste. She was helping me.”

“Helping you what?” I demanded, spinning around to face him, hands on hips.

“Oh, crap. This isn't how I wanted to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Look, Rachel.” He nodded to the Gypsies, who'd been watching our exchange in awed silence. “I had a whole speech planned.”

“Just break up with me already!”

“You're impossible!”

“No, you're impossible!”

“You're more—never mind.”

He sank onto one knee and the Gypsies began to play.

“Rachel. Will you marry me?”