The Hunt. Jennifer SturmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
band wrapped up a spirited interpretation of “Love Shack” then announced that they would be taking a short break, and Hilary and Iggie left the dance floor and started in our direction. His arm was draped over her shoulders, which couldn’t have been comfortable given their difference in height, but he kept it there anyway.
“Excuse me,” said Ben. I thought he would go to intercept Hilary, but instead he headed back into the house.
“That’s not good,” said Peter.
“I wonder if I should say something to Hil,” I said, watching as she and Iggie made their way through the crowd.
“Have you ever said anything to her that influenced her behavior?”
“No, it’s always been a complete waste of time. But maybe if Luisa and I ganged up on her?”
“Has ganging up worked before?”
“It’s Hilary. Nothing’s worked before. Where is Luisa, anyhow?” I asked. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”
Hilary and Iggie reached us where we were standing at the top of the steps. “Hey, Raquel, hey, Pedrolino,” said Iggie. “We were going to check out the buffet. All of that dancing really builds up an appetite.” He patted his velvet shirt where it strained across the beginnings of a pot belly.
“Have you two eaten?” asked Hilary.
“Not yet. We were just trying to find Luisa,” I said.
“She’s over there,” said Hilary, gesturing to the far corner of the tent. Her height gave her an advantage when it came to locating people in crowds. “And it looks like she was right about not needing your help, Rach,” she added.
Beyond the dance floor, Luisa was deep in animated conversation with Abigail. And while Abigail bore a significant resemblance to a gazellelike supermodel, if somebody were to make a movie of Luisa’s life, the lead role would be played by Salma Hayek. Together, the two were a formidable sight. I made a mental note not to stand next to them in any photographs.
“Whoa,” said Iggie, his arm slipping from Hilary’s shoulder. “Who’s that with LuLu?” Luisa was even less of a LuLu than I was a Raquel or Peter a Pedrolino, but it seemed best to let it pass.
“A coworker of mine,” said Peter. “And a friend. Her name is Abigail.”
“Abigail,” said Iggie thoughtfully. “Babealicious, isn’t she?”
Fortunately, he was still gazing at Abigail and Luisa, so he didn’t notice Hilary glance over at me and mouth “babealicious” or Peter again making a choking noise as he struggled not to laugh.
I reminded myself of the fees Winslow, Brown would generate if Iggie chose the firm to handle the Igobe IPO and the much-needed momentum those fees would generate on my own path to a Winslow, Brown partnership.
“She certainly is,” I said.
3
T he next morning Peter made me go running.
“That’s what we always do on Sundays in San Francisco,” he said. “A long run along the water and then a big brunch.”
“Sounds wonderful,” I lied, except about the brunch part. “There’s nothing I would rather do this morning. If only I’d remembered to bring my workout clothes. Darn. What a shame.”
“I packed your stuff for you.”
“You did?”
He smiled in a way that would have been smug if he had been anyone else. “I had a feeling you might forget.”
Peter exercised because he enjoyed it. I exercised because I enjoyed fitting into my clothes. “Even my sneakers?” I asked.
“Even your sneakers,” he said.
“Oh.”
“Come on, it will be fun.”
“How are you defining fun? ”
Ten minutes later, we descended the stairs dressed in shorts, T-shirts and running shoes and found Peter’s parents in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Judging by their attire and healthy glow, they’d already been for their own run. I thanked them again for the party, which hadn’t wound down until after midnight.
“It was such a treat to finally meet your family, Rachel. I wish they could have stayed longer,” Susan said.
The various Benjamins had been among the last to leave the previous evening, and they had gotten along beautifully with the Forrests and their friends, but by my calculations they were now well on their way to the airport, and I considered this excellent timing. While I loved my family, between the joint family dinner on Friday night, a joint family outing yesterday to the Asian Art Museum, and then the party, there had been more than enough opportunities for somebody to dredge up a mortifying tidbit from my past. And since my past was rife with mortifying tidbits, I was amazed to have made it through all of these events safely—prolonging the interaction further would have been courting disaster. But I didn’t mention any of that. “They really liked meeting you, too,” I said instead.
“Are you two going for a run?” Susan asked.
“Yep,” said Peter, reaching into the refrigerator and taking out a couple of bottles of water. He held one out to me, but I shook my head, and he exchanged it for a Diet Coke. I opened the can with pleased anticipation. There was nothing quite like the day’s first hit.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have some coffee, dear? Or orange juice?” Susan asked me.
“Oh, um, thank you, but I like soda in the morning.” In fact, morning was my favorite time to drink soda, although I also enjoyed it in the afternoon and evening.
“Peter, honey, don’t you think Rachel might want a glass? Rachel, dear, don’t you want a glass?”
“Rachel prefers it out of the can, Mom,” said Peter. I did prefer it out of the can. There was something about the way the carbonation and aluminum interacted that made it especially tasty.
“Are you sure, dear?” The perplexed look on Susan’s face reminded me that my habits might seem a little strange to the uninitiated.
“You know, I will have a glass. Thanks,” I said.
Peter stared at me, the perplexed look on his face an exact replica of his mother’s, but he reached into a cupboard and handed me a glass. I poured out the soda and drank it down.
“We’ll be back in an hour or so,” Peter told his parents.
“An hour?” I said under my breath.
“Have fun,” Susan said. “We’ll have brunch ready when you get back.” Charles raised his coffee cup in our direction without glancing up from the paper.
Peter ushered me out the front door. “Ready?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” I said, but he took my hand anyway and began pulling me along the street.
“Is this pace okay?” he called over his shoulder.
“Uh-huh,” I said, and it was for a bit, since the first part was all downhill. Peter even trusted me to keep moving once he let go of my hand. The next part along the water was flat and picturesque with the light glinting off the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance, and for a few minutes I felt an inspiring camaraderie with the other runners on the path. But that quickly dissipated.
“Look,” said Peter, slowing his pace to accommodate my own, which had started to lag. He pointed to some slippery animals sitting on rocks in the water. They were seals or sea lions, or maybe even walruses, but I was too winded to ask, much less care, nor did he seem to notice I wasn’t holding up my end of the conversation as he pointed out other landmarks. By the time we finally turned back I’d been evaluating alternative modes of revenge