thinking along the same lines as me; there was a teasing edge to his tone. But Mark looked uncomfortable, so I changed the subject.
“I have a question, Jake. Since you’ve worked with the guy before.”
Jake turned his attention away from Mark. “Shoot.”
“What’s with Gallagher and the pencil thing?”
“What pencil thing?”
“Don’t even try to pretend that you haven’t noticed the pencil thing. When he sharpens an already sharp pencil and sucks on it? He must have done it six or seven times when we were in his office this morning.”
He grinned. “Oh, that pencil thing.”
“Yes, that pencil thing. He must go through a dozen pencils a day. And the sucking—it’s disgusting. I don’t even want to know what Freud would make of it.”
“All that lead can’t be good for him,” volunteered Mark.
“Maybe he’ll die of lead poisoning,” I said, not bothering to disguise the hopeful note in my voice.
“I think they make them out of graphite now,” Jake said. “It’s funny, though. Do you watch Forensic City?”
“I love that show,” I said.
“You do? Me, too,” Jake said.
“I have the entire season’s episodes on my TiVo, just waiting for the time to watch them all,” I told him.
“Well, I don’t think I’ll ruin anything by telling you they had an episode a few weeks ago in which a guy who likes to chew on toothpicks dies from chewing on a poisoned toothpick.”
“Interesting,” I said thoughtfully. “Maybe we could slip some poison into one of Gallagher’s pencils?”
“Should I be worried you’re not joking?” asked Jake.
“I don’t know. Would you be willing to help out?”
“For you? Anything.” There was a gleam in his eye.
I laughed, but my cheeks felt strangely warm.
I decided to chalk up my reaction to hunger. “Could somebody pass the ketchup please?”
We lingered over lunch, and Jake talked about adjusting to life in New York after Chicago. “I lived here after business school,” he explained. “That’s when I first worked with Gallagher—I was an associate at his old firm. But my ex-wife was from Chicago and wanted to move back. Ryan Brothers didn’t have an office there, so I took the job at Winslow, Brown. But I was never a big fan of the Midwest, and it turned out that my ex-wife wasn’t such a big fan of me. Once we split up, I hightailed it back to the East Coast.”
I’d heard around the office that Jake was newly divorced after a short and unsuccessful marriage, but we hadn’t talked about it much. He seemed glad to be back in New York except, of course, for the inevitable lament about real estate. “The prices are insane.”
“I was lucky,” I told him. “I bought my apartment years ago.”
“Is there enough room for the two of you?” Jake knew that Peter had just moved in.
“It’s a little cramped right now, but we’ll figure it out,” I said with false confidence. Given that every closet was already filled to bursting, I wasn’t sure how this was going to happen. But I loved my home—its high ceilings and southern light and old-fashioned details—and I really didn’t want to move. It was only since Peter had arrived that I’d realized just how attached I was to the place, and how much I’d gotten used to having my own space.
There had been a lot of snow over the weekend, but it had warmed up since then and the pristine white piles were quickly melting into dirt-colored slush. We had to navigate the pavement carefully on our way back to the office.
We missed the light at the corner of Madison and Fifty-first, but I was still scoping out the enormous puddle lapping at the curb, trying to figure out the best way across it, when the signal changed from the orange hand of “Don’t Walk” to the striding white figure of “Walk.”
“I’ve got you covered,” Jake said.
“What—” I started to ask.
He grabbed me around the waist and hoisted me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing, which most certainly was not the case, especially not after the meal I’d just consumed. He stepped easily over the puddle and continued across the street before depositing me on the opposite corner.
My feet were dry, but if my cheeks had felt warm before, now they were burning.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Anytime,” he grinned.
chapter six
A mountain of work waited for us in the office, but we were sufficiently fortified by lunch to get through it at an efficient pace. Still, it was well after nine by the time I let myself into my apartment.
I sensed instantly that something extraordinary was underway.
“Peter?” I called out, kicking off my shoes. I shrugged out of my coat and left it with my hat and scarf draped over one of the cardboard boxes in the foyer.
“In here,” he answered.
“In where?”
“The kitchen.”
“Why?” I asked. An old Van Morrison CD was playing on the stereo, and the apartment smelled strangely of food. My stomach reminded me with a rumble that lunch, however fortifying, had been a long time ago. I picked a path through the cartons that lined the hallway, heading toward the room in question.
“Why do you think?”
“Oh my God.” I stood in the kitchen doorway, frozen with shock.
He was cooking.
“Lasagna all right with you? It seemed like a good choice for a cold night. It’s almost ready. Here, let me pour you a glass of wine.”
I struggled for words. “But—how? With what?” I didn’t see any plastic containers from restaurant takeout, or even one of those orange boxes with the trusty Stouffer’s logo. And the microwave was quiet. None of it made any sense.
“A casserole dish. The oven.”
“It works?” I’d gotten a letter from ConEd years ago, warning that they were turning off the gas since it registered such little usage. I was pretty sure I’d never responded.
“Seems to.” He handed me a glass of Barolo.
“I have a casserole dish?”
“It was a bit dusty, but I rinsed it off.”
“But—but didn’t you need spices
