“He was married before. Perhaps Harlan mentioned that as well. And he has a son.” Jackie realizes she sounds snappy and steps back. “I’m happy to let Miles know you’re in town. Were you close?”
“Friends, but, no, not close.”
“Either way, I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you.”
Harlan says, “I suggested that, too.” He spreads his hands. “We could all go out.”
Peter nods and sips his beer. “I’m game.”
“Wonderful.” Jackie smiles and hopes it looks sincere. She can’t honestly say why she feels at a disadvantage in this conversation, but she does. It reminds her of the evening Harlan came into her lab to ask about borrowing Nasira for his project. The words made sense, but she was missing something, not in on the joke. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find someone, then head home. Peter, I’ll be sure to tell Miles I met you. Enjoy yourselves.”
She smiles again and winnows her way through the crowd, keeping one eye out for Dr. Michener. Her trajectory is toward the door, however, and home.
Jackie steps into the warmth of her house, deposits her coat and bag on the bench by the door, and pulls off her boots.
She calls out to Miles on her way to the kitchen. “It’s me.”
He’s cutting tomatoes for the salad at his elbow. “Hi, beautiful. Two seconds.” He scrapes the tomatoes from the cutting board into the bowl, rinses and dries his hands, and comes out from behind the counter, opening his arms.
“So good to see you.” He hugs her and plants a kiss on her cheek. Not her mouth, she notes.
“You smell good.” A new cologne? She doesn’t want to say in case she is wrong. Nothing says “estranged” like forgetting what your spouse smells like.
“It’s the risotto. Chicken and fontina.”
“Sounds amazing.” She peeks over his shoulder. “Has it been ready long?”
He shakes his head. “No, your timing is perfect.” He returns to the stove and stirs. “Any news from your IT guy?”
Over the phone last night, Jackie told him the essentials of the data problem without indicating how serious it might be, either in its cause or scope. No point in being an alarmist. But he must have read the concern in her voice, since he remembered to ask her about it.
“Not yet. He’s working on it, but he has to deal with emergencies first, like computer crashes.”
“Right.”
“Did you finally meet with that player?” Miles is home a day later than scheduled because a key player had a family emergency.
Miles stops stirring, then resumes. “Oh, yes. Yes, I did. Walter LeFebvre. Looks as though he might sign. I’ll know for certain in a couple of days.” He points at the open bottle on the counter. “Wine?”
“Uh, no. Not this second.” Why did he seem thrown by her question? He couldn’t have forgotten having to change his flight. Then again, their transition to being together is always somewhat awkward, especially lately. Jackie has been assuming it’s her fault, but perhaps that’s reflexive on her part. She can’t remember the last time he initiated sex—or the last time they had sex, now that she thinks about it. Definitely not since the Thanksgiving baby discussion three weeks ago. Talk about voting with your feet—or your whatever.
Miles is recounting his meeting with Walter LeFebvre. Jackie retrieves bowls, salad plates, and flatware. She tosses the salad, arranges a portion on each plate, and carries them to the table.
“Anyway,” Miles says, as he spoons risotto into the bowls, “I’m hopeful. He’s an incredible athlete.”
“Fingers crossed.” Jackie decides on wine after all and crosses to the table with her glass. “I dropped in at a reception just before I came home. Harlan was there.”
Miles sets the bowls on the table and sits. “Oh? How is he? I haven’t talked to him in a while.”
“Fine. Harlan is Harlan.” She tastes her risotto. “This is delicious, Miles. Anyway, he introduced me to someone who knows you—from Felsted.”
“Really?” Miles picks up his wineglass, by the stem as always, and pauses before taking a sip. “Who was it?”
“Peter Durbin.” Jackie continues eating, but also watches her husband. “Do you remember him?”
Miles concentrates on his food and waves his hand vaguely. “I didn’t know him well.”
“He remembered you, obviously, although he did mention you weren’t close.”
Miles meets her gaze. “Funny sort of cocktail-party conversation.”
“Not really. He struck me as somewhat arrogant.” She searched for the right phrasing. “And bemused by you, or by his memory of you, I suppose.”
“Bemused? Why?”
Jackie shrugs. “Got me.” She is about to add that, if she had to guess, Peter and Harlan shared a secret, but Miles will dismiss it as preposterous, given that the men hardly know each other. She has learned to refrain from sharing her thoughts about Harlan with her husband.
“How odd.” Miles had stopped eating, but now picks up his fork. “How very odd.”
“That’s what I thought.” She sips her wine. “He wants to see you.”
“Who? Durbin?”
Jackie laughs. “Yes. Who else? Harlan suggested we all go out.”
“Well, I suppose . . .” He still hasn’t resumed eating.
“Are you okay? You seem a little weirded out.”
“Do I?” He takes a bite of the risotto and chews thoughtfully. “This is actually really tasty. I’ll have to save the recipe.”
“It’s excellent.” Jackie gets up and retrieves the wine bottle. “More?” Miles nods, and she pours. “Peter Durbin is in the English Department. In case you want to contact him.”
“I suppose he was wearing tweed.”
Jackie is perplexed by her husband’s response to Durbin. Jackie didn’t like the guy, but Miles said he hardly knew him, so why isn’t he more curious about the man?
Her phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. She pushes back her chair. “Do you mind? It might be IT.” She normally wouldn’t answer during meals, but she told Vince Leeds to call her with any news.
“Of course not.”
Jackie picks up her phone, sees that it’s Vince. She raises a finger to signal Miles and heads to the guest room. “Hi, Vince.” She leans the door closed.
“Hi, Jackie. Is this an okay time?”
“Yes. It’s fine.”
“I’m sorry to keep you on tenterhooks, but it’s been a crazy end to the week.”
“I understand.” She sits on the easy chair, and stands up again, agitated. “What did you find?”
He lets out a long breath. “It’s like we thought. The formulas were changed on Saturday the first. Or, more precisely, sometime between two a.m. Saturday and two a.m. Sunday. Two is when OneDrive is backed up.”
Jackie paces the room. “Okay. Were you able to tell how extensive the change was?”
“I know where you’re going. If it’s just one cell, it could be a mistake. If it’s several changes, more likely it’s foul play.” He pauses. “Five changes in that spreadsheet, the one we looked at.”