The Hunt Read Online Free Page A

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 Page 9

    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