“How’s the living-in-sin thing going?” asked Hilary, poking through the bowl of mixed nuts with her cocktail stirrer, searching for whichever kind she liked best.

“It’s good,” I said.

Jane, usually the most even-tempered among us, grabbed the bowl of nuts from Hilary. “Either take a nut, or don’t take a nut,” she snapped.

“How’s the living-in-Jane’s guest room thing going?” Luisa asked pointedly. Hilary scowled.

Jane turned to me. “I’m sorry, Rach. What were you saying?”

“Nothing. Just that living with Peter is good.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Just good? Not wonderful? That’s the word you usually use when it comes to Peter.”

“No, it is wonderful. Really. He even cooked for me last night-lasagna.”

“With what?” asked Emma. She’d spent a lot of time in my apartment.

“Apparently, I own a casserole dish.” I took a sip of wine. “Anyhow, it’s great to have him here. I think it’s just going to take some time to get used to actually living together. The apartment’s sort of small for two people, and there’s definitely not enough closet space for two. I could barely fit my own stuff before. And Peter has his own stuff, and it’s all over the place, and I don’t know where we’ll put everything. And I’ve been swamped at work, and I don’t think he really realized before what my hours are like, much less the pressure of it all. And he doesn’t seem to understand that sometimes I have to work late, and on weekends. And I gargled with his aftershave this morning, and it was really gross. And the whole thing is just sort of strange. To have someone there all of the time. It was never like that before.”

As soon as all of these words spilled out of my mouth, I regretted them. I was lucky to have Peter, and I knew it, but I kept finding myself in the guilt/annoyance loop: first guilt for not loving every part of having him in my life, then annoyance about feeling guilty, and then a fresh wave of guilt at being annoyed.

“He lived in California before,” Luisa reminded me. “And you only got to see him on weekends, after flying across a continent. I can’t believe they don’t let people smoke in bars in this fascist city.” She was fidgety without her cigarettes.

“I know. It’s much better this way than trying to sustain a relationship long-distance. Really. It’s just that it’s so…permanent.”

“The last time I checked, you guys were getting married,” Hilary said. “You might want to get a bit more comfortable with permanence.”

“I am,” I said, taking another fortifying sip of wine,“comfortable with it. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Anyhow, ignore me. I’m babbling. It’s just that it’s been a really weird day.”

“Why?” asked Emma.

“Somebody died in front of me. This morning, at work.”

“Talk about burying the lead,” said Hilary. “You’re like Hart to Hart.”

I stared at her. “I’m not following.”

“Did you spend the eighties in a land with no TV? Hart to Hart. ‘When they met, it was murder.’ Only with you it’s more like, ‘Where she goes, there’s murder.’”

The reference clicked in my mind. “Promise me you’ll stage an intervention if Peter and I start driving matching Mercedes or get a dog named Freeway.”

“A houseman might be sort of cool, even if he was named Max,” said Jane.

“Besides, what makes you think it was murder?” I asked.

“Was it?” asked Emma.

“Well, yes. It seems to have been.” I filled them in, rehashing the same material Jake and I had gone over that afternoon.

“What’s the story with this Jake guy?” asked Hilary.

“Yes, his name is coming up quite a lot,” added Luisa.

“He’s just a friend from the office, and then he ended up working on the deal, too. He transferred in from Chicago a couple of months ago.”

“Single?” asked Jane.

“Uh, divorced.”

“What’s he like?” asked Hilary.

“Standard-issue banker type.”

“So, he’s probably an utter jerk.”

“No, not at all. He’s a really good guy.”

My friends exchanged not-so-subtle knowing looks with each other.

“What?” I asked.

“Somebody should do a case study on you,” said Luisa.

“One of those relationship experts who writes self-help books about how to get men over their commitment issues,” said Hilary. “Only it would be about getting women over their commitment issues. You could be an entire chapter.”

“Just a chapter?” asked Luisa. “Rachel could fill more than a chapter.”

“Now what are you talking about?” I asked.

“Your commitment issues,” said Jane.

“I don’t have commitment issues,” I protested. I looked to Emma for backup.

“Sorry, Rach,” she said. “You have commitment issues.”

“Peter just moved in and instead of enjoying it you’re whining about closet space and aftershave,” said Hilary.

“I wasn’t whining-”

“And every other word out of your mouth is the name of another man,” said Luisa.

“Jake’s just a friend-”

“A friend you spend more time with than you do your own fiancé,” said Jane. “And who you tell things you avoid telling Peter.”

“What are you scared of?” asked Emma.

“What do you mean, what am I scared of?”

“You must be scared of something,” she said. “Why else would you be looking for reasons to shut Peter out?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but it turned out I didn’t have to because our waiter chose that moment to deliver a round of fresh drinks. His timing couldn’t have been better as far as I was concerned. “Compliments of the gentlemen across the room,” he said, depositing the glasses on the table.

“Oh?” Hilary craned her head to give our benefactors an appraising look. “Good Lord. What is it with men and goatees? They’re so 1995. And they weren’t even cool then.”

“Could we tell them thanks but no thanks?” Emma asked. “And keep the drinks on our tab?”

“Why would we want to turn down free drinks?” asked Hilary.

“There’s no such thing as a free drink. If we accept, they’ll want to sit with us,” said Luisa. The waiter left to deliver the message, but Hilary continued her inspection of the room.

“Of all the men here, only the goateed ones send us drinks. Why is that? I mean, check out the guy at the bar. How come guys like that never offer to buy us drinks?” she said. “In fact, I think he’s checking you out, Rach. Why isn’t he checking me out?”

I followed her gaze, catching a glimpse of a man with close-cropped dark hair across the room. He stood out in the sea of navy suits, dressed in faded jeans, an oxford-cloth shirt and suede jacket. For a fleeting instant our eyes met, but then he looked down at the beer he was nursing.

“I guess you’re just a goatee magnet, Hil,” said Jane.

“I know. It’s a curse.”

“Maybe you should stop fighting destiny,” I suggested, relieved I was no longer the topic of discussion. But I was distracted, too. I’d seen the man before, and recently, but I couldn’t remember where.

“It would probably feel nice and scratchy against your face,” said Emma.

When I looked up again, a few minutes later, he was gone.

We went to a nearby restaurant for dinner after drinks. I was exhausted, but it was such a rare treat to have all of my friends in town that I lingered with them over the meal. We said our goodbyes on the pavement outside, making plans to get together later in the week. Jane was staying with Emma at the loft she still owned in the city, and Hilary was staying with Luisa at her family’s apartment, so I was awarded the first cab since I was on my own.

I gave the driver my address on East 79th Street, and as he turned up Madison Avenue, I dug my BlackBerry out of my bag and used it to check messages, squinting at the small screen. There was only one voice mail, timestamped 7:05 p.m., and I listened to it as we sped past Barney’s.

“Rachel. It’s Dahlia Crenshaw. Sorry to bother you, especially after the day we all had, but I was watching the news, and I saw something that-well, it got me wondering about something, and I wanted to talk to you about it. Will you phone me when you get this?”