“Even if he does, do I want him as such a significant stakeholder in the company?”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get there,” I advised. “I’ve known him for a while, and he fundamentally means well. I think he can be controlled. And he’s currently our best bet on the white-knight front.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” she said, her eyelids drooping with fatigue.

I couldn’t disagree. “Look, even if he doesn’t withdraw his support, we can file lawsuit after lawsuit to hold this thing up. I just don’t want it to have to come to that. Businesses get run into the ground while people are fighting over them. There may also be the option to work out something amicable with Barbara.”

Sara was unable to keep her eyes open anymore, but she gave a soft laugh. “Good luck with that. She’s a freak. And she’d do anything for Adam.”

“Listen,” I said. “Try not to worry. I’m doing everything possible. It will all work out. I promise.” I hoped my words didn’t sound as hollow as they felt.

She dragged her eyes open; I could sense the effort it took.

“Do you think…do you think she had something to do with this?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted as her eyes closed again.

I don’t know if she heard me or if she’d already drifted off into unconsciousness. But I gave the security guard a lecture on the way out, urging him to take extra care, particularly where anyone named Barnett was concerned.

A few minutes later I was standing in front of the Au Bon Pain at Holyoke Center with absolutely no idea as to where I was going to go next. The snow was still coming down steadily, and across Harvard Yard I could hear the bells of Memorial Church ringing the hour. Four o’clock, and there were no new messages on my Blackberry. I wasn’t due back at Jane’s until eight for cocktails and dinner, and it was probably too late to catch even the tail end of my friends’ shopping expedition.

A steady stream of students and tourists passed me by as I stood in the snow and consulted my mental to-do list.

First on the list was to thwart the takeover of Grenthaler Media. I’d pleaded my case with the Caped Avenger, and I had plans to see Barbara Barnett the next day. Grenthaler’s director of communications was putting out the appropriate press release. There was nothing much else I could do about it on a Saturday afternoon except fret. And I was definitely fretting. I was elevating fretting to an art form.

Second on the list, and, I hoped part of thwarting the takeover, was to prove that Barbara Barnett was guilty of attacking Grenthaler Media’s primary shareholder and prevent any further attacks. Here, too, I wasn’t sure what else I could be doing. Barbara seemed unlikely to suddenly confess. The police knew all about my suspicions, and O’Connell seemed to be on the case. Whether my earlier hissy fit had helped or hindered the effort was unclear, although at least it had served to extract an interview for Hilary. And the security guard seemed sufficiently competent, except for his tendency to ma’am people without cause. Again, all that was left to do was fret, but I was confident that I could fret about Sara and the takeover simultaneously. If fretting were a marketable skill, I would have been a billionaire by now. With my own reality TV show.

The third item on the list was my love life. I didn’t know why I even kept it on there. It had reverted to its usual state of bleak and ugly disorder. Perhaps I should just accept my fate and acknowledge once and for all that the Jinxing Gods saw me as nothing more than a plaything, a human target in their never-ending game of Whack-a-Mole. I might as well just give it up and take myself out of the game for good. Then I’d have more time to fret over things that actually had the potential to turn around.

I’d been rejected before; in fact, I’d been rejected in more ways than I could count. The episode of Sex and the City in which Carrie’s boyfriend broke up with her by Post-it had left me unmoved. I could top that Post-it blindfolded and with both hands tied behind my back. Watching Peter and Abigail practically make out in the middle of Copley Place left that Post-it in the dust. Especially when you took into account just having discovered that Peter’s backup was a serial killer. That Post-it crumbled into insignificance when compared to my actual life.

Or lack thereof.

That’s it, I decided. Right there, at that moment, standing in the middle of Harvard Square as the snowflakes danced around me, my choice came with startling swiftness and complete clarity.

I was giving it up.

I would resign myself to being perpetually single, buying my own jewelry, zipping the backs of my own dresses and never having a date to a wedding ever again, much less ever being a principal in a wedding. I knew that there were advantages to being single: the much clichéd but definitely valuable perk of full control of the remote, for example, not to mention no more apologizing for having nothing but Diet Coke and condiments in one’s refrigerator. But now I was going to embrace my singledom. Just think, I told myself with growing excitement, of the money and time to be saved on grooming alone. And all of the eccentricities I could cultivate, strange eating habits and odd wardrobe choices, now that I had abandoned any concern for attracting members of the opposite sex. I’d be free of the Jinxing Gods at last.

Of course, there were children to consider. I wasn’t sure if I wanted them, but this course did tend to rule them out, at least without the involvement of a sperm bank or adoption agency. And I probably lacked the appetite for single motherhood. Still, I had a couple of nieces I could spoil rotten. They would look up to me in an Auntie Mame sort of way, and potentially write fond memoirs one day, especially if I gave them particularly lavish gifts. I could afford it, since I wouldn’t need to save up for orthodontia, piano lessons or college tuition for my own offspring. And I could spoil the children of my friends, as well.

I’d come to a crossroads and I’d chosen my course. I now felt invigorated-refreshed even. I decided to begin with the spoiling immediately. Baby Hallard wasn’t due for nearly six months, but surely it wasn’t too early to start showering him or her with presents? The Harvard Coop was across the way, and it seemed to me that Baby Hallard was desperately in need of a cotton onesie with Harvard Class of 202X emblazoned across the front. It was the sort of obnoxious garment that I’d never dress my own child in, but now that I’d decided I’d never have my own child, that was no longer a problem.

Harvard Square had changed dramatically since I’d first encountered it as an undergrad. It was hard not to walk through it without saying silent eulogies to landmarks long gone. Favorite boutiques, the infamous Tasty diner where many a night had culminated in early morning indulgences in greasy, fried food, even shops I’d never entered-I felt nostalgia for them all now that the vast majority of them had been transformed into Starbucks or painted over with a similar brush. I couldn’t believe how many Starbucks there were, all congregated into an area a few blocks square. It wasn’t that I hadn’t been heavily caffeinated throughout my college years, but my caffeine had come from more individualized venues, with the sort of character-or, conversely, the simple lack of charm and pretension-that couldn’t be easily franchised in malls across America.

The Coop itself hadn’t missed out on the Starbucksination of the Square, but I eventually found my way to the annex where they sold novelty apparel. Nor had I been hoping in vain that I would find baby clothing with Harvard stamped all over it. There were a number of onesies to choose from in crimson on white, white on crimson, crimson-and-white striped, and even pink and blue, which seemed like it should be against the rules.