Conundrum Read Online Free PDF

abs and solve his throbbing back issues. God knew Steve’s abs looked solid enough.
    “Okay— shoulders and legs off the mat as we begin our flutter kick!”
    G.B. had picked this class in the Back Bay, a short walk from his Beacon Hill townhouse, so as not to run into anyone he knew. He shot a quick sideways glance at the pony-tailed forty-something next to him energetically waving her feet up and down, toned arms suspended six inches above the mat. Trophy wife, natch . God, his stomach was burning already. He peeked at his watch. Merde —another forty minutes.
    “ Gimme twenty more kicks. Lookin ’ good!”
    The added advantage of going to this class, beyond admiring the tulips carpeting the Boston Garden on his walk over, or cruising the sales at Bilzerian’s on Newbury Street afterward, was that it delayed his checking Steve’s blog every morning. He would take this damn class all week and wean himself off its gravitational pull. Who had invented this blogging business anyway? Why woul d anyone want to expose himself— chatter away about what he had done the night before, what movies he was watching, who he was doing things with? It was bizarrely fascinating. But he had already deleted it from his bookmarks bar. And he’d be buff for the reunion next month. Let’s not forget that goal, Gilles Reynard Guillaume Broussard. He might seem like a fossil to his present students, and to Steve, but to his coterie from the class of 1988, he was still their charismatic, brilliant l eader. And they were all coming — all ten from his third-year design studio. He took it as a personal victory. Of course he’d had to do a bit of nudging.
    “Gill, if you’re tired, just go into child pose and wait for us. Only do what your body allows. Reflect on your life’s journey. Five more!”
    He’d kill for a cigarette. He’d call Jerry after he got out of here and get him to stay at the townhouse during the reunion. He missed having company.
    “Okay, on your backs now for knee-to-alternate-elbows!”
    G.B. groaned and rolled over. As he lifted his shoulders slightly, elbow extended tentatively, the pilates Nazi strolled over and slipped her cold hand under his lower back.
    “Lift from the waist, Gill. Isn’t that better?”
    No, it hurts a lot more, actually. He bared his teeth at her. Why hadn’t the y come back to earlier reunions— his chickadees, his favorite clas s? He sighed. It was that party— the tragedy at that party. And the poor, sweet boy. The brilliant, attractive boy. Why did he have to die?
    ***
    The stylish, late-century Modern offices of Jensen/Dewitt/ Twitty were located on the twentieth floor of a Wacker Drive skyscraper, affording Jerry Jensen a premium view of the Chicago River. He watched a team of rowers. Or were they called scullers? The one facing forward had on a sleeveless shirt.
    He jumped as his intercom made its irritating mosquito-buzzing sound, then barked into the box, “Who is it, Meg?”
    As usual, this latest assistant side-stepped the relevant information. “There’s a call on one for you, Mr. Jensen.” Where did his office manager find these ninnies? He slipped into his Aeron chair and punched a button.
    A voice purred, “I have been hearing some colorful rumors about you. Tell me that the one in the Apollo Theater was not true.”
    Recognizing the voice, Jerry braced himself for a skirmish. “Things getting boring in Beantown, G.B.? You need a vicarious thrill by reviewing my antics?”
    “I miss our fervent chats. Come visit me.”
    Jerry aligned the files on his glass desk. “My, aren’t we waxing nostalgic. I seem to recall a rather unpleasant visit last time.”
    “Oh that. You are not going to hold that against me forever, are you? Let me atone.”
    Jerry was relishing the present power reversal. He knew how to work a silence.
    “I see that you are coming for the reunion in June. You should stay with me.”
    Jerry loved forcing G.B.’s cards onto the table so soon.