Satisfied that all was rolling according to plan, Peter exited the building and climbed into his BMW coupe. His natural appreciation for simple and beautifully designed products had prompted his decision to make BMW the company car for senior executives. When Matthew had gone out and ordered the exact same style and color coupe for himself, Peter was flattered. Until their friendship curdled. Now he'd begun to wonder if Matthew had only chosen the car because he was trying to prove to the executive staff that he and Peter were in some way equal.
As he drove down Clyde Avenue he passed the many single-story stucco buildings that comprised Wallaby's international headquarters. Eventually he passed the larger and more corporate-looking three-story sales and marketing building, where Matthew and the other senior executives resided.
Peter preferred to have his office among his engineers rather than on the third floor of the larger corporate building. Though his title was chairman, his job was to create Wallaby's computers, and to do that, he wanted to be right in the trenches with his team. Especially lately. The last thing he wanted was to have to sit near Matthew Locke. If he had been any closer, he might have taken pity on the man he'd hired, and not gone through with his new plan to remove him from the company.
Leaving the complex, he headed for Highway 280. Waiting for the traffic signal to change, he looked in his rear-view mirror at the main corporate building with its Wallaby banner. The Wallaby logo featured a sketched pocket with a baby kangaroo, a joey, poking its head out.
He felt a small gush of pride whenever he looked at the company logo, at the thought of how many pockets he had filled with riches, in how many lives. And though tomorrow he would have to essentially sew shut one of those pockets, he was already beginning to feel the sense of relief that would come very soon, when he regained complete control of the company he had built.
She stood and admired the bowl from different angles, marveling at how the spotlight shining down on it created rainbow effects and prismatic distortions. She had displayed the object on a simple, waist-high pedestal finished in black lacquer. Maybe I should not have rewarded myself so soon, thought Greta, since the board meeting that would take care of Peter Jones was not until tomorrow. What if something went wrong?
Of course, nothing would go wrong. She knew that Matthew had no choice but to pitch Peter from his position at Wallaby, and not only because she couldn't stand the precocious young founder. She smirked when she thought about the blow Peter would feel after the ax dropped at tomorrow's meeting.
The minute Greta had met him, she knew she was not going to like Peter Jones. He had taken to Matthew instantly, tugging on his arm like a child when he was excited about something, or when Matthew's observations and comments would harmonize with Peter's own thoughts. He would listen intently when Matthew talked about business and buying psychology, things she did not understand and had no desire to know more about. But what she loathed most about Peter, which led to her involvement in his destiny, was that he managed to spend more time with Matthew than she did. Matthew would practically ignore her in Peter's presence, so exhilarated was he by the young man's company. When Matthew arrived home from work, especially in the beginning, it was always "Peter said this," or "Peter did that," so full of marvel was her husband at young headache's braininess. And every Saturday, like clockwork, Peter would be at the door before she was out of bed, asking Matthew to come out and play. One morning, while Peter was waiting within earshot in the entrance hall, she loudly protested from their bedroom upstairs that she and Matthew never got to spend time together on Saturdays, as they used to when they lived in Connecticut. Afterward, Peter stopped coming to the door and took to waiting outside the gate, like a mongrel. Not a bad description, she thought to herself. Greta had once read an article about Peter that told of his life as an orphan. Obviously he saw Matthew as a father figure. Well, too bad.
Greta understood early on that Peter's attachment to Matthew could ruin everything her husband had so carefully planned before he accepted the job at Wallaby. Time was wasting, she observed; she knew that the stronger Matthew and Peter's friendship became, the farther Matthew would stray from the original plan. She had had to act swiftly, otherwise Matthew might have had a change of heart altogether.
To start the ball rolling, Greta had told Matthew that she did not want Peter in their home. How Matthew was to accomplish this without offending Peter was his problem; if he really cared about her, he'd spare her the company of the bratty wunderkind. She followed through by feigning anguish whenever Matthew mentioned Peter, and by pressuring him to get on with business: When would he tell Peter about the development strategy? Why was he stalling? She knew that once Matthew revealed his strategy, the young man would withdraw from her husband. And perhaps that was why he had taken his time - he was enjoying too much their friendship. Matthew's transformation plans were hideously contrary to Peter's renegade spirit. It had been painful to hound Matthew constantly, but she had no choice. He would never have dealt with Peter and put his plan back on track if she had not intervened. A few weeks was all it had taken to re-focus Matthew. When he explained to Peter his hopes for the company - a profound strategy for leading Wallaby into Big Business - the two men had their first falling-out, which seriously upset their formerly flawless courtship. Matthew had persisted in attempting to sway the young founder into understanding his strategy, but each time he faced argument and resistance. Greta had forced Matthew to confess that as long as Peter was in control, the secret plan would never materialize. Finally, Peter expressed doubt in Matthew's overall vision and qualifications, saying he was personally hurt that Matthew could even hypothesize such a thing for Wallaby. That said, Matthew halted his friendship with Peter, and drew heavily from his wife's support to rebuild his confidence in the secret plan.
She felt wanted again. However, her expectation of spending more time with Matthew was unfulfilled. Instead of spending weekends with her, he spent more time than ever in his little home office, next to the library. And when he wasn't holed up in there, he was constantly reading about big computers and the latest technologies, his face often closer to the pages of a book than to his wife's face when they were in bed.
After tomorrow, after Peter was truly invalidated, she knew that Matthew would start spending more time with her. She had to believe that. After all, it was she he had to thank for rectifying his temporary shortsightedness. At least that was how she saw things.
Raising a glass of wine to her lips, she heard the automatic garage door open. He was home. She twisted the knob of the recessed ceiling-mounted quartz lamp to full intensity. The salmon bowl sparkled.
He appeared at the living room entrance, hands at his sides. She pretended not to notice his arrival.
"Greta."
"Oh, darling," Greta said, pretending to be surprised.
Without remark, she quickly took in his tired expression. His eyes seemed half closed, as if the reflection thrown off by the glittering object were blinding. Studying him, she searched for the foundation of the man she had married, the man with the strong and sinewy build, the confident posture, the sharp aristocratic features. Today his cheeks appeared blanched, his stance tentative. With her glass of wine in hand, she strolled casually across the room.
"What's that?" Matthew said.
She pecked his impassive lips. "That," she said, toasting the bowl with her glass, "is pure brilliance."
"How much brilliance?"
"A steal, Darling. I got it to celebrate your success. Let me get you something to drink." She left him alone with "his" present.
He inspected her newest purchase. He had to admit, it was magnificent, and as he scrutinized it more closely, he began to forget about his labored day and the impending showdown. He studied one of the etched salmon that circled the bowl's rim. It swam against a powerful, unseen force, compelled onward with inner strength, driven by instinct to fulfill its obligation. It was that way in business, he reflected, one had to be driven by instinct and a sense of obligation, plain and simple -
But that word, simple, was like a hook that snagged his mind and reeled him from the peaceful waters that were his thoughts. Once more, his thoughts returned to the damnable Peter Jones, his excited voice raiding Matthew's mind like an unwelcome visitor.
"'If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get the best thing God invents,'" Peter would wistfully recite, the poet Robert Browning's words, during design meetings. Forever distrusting complexity, Peter made it his utmost priority that Wallaby's products were unaffected in their design and easy to use.
Once more, apprehension washed over Matthew like a shifting tide. If only he could convince himself that everything would go exactly according to plan. It would, wouldn't it? He felt as though his life depended on it. He just didn't feel one-hundred percent sure.
"Here," Greta said, handing him a small bottle of Perrier. Taking the drink, he avoided looking at her bare hand…or at the other, which was concealed inside a silky white glove. He took a sudden and uncomfortable interest in the tiny bubbles that formed and rose in the bottle.
Greta sat on the flowery chintz settee and patted the cushion next to her. "Come."
Before joining her, Matthew twisted off the bright lamp. Nighttime descended on the salmon, their struggle temporarily suspended. He sank into the softness of the sofa and rested his eyes.
"Well? Is everything all set?"
He nodded.
"Good, Matthew," she said. "I can't wait for you to be able to relax once this all settles down." She thought of the time she would have with him after tomorrow's meeting and smiled, more at this thought than to comfort him.
Matthew frowned. "He says I don't know what I'm doing. That I don't have a clue." He stared into the bottle. "He says I don't have instinct. No vision, guts. Unless I'm wrong, I don't think he realizes what's going down tomorrow." He met his wife's eyes. His expression soured; then half resentfully, he sought her reassurance. "Have I been wrong? What if I've misread everyone's loyalties? What if he has his own plan to spring on me tomorrow?"
A voice inside Greta's head roared No! No matter what Peter Jones had up his sleeve - yes, certainly he had something - her husband's well thought out plan was more powerful. It was too late now, anyway, to start worrying about the enemy's strategy. That she never seriously considered it probably meant that her instincts about Peter were correct. He was blind to what was coming.
"No sweetheart. Don't think that way." She gently pushed back some hair from Matthew's forehead. "You're doing exactly the right thing. And after tomorrow, everything will be fine."
He offered her a dim smile, then closed his eyes.
For the briefest instant there she had felt his need for her. It had been so long since he'd called to her for help. However cursory, she had served him nevertheless. And now it was her turn, tit for tat. "Let's go for a walk down by the stables. What do you say?" She grasped his hand as she rose.
Too weary to protest, he rose to his feet and let his wife lead him off.
* * *
Walking into his home, Peter heard Ivy playing the grand piano in the drawing room. She was singing softly, a verse he did not recognize. One of her own? The pleasing sounds bellowed and echoed through the more or less empty mansion. She did not hear him enter the room.
Her fingers settled on the last chords of the score. Peter smelled the sweet fragrance of her long white-blond hair, brightened and warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the French windows behind her. Coming closer, his shadow gave him away and she turned her head to greet him.
"Hello," she said, through the last fading chords of her music.
"That was wonderful. It's as if this entire house is joyful and alive when you're playing." He casually rested a hand on her shoulders, a simple expression of admiration.
She turned her cheek to his hand, and he went to move it, but before he was able to she stood and stretched. He took her seat then, resting his hands on his lap. Looking past her and through the windows, toward the hills that rolled beyond his estate, he could see Hoover Tower in the distance, rising high above the treetops of the Stanford University campus. Three weeks earlier he had been there to give the commencement speech to the graduating class. Afterward, at the reception, a striking young girl had introduced herself. Her name was Ivy, she said, and she proceeded to tell him about the speech and language interface that she was developing for the Wallaby Joey computer. When it was finished, she promised, the interface would allow people to interact with the Joey by speaking to it, and it would reply in kind, in its own "voice." The Joey's intuitive and portable design, she told him, was what had inspired her to develop the speech recognition and simulation interface software. When he asked what were her eventual ambitions for the project, she said she wasn't sure. She had no agenda for the summer and, for lack of a more tempting course, had halfheartedly committed herself to traveling across the country with some friends. He was intrigued by her knowledge of linguistics, particularly when she revealed that she had never used a computer until the Joey. That part was especially touching, and he somehow felt compelled to help her, so he offered her the opportunity to continue developing the Joey speech and language component in his home. The next day she arrived with her duffel bag, a couple of books, a few boxes of floppy disks, and a backpack. Peter often had guests straying in and out of his home, usually students to whom he offered the use of his thoroughly equipped computer lab. In return he asked that they respect the privilege by picking up after themselves. He let them come and go for as long as they liked, and his doors were never locked. Alice, his maid and cook, always kept herself abreast of the various artists in residence.
She appeared now in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a small, voluminous Spanish woman with pulled-back black hair and a gorgeous smile. "Hello, Mr. Petey," she said with plain affection. She turned to the young girl. "I finished preparing your meat and spices." Peter looked at Alice for an explanation, and she nodded to Ivy.
"I'm making you a special Mediterranean dish tonight," Ivy said, taking Peter's hands in hers. "My way of saying thanks, for being so kind and letting me stay here with you."
"Great," he said, and casually withdrew his hands.
Usually it started out, as it had a number of times before, as a rent-free working environment. Peter received both pleasure and satisfaction from being around artists and other creative types who crafted amazing things from the technology he had invented. Except for his work and Kate, when she was in town, his life was surprisingly spare. Having the students in his home filled the spacious mansion with the lives and passionate works of others. And with little effort, he was helpful to them. In several cases the projects they worked on became marketable products, and sometimes he nurtured them in getting started as software or hardware developers by introducing them to the appropriate managers at Wallaby. But to some of the students, staying at Peter's became more than just a neat place to crash. Once a couple of young men had taken off with some of the equipment and a few of Peter's personal valuables. And then there were the girls, who often presented their own set of problems. And right now, Ivy was the mansion's sole no-strings boarder.
"Come on," Ivy said, taking him by the hand once again. "I want to show you what I've been working on this afternoon."
As they passed, Alice busied herself with a tissue in her apron pocket. Peter noted the uncertain look on her face; she was all too familiar with the course that Ivy's stay was taking.
* * *
Dressed in a violet silk camisole, Greta Locke sat on the edge of their large bed and brushed down her thick chestnut curls. As she did this she observed herself - her hair, her face, but never the movement of her hands - in the mirror above her bureau. Though it was early, she had nonchalantly followed Matthew upstairs to the bedroom when, after dinner, he had said he was going turning in early. She had a modest face that she considered robust rather than pretty. It was satisfactorily oval in shape, though a little too fleshy in the cheeks. Her nose was sized accordingly, yet if it had been a little longer, straighter, perhaps she would have been a real model - but then again, her face had never been her selling point…
While she scrutinized her complexion, her right hand, as if guided by its own vision, encountered the crystal lotion dispenser resting on her bureau. With a light press she dispersed two long, corpulent worms of Lancome lotion into her hand. Working one hand over the other with systematic precision, she performed the evening ritual without ever once looking at them. On this occasion she focused her vision, through the mirror, on the lighted bathroom doorway at the opposite end of the bedroom suite. Finishing up, working again on the familiar motions without directly needing to - without wanting to - watch what she was doing, she reached into a drawer and retrieved a pair of fine, exclusively tailored white silk gloves. Just as she was pulling on the second glove the bathroom light snapped off.
Matthew appeared, wearing light blue Oxford cloth pajamas made of the same material used to tailor his business shirts. That was her husband, she thought with a tinge of malice, all business both in and out of bed.
Greta snapped off the lighted mirror and climbed beneath the cool sheets, folded the layers of bedclothes to just below her breasts. Matthew settled on top of the sheets, sealing her in on one side, and clamped his hands together behind his head. Straining her peripheral vision, she saw that he was staring at the ceiling.
She turned on her pillow to face him. "Darling, don't keep thinking about tomorrow." Softly: "Try to relax."
Taking her advice, she watched as the puzzled, problem-solving frown on his face slackened and was replaced by a vague yet unwavering gaze.
She stretched across him to turn off the antique bedside lamp, her breasts barely an inch from his chin. As she drew back, she gently settled herself on his chest.
Through the windows beside the bed, the valley shone brightly. Orange and yellow pinpoints of light, far in the distance, glowed and shimmered in the cool summer night. She felt a sudden urgent desire to get out of bed and close the curtains, shutting out the view of the damned valley.
Was she rushing things? First the bowl, and now making love. But it had been so, so long, she thought, in her silent agony. Matthew had simply shut off where activity between them was concerned, telling her once, several months ago, that he could not concentrate on lovemaking, not even their particular style of it, until things were working again and his plan was firmly on track. Still, they were so close, just hours away from tomorrow's big event and the unquestionably victorious outcome that was rightfully theirs.
Just a kiss. Was that asking too much?
She gently nuzzled his neck and throat, which showed minimally through the pajama top, tracing her long and delicately gloved hand, the part of her body to which he had once been most attracted, most submissive, along his upper body.
He sighed through his nostrils and closed his eyes.
Was he responding? Perhaps he too felt that he deserved to reward himself a day early, she thought with a private cheer. She inhaled deeply and pressed his shoulder with her left hand, careful to keep the sight of it from his peripheral vision. Her other hand strayed along his biceps. Raising her face, she closed her eyes and moved her lips to his.
He sniffed, and she opened her eyes just in time to see him turn his agonized face toward the window. He sneezed, twice, and she flinched with each burst, but was at the same time enormously relieved too. For an instant she had had the impression that the face he'd made had been in response to her. But it was only a sneeze. Two sneezes. Nothing at all to do with her, and so silly for her to have thought otherwise.
Or was it. There he was, gazing out the window again, as if he were counting the individual lights in the valley. She scolded herself for not having pulled the shade.
"Matthew," she said softly, meaning to apologize or assure him or -
"Good night," he said.
Or nothing.
It was useless, and so she retreated to her side of the bed and lay there in silent deliberation. For the second time today she worried if perhaps the crystal bowl she had purchased had been a mistake, her private celebration somehow jinxing the outcome of tomorrow's meeting.
They lay there like that for a long time, silent and awake but inexpressive, until, eventually, exhaustion won out and they both slept, each playing their parts in a dream that did not embody the other.
* * *
Peter sat on a stool at the island console range while Ivy prepared her special dinner. She bustled about in what seemed like a frenzy, but he understood, with some amusement, that she had the meal under complete control. A fragrant lamb and vegetable stew bubbled lazily in a large pot on the stove. In the oven, two small pizzas baked. Peter had enjoyed watching Ivy roll out the dough with her hands and shape it into little rounds. On each she had arranged caramelized onions, chopped olives, pine nuts, grated Parmesan cheese. During the preparation, she concentrated intensely on each step. A number of times she held the recipe close to her face and read a line or two aloud. At the same time she managed to engage him in interesting conversation. Though she had been a guest in his house for three weeks now, this was the first opportunity he'd had to spend time with her. And considering his day at Wallaby, her company tonight was a welcome relief.
"Pass me that cayenne, would you," she said, reaching out with one hand.
"Which is it?"
"That's curry. The one next to it. Right."
The rosiness of her face, from all of the bustling about, against her white-blond hair, gave the effect that she had spent the day at the beach. She wore tattered old jeans cinched at the waist with a colorful bandanna, and a white dress shirt with no bra beneath. He realized suddenly that he was staring. He spoke.
"So do you cook often?"
She gave him an amused look. "You kidding. For who. I've been in a dorm, chowin' on junk food and studying for the last three years."
"Then how'd you learn all this stuff?"
"Easy. All you have to do is follow the directions. Besides, I'm a quick study." She met his eyes and held his stare, as if challenging him. Until a bell chimed. "Pizzas," she said with a delighted smile, breaking their link, which had felt to him a little weird but not exactly unpleasant. Just, well…significant. Careful, he warned himself.
He watched her slip on an oven mitt and told himself he should really look away as she bent over to retrieve the appetizer. Her breasts, he could see, were not large, yet were ample enough to illustrate gravity. They reminded him of the firm doughy rounds she had worked beneath her fingers minutes ago. As she reached inside the oven a little burst of heated air gently raised a few stray wisps of her hair, and an instant later the delectable aroma of her creation wafted his way. He swallowed.
Then something about her startled him and he felt his throat abruptly tighten.
As she was rising, holding the tray in one hand, she swept her hair aside with the other, and he had the opportunity to see, just for an instant, inside the collar of her shirt, in back of her neck.
What he saw was his own name - the code name the dry cleaner used to label his shirts. Something that felt about the size of a marble felt as though it had suddenly become lodged in his chest. A little to the left. Yes, there. In his heart.
"What?" she said, freezing in place.
"Oh," was all he could manage at first. He gave a little laugh. "Nothing, oh nothing. Sorry. I just zoned out there for a second." His lungs moved, he was breathing again.
"Hmm," she said, a moment's scrutiny, then she shrugged and transferred the miniature pizzas to the butcher block counter. "Where's the cutter thing?"
"I'm sorry?" he said. He had blanked her out for a moment, and was just beginning to recover from his jolt. The cutter thing. He wanted to be helpful, to tell her where to find it.
Until he found more: The jeans, with their familiar rips where his own knees had eventually worn through the denim. She was wearing his pants, too. The marble thing became a fist.
"You know," she said, making a rolling gesture with her hand,"The pizza cutter thing."
"No. I mean, I don't know. In one of those drawers, probably." Had she gone through his closet? Had she helped herself to anything else?
"Ah. Here we go." She returned with the instrument and cut the pizza into quarters.
Her feet were bare. She wore no jewelry, no watch. He fabricated a possible explanation: She was doing her laundry and had asked Alice if she could borrow some of his old clothes while hers went around.
"Mmm. Not bad. Here. Eat."
It was probably nothing, he told himself. He was probably overreacting. He'd ask her about it later, no big deal. Still, it had given him one hell of a little scare there. Enough, already. Right now, he was hungry.
"Delicious," he said truthfully. "I can't believe you don't do this all the time."
"I could," she said, and stopped chewing. He caught her look, edged with some unknown meaning. "I mean," she went on, waving at the pot on the stove, "I could eat like this all the time, but who has the time, right?"
Peter just nodded. He took another bite of pizza. He was thirsty.
"Wine. That's what we need."
"Yes."
"White? Is that good for what you're making?"
"Red's better."
He went to the tall narrow wine rack hidden inside a cabinet. His fingertips lingered on the neck of a particular reserve, a special bottle. He deliberated for a moment, then selected a younger vintage. He opened it and poured them each a glass, handed one to her. There was an awkward moment, in which both stood motionless. He didn't know what to say and, gratefully, she made it easy for him.
"To new friends."
"New friends," he said, slipping in a small emphasis on the latter.
They touched their glasses together and Peter looked into his own to avoid her eyes as he sipped the wine.
"Come on," Ivy said, "let's eat." She went about filling two bowls with stew, while he sliced the crusty loaf of bread she'd set out on the counter. She carried the bowls into the dining room, and he followed with the bread and his glass of wine.
"Sit," she said, "I'll get the bottle."
He drank some more, and when she came back in he noticed her glass. She had filled it.
They ate in silence for a few moments. He told her the stew was delicious, and she said she was surprised, though she wasn't really.
"So, what made you choose Stanford?" he said.
"A course they had. It's called VTSS. Values, Technology,Science, and Society."
"I've never heard of it."
"It's been around for awhile. Interesting mix."
"Sounds like it. What interests you about it most?"
"Well, how they all overlap. One affecting and impacting the other, and so on. You sure know all about that."
"Me?"
"Sure, you." She snorted. "Come on. You know, the way the computers you invented have changed our society, that they're founded on science and technology. How they've affected people's values." She glanced up from her plate. "I mean, really, you've democratized computing power among the masses, putting it in the hands of the people. Giving them a choice, an alternative to business as usual. No more Big Brother, brother." She resumed eating. "Anyway, that's what the course was about." She spoke with the easy, unaffected confidence one acquires with experience. Yet she was only twenty-one.
He realized that his spoon was halfway between his bowl and mouth. He did not know how long he'd been sitting there like that. He set it down and poured himself more wine. He looked at her over the rim of his glass, and felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was an agreeable feeling, and that in turn made it an adverse feeling. Thin ice ahead, if he didn't watch himself. Friends, he repeated to himself, and don't forget it.
"Did you hear me?"
Had she said something? "I'm sorry - you were saying?"
"I said, that's what the course was about. I dropped it."
"But you sound like an expert. Why the change of heart?"
"Nah. Music. This speech stuff. That's what I told you when I met you, don't you remember?"
In fact, he did not remember. What's more, he realized, was that he didn't know her last name either. Before he was aware of what he was doing, he asked her, "What's your last name?"
She was pouring herself more wine. She stopped. Was she hurt?
She grinned. "You got me."
His expression betrayed his confusion.
"I never told you my last name!" she said, as if that explained everything. Whatever everything was. "I see what you're getting at: How could I ask if you remember that I dropped that course to get into this linguistics programming stuff when you don't even know my last name. It's because I never told you."
He went to take another sip of wine, but then decided to hold off for a bit.
"It's Green. Ivy Green. Can you stand it?"
"It's certainly very Earth conscious."
"Very funny. The only green I think Rick and Jeannette had in mind when they named me was reefer."
He burst out laughing. "How come?"
"Oh, please. Don't you get it? I'm a Sixties baby, like, 'Make Love, Not War,' 'Give Peace a Chance,' 'If It Feels Good, Do It.' Well, they did it. They met at Woodstock, no kidding, and, a few years later, they did it, made me, and got married and all. How it felt, I mean, good or not, I never asked. Quit laughing. They moved to California, lived right at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, and found peace and all that. Later, when my dad accidentally started his own herbal tea company - yes, it's the brand you've got on the shelf there in the kitchen - they moved to Mill Valley. That's where I grew up, with parents who told me to call them by their first names, so we'd get closer to where we visualized ourselves in the universe. Or some shit like that."
"Sorry, I'm not laughing at the circumstances. It's the way you tell it."
"No problem. I'm still amused by the Rick and Jeannette Show." From out of nowhere came a pout. Then: "But I'm not goin' to live my life like they did." She sniffed deeply. "Um, I'll be right back."
Had he offended her? He'd meant no harm in laughing. He was just amused by her deadpan delivery. While she excused herself, Peter got up from the table. Her talk about the Sixties had aroused some vague sentiment in him. Whatever. All of the sudden the place seemed too quiet. While she was away from the table he got up and loaded a compact disc into his stereo system. The first track was a folksy acoustic number.
Ivy returned to the table smiling. "Want more stew?"
"I'm stuffed," Peter said.
She sat down.
"Here." He poured more wine into her glass, trying for an apology if it was in fact called for. He had no idea.
The instrumental ended, then a lovely female voice filled the room with song. It was his absolute favorite. His eyelids lowered slowly, automatically, and a smile washed across his face. The artist's sensual voice had an effect on him that was like easing into a warm bath. He sat there like that for a little bit, forgetting Ivy and his dinner and everything else.
Ivy turned her head to the source of his evident pleasure. Her frown went unnoticed.
Peter had met the vocalist one afternoon at a Sierra Club luncheon thrown in his honor after Wallaby had donated several computers to the noted environmental organization. Kate McGreggor, the "softly outspoken" folk-rock star, was the keynote speaker. He tried to be attentive to her words during her speech, but he constantly found himself drifting, starting at her warm green eyes, sighing when she casually brushed aside her hair, dark brown with sunned highlights and occasional strands of gray. In just fifteen minutes Kate had made an impression on him like no other woman ever had. Meanings for her wandered into his mind. Intelligent. Simple. Pure. True. What you see is what you get, he surmised. After the meal, she sang. Her voice was enchanting, perfect, and as she sang about pain and hope and love he knew that he had to get to know her personally. Immediately after her performance he introduced himself. At first she seemed disinterested. He suspected her judgment was influenced by his involvement in an industry notorious for destroying the environment. And perhaps also by the eight years difference in their ages. He invited her to visit Wallaby for a personal tour. She hesitated, but ultimately he persuaded her to accept after asking for a chance to prove that he and Wallaby were unlike all the rest. When she arrived a week later, she surprised him with a special gift: A bottle of wine from her parents' obscure little vineyard in Oregon, where she had grown up. It was a Cabernet Sauvignon, bottled the same year he had founded Wallaby. He was touched by the thoughtfulness of her gesture, and told her she had to be the one to share it with him when the company was ten years old. Her tour was scheduled to last two hours, but as Peter expressed his own thoughts and concerns about the environment, the state of education, the future, they engaged in long and satisfying conversation, and by the end of the day their attraction for one another was evident. And had remained so to this day. They were two people comfortable with themselves and with each other. She maintained a home in Los Angeles, where she was constantly at work on her music or lending her celebrity status to political causes about which she felt strongly. She came to stay with Peter between recordings and projects, and her independence meshed perfectly with his own like composure, creating the foundation for what had become a lasting and loving relationship. They had been together for nearly eight years, and the distance between them imposed by their careers generated a constant longing that kept their affection for one another fresh and alive. Sometimes, like now, it was difficult and he wished they could be together more often. Especially now, with everything the way it was at Wallaby…
And with that thought, he opened his eyes and came back around to the present, and to his guest.
Ivy was lowering a coffee cup from her lips, staring at him. Had she made a pot? He hadn't even heard her in the kitchen. In front of him sat a steaming cup of coffee. Perfect, he thought. That odd sense of dread he'd experienced earlier had returned, just for an instant, when he'd opened his eyes. He needed to sober up a little.
Abruptly she spoke.
"Is it true?"
"What's that?" he asked. He met her azure eyes with a perplexed smile. She gestured with a nod to where the music was coming from. "That you two are lovers?"
"Completely."
She nodded, added more coffee to her cup, very slowly, with considerable concentration. She emptied half a packet of Equal into her coffee. Addressing her immersed spoon, she said, "In everything I read, like "People," or that story about you in last month's "Esquire," they say you'll probably get married. To her."
"I don't know, it's hard to say" Peter said, knowing the right thing to do would be to agree with the speculation, but choosing to answer truthfully instead. "We're both very busy. She's always recording or involved in some cause or another. And I'm at Wallaby." The feeling of dread inside his heart rolled on its side. However this time, instead of striking quickly and fading away, its presence seemed to stretch out and linger as he sat watching what Ivy was doing with her half-empty packet of Equal.
She had dumped the remainder of the artificial sweetener onto the black enamel table. Using the straight edge of the little blue packet, she cut several fine, stark, parallel lines from the small white pile of grains.
Not very subtle, and not a good sign. He attempted to resume the conversation.
"Anyway, as far as marriage, we've never really discussed it seriously."
All of the sudden, he understood the feeling assaulting his senses. Trepidation.
Something - no, a number of things - were going to happen. It was as though a crystal ball had bloomed in his mind's eye, giving him a quick peek into the near future. It all came in a blurry rush, no single picture or image freezing long enough to grasp completely. But he caught the gist, just same. He would go through all the required motions, but in the back of his mind he knew he was helpless. What was coming, he realized with a throbbing certainty amplified by the wine, was only natural. Jesus, how sick that sounded to his private ear. Still, he wouldn't give in without a fight, for that, too, was only natural. Quietly he stared at the lines she'd cut, mesmerized by their orderliness.
Ivy, too, studied the straightness of her lines, her upper lip hidden beneath the lower. She was the first to notice the silence, to sense its uneasy drift. With a great gust, she blew the white lines from the table and looked across the table at him with a renewed smile.
"Oh, hey. Sorry. I had a little skip down unhappy-memory-lane there for a second, is all. I hope I didn't upset you."
Peter looked at her. He shook his head, then rose without a word and carried his coffee cup into the kitchen.
"Hey, you want to open more wine?" Ivy was at his side, carrying their empty glasses. "I've been here only three weeks and already have a prototype of my speech interface working." The trembling of her hand caused the glasses to steadily clink together, a fragile ringing sound. She didn't seem to notice. "Come on, let's celebrate."
He rested his hand over the glasses, silencing them. "We've had enough."
She narrowed the already small space between them, and he slid his hands into his pockets, not sure what to do with them. "Thank you for such a great meal," he said, and made an attempt to get past her.
She giggled, held her ground.
He let out a frustrated breath. "Please," he said. "I've got to get to bed." There was no humor in his face.
"All right, then," she said sullenly, and pressed her back against the doorjamb, making way for him.
Just as he was about to shut off the stereo he changed his mind, and decided to leave it on. To keep Kate there with him, he thought, humming along with her voice on his way to his bedroom.
He lit a single candle and placed it on the floor beside his futon bed. Except for the thick stuffed sleeping mat, some books piled against the wall, a Tizio lamp and the Zuni Indian sculpture of a bear that Kate had given him one birthday, his bedroom was bare, like the rest of the house.
He tossed his clothes onto the floor and sat in the lotus position on the soft cotton mat. Kate had introduced him to the basics of meditation when they had first started dating, teaching him to lead himself into natural, peaceful sleep. He closed his eyes and concentrated on relaxing the muscles in his neck and shoulders. Gradually he worked his way down, through the rest of his body. His breathing slowed, and he imagined whiteness, weightlessness. The whiteness slashed into a black surface and he thought of Ivy and the dining room table, her playing with the little blue packet. He pushed this away and brought back the pure white. After a short period, the soft whispering snowstorm turned to warm earth tones, to Kate's lovely hair…
The sound of footsteps broke his concentration. He opened his eyes.
Ivy stood before him, wearing a lightweight cotton kimono. Her face glowed warmly in the candlelight. Her voice was a mere whisper. "I want to be with you."
Peter remained seated in the lotus position, unable, it seemed, to move. He became sharply aware of her delicate physique, his nakedness. He felt their vulnerable auras bending toward one another, reaching. He thought about what he'd come to realize at the dinner table, the feeling of dread inside him that seemed to suddenly threaten everything in his life. He thought of telling her about the few close calls he had had over the past couple of years, how they had ended in tears and shattered dreams for the students. He thought of telling her that in all their years together he had never been unfaithful to Kate. He thought of telling her that in all their years together, Wallaby had never been unfaithful to him, and it was the same thing. Was, he wanted to say aloud and tell her, tell anyone who'd listen, why.
But he told her none of these things. Instead he said to himself, without uttering a word, I had a lot to drink, it was the wine. But was he really that drunk, or was it something else? Something worse? That he even considered this excuse, that he was actually entertaining a defense for something that had not even happened, not yet, presaged the guilt that would follow if he were to allow them to come together. And apart. And it was all the same thing, he told himself. Today, tomorrow, and the next day and every day after that.
He considered her. She was an angel whose mission was to ease him into the hereafter. He concluded, when he noticed a powdery white substance encircling the inner edge of her nostrils, that she was already "there," perhaps even farther, some point beyond recognition. As if she interpreted this, she brushed her nose with the back of her hand and sniffled.
"Peter," she pleaded, her voice husky, "You've empowered me.You've given me a whole new meaning. It's my future."
Somehow her words had breaking effect on him. He was both repulsed and beholden by her sentiment. By himself. He turned his face toward the window, fighting the urge to reach out and pull her down by the waist. It was not as if he were in love with this young girl. And the way she made it sound, he was acting on her behalf, like she needed him. Not the other way around. No, not that at all. He didn't need her. She was nothing to him. Just another worshipper in a long string of subjects.
And, as if to prove his cruel pretense, she knelt before him. Her soft knees touched his shins. He smelled the peppery sweetness of her breath, and his eyes lingered on her radiant golden hair. He looked into her shining, anticipating eyes.
With a deep, winded sigh that was almost a cry, he finally acknowledged his fear. It was inevitable, he told himself, as he felt himself rising. He placed his fingertips about her neck, traced his thumbs along her delicate lips, her precious ears, touched her smooth eyelids, and gently pressed them shut. Her breath hitched, and she waited for his touch to lead them farther.
He slid the kimono from her lean body, and guided her hands to his shoulders. He drew her down, guiding her to his hips. Her smooth buttocks slid along his thighs. He felt her pause as she settled onto him, over him.
They kissed.
She pulled away her lips and raised her hips.
He moved his mind to another place, into and around and between Kate's lovely, far-off lyrics. He concentrated, tuned himself to her rhythm.
Down, then up, then again, she slowly drove herself harder and harder. He matched her motion with equal urgency, little lunging lifts, telling himself at the same time that he was not participating, not really, that she was doing all of the work, it was all her, not him. Their mouths worked desperately, lunging for one another, each attempt to kiss more impossible, more desired than the last…
Spent, he felt a delirious sense of relief, as if it had all been a bizarre dream from which he had just awakened. He raised his head from the mat. For a brief, wanting moment he envisioned Kate resting lightly on top of him.
The music had ended, the silence was palpable.
His mind collapsed. He felt as if he had taken an enormous plunge backward from a high altitude, his head dizzy, his thoughts vague as he fell. He squirmed beneath the full weight the young girl lying atop him, trying to escape from what they had done. He wanted tonight to be over. He wanted tomorrow to be over. He wanted both gone forever. He wanted another chance.
Ivy stirred. She raised her head off Peter's chest and looked at him. Her face was glistening, content. "Thank you," was all she said. She raised herself from him and collected her kimono. She covered him lightly with the comforter, blew out the candle, and vanished.
He tested his defense. A whisper: "It was the wine - "
But he could not complete the sentence, for it was already done. And it was not the wine. It was another thing altogether. And he felt it now.
The little thing in his heart. The little thing that had come and gone earlier in the evening. It was back again. It lay quietly, barely perceptible, like the breathing of a tiny creature, and he had almost not noticed it. But there was no mistaking it now, and he fought to grasp hold of it, to suffocate it, but his attempts were futile. It felt as though the thing had established permanent residency.
For many hours, until his consciousness finally succumbed to mental depletion, he was disturbed by a queer premonition. That the dark, throbbing thing in his heart was determined to eat its way out, ever so slowly, boring straight through the only parts that Peter had ever loved, the only parts that had ever mattered.
It was a bright, hazy morning, not yet seven o'clock, but already hot and humid, which wasn't so unusual for a June day in New York City. William Harrell braced himself for the cool comfort of the limousine's air-conditioned interior.
For twenty-five minutes he would relax in a comfortable silent plushness. He stretched his legs, lengthening his taut body until his feet touched the facing seatback. His calves responded wearily. Last evening's workout, the first in more than a week, had taken its toll. He had skipped several sessions since putting in longer hours over the past couple of days, working on the company's portable computer strategy. The break in his routine, regardless of whatever aches and pains it caused, brought him the kind of excitement on which he thrived. His regal face had the precisely aged features of a character actor cast in the role of judge, or the President of the United States. On occasion he wore glasses, when he remembered, for seeing things up close. At sixty-two, his looks suited his job perfectly.
The car briskly pulled away from the brownstone, his course and destination the same today as it had been each business day for the past fourteen years.
He eagerly unfolded the "Wall Street Journal. In the News Brief column analysts speculated as they did every quarter about changes at Wallaby, Incorporated. According to the story, sources close to the company suggested that the company's founder, Peter Jones, and its president, Matthew Locke, were not getting along as famously as they once had. There was speculation that a major, long-overdue reorganization would be announced in today's board meeting. Matthew Locke's corporate organizational changes at International Foods were revisited. A Wallaby engineer who had asked to remain anonymous was quoted: "Jones has created a rivalry between his division [Joey] and ours [Mate]." The informant went on, "It's really strange. Jones invented the Mate, yet he says that anyone who is not associated with the Joey is a bozo." The article explained that separate product divisions were precisely what Matthew Locke had earlier in his career put an end to at International Foods, when he had merged the food and beverage divisions, as well as several other minor groups, into one umbrella organization. A brief background story on the Joey discussed its sparse sales and the fact that few software programs were available for use with the computer, underscoring the analysts' predictions of a major overhaul. All of the experts agreed that the product was revolutionary and proclaimed that if Wallaby could speed Joey applications to market, it could then gain major market share and thereby disarm the older, less flashy technology of its largest competitor, International Computer Products. The consensus was that Wallaby had to get its act together if it was to have any hope of remaining at the forefront of portable computer technology innovation.
William Harrell smiled. That was exactly what he had hoped to read. He folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the seat beside him.
The car neared its destination, turning for the final stretch onto a block with the largest buildings in the city.
If everything went as the analysts predicted, William Harrell would soon begin implementing his new plan. The existing one, a conservative strategy that the company had followed for two years, would soon be replaced with one informed by none of the customary Fortune 500 company protocol. William Harrell's plan was based on a decision he had made two years ago, around the same time the press had touted Wallaby's newly appointed president, Matthew Locke, as "ICP's Nemesis."
The car slowed in front of a massive building with a black marble facade. William adjusted his tie and tugged at the jacket of his charcoal pinstriped suit. As the driver opened his door the city air hit him like a furnace blast. Towering above him were seventy-six stories of world renowned corporate power, wholly occupied by the company whose name was carved in stone above the building's entrance: INTERNATIONAL COMPUTER PRODUCTS.
He entered the building, rode the elevator to its highest level, greeted his secretary, and entered his office, on whose door a golden plaque announced: Chairman & Chief Executive Officer.
* * *
Each member of the board and of the senior executive staff filed into the Wallaby boardroom. Most of them arrived at eight o'clock sharp, avoiding the usual idle conversation that, in the past, had always taken place outside the room.
Matthew's secretary, Eileen, stood in the doorway of his office."It's time," she said, then returned to her desk.
Matthew stood. He clipped his pen to the yellow tablet on which he'd been writing.
Eileen busied herself at her desk, arranging papers and notes.She paused and said, "Matthew, good luck."
He gave her a small nod and headed for the boardroom.
The exotic fruits, croissants, pastries, coffee, and bottles of mineral water on the table set up outside the boardroom had hardly been touched. Normally the table would be nearly empty by now, and the executive staff secretaries, disguising their cravings by pretending to go to the ladies' room, would pick over the remains once the boardroom door had closed and the meeting was underway. But today they could enjoy themselves in a leisurely fashion, for none of the board members seemed to have appetites.
The room fell from a fuzzy hum to heavy silence when Matthew entered. Immediately he saw that Peter had not yet arrived. He seated himself in one of two vacant leather chairs at either end of the long, black table. The room's amenities and furnishings were simple and high-tech. Bleached wood paneling on one wall stood in stark contrast with the deep charcoal rug. On the wall opposite the windows, a series of segmented panels unfolded to reveal a massive rear-projection movie screen. At the other end, audiovisual equipment was stacked behind hinged, smoked-glass doors. Here, encapsulated multimedia performances, new product videos, employee interviews, research and development sneak previews, and live TV spots or teleconferences were viewed with the touch of a finger. Today, however, the equipment would remain silent and cool, the master of ceremonies unaided by electronic wizardry.
The room offered a panoramic view of the Santa Cruz Mountains, which rolled northwestward toward San Francisco. The five board members and a couple of Wallaby's senior executives faced this view, while the less senior executives sat with their backs to the windows. Peter Jones had personally selected every person for his or her position in this room, most of them more than eight years ago.
Sitting here, waiting, Matthew Locke's confidence began to falter. The expressions around the table were grim, as all were aware of the forthcoming conflict. Had Matthew inspected the trashcan beside the security desk in the building's lobby, he would have found several discarded copies of the "Wall Street Journal," each affixed with a small mailing label addressed to one of the persons seated around the table. Each would have read the article predicting changes in this very board meeting, and would know that the speculations were about to be substantiated. Like the emotionally battered children of distraught and noncommunicative parents, those in the room would have to choose to which parent they would commit their trust, to the man who could best repair Wallaby and lead the company from its stalled state to a prosperous future. While he had already gained secret votes of confidence from every person present, he was nonetheless struck in the pit of his stomach by a gross realization. Here he sat among men and women expressly chosen by Peter for their roles, in this room whose design Peter had personally approved, in this building that was only one of many representing the company that Peter Jones had founded, in this little town to which he had brought international recognition. Did Matthew really believe, as he sat here waiting, that he could actually unseat Peter from this very room? From this very legend?
With an imperceptible shudder, Matthew flung this thought from his mind and replaced it with memories of the time and energy he had invested in preparation for this day.
Seated to his right and facing the windows was Hank Towers, assistant chairman, and Wallaby's primary investor. Over the past several months Matthew had spent a considerable amount of time with Hank, and he had agreed with most of Matthew's ideas about how Wallaby should be managed. He had pored over the reports and strategies that Matthew collected, giving particular attention to a recent Harvard Business School study that described a phenomenon with which every successful company must eventually contend. It stated that by the time a business is ten years old, its original founders have left. There were exceptions, of course. The founding pair of Hewlett-Packard, for example, had remained with the company for several decades and both still held directorial roles. And, a little closer to the issue at hand was ICP, which was founded in the 1930s by Jonathan Holmes, who had stayed on for half a century before turning the business over to his son, Byron. But in most cases the departure of a founder was a natural occurrence. Typically, he or she left to begin a new venture, however the second most prevalent manner of departure was less amicable; the founder was forced out of the company because he or she was hampering rather than helping the company. If anyone could appreciate this it was Hank. Three years ago he had persuaded Peter to let him begin a worldwide search for a candidate who could take his place as president of Wallaby, managing its day-to-day operations. What's more, it was Hank who had recommended Matthew after reading about him in "Business Week." The story had commended Matthew's successes at International Foods, noting that he was one of the youngest and most effective Fortune 500 presidents, and speculating that he was being groomed by International's stuffy and conservative chairman, Rolland Worthy, to take the elder's place when he retired.
But today his reputation as the once-mighty leader of a large food and beverage company gave him little faith in his strategy, which was beginning to taste more and more stale each passing minute.
The door opened and Peter Jones entered the room. All around the table the members rearranged themselves, sitting more erect, seeming to have acquired a sudden intense interest in the figures and data and notes piled before them - anything to avoid making eye contact with the newest and final arrival. Dressed in a faultlessly fitted Armani suit, crisp white shirt and subdued floral patterned tie, Peter gave the impression of a corporate messiah, capable of both vision and leadership. He appeared well rested and cheery as he entered the room, his eyes scanning the table warmly.
Matthew's stomach flipped. No amount of planning or rehearsing could have prepared him for the aura of power emanating from his rival. Even after working with him for more than twenty-four months, Matthew still felt mildly intimidated in the young man's presence.
Peter seated himself directly across from Matthew, twenty feet opposite, and opened his smooth, black leather portfolio. They exchanged an expressionless stare, which was broken when Martin Cohn, vice president of corporate development and liaison to the board of directors, began the meeting.
"We don't have an agenda to hand out today," Martin said withuncharacteristic seriousness. "Let's begin." He nodded toMatthew, then diverted his attention out the window, avoidingPeter's puzzled expression.
* * *
Greta Locke awoke with no great desire to leave her warm bed. She had slept fitfully; Matthew had tossed and bucked through the night, and the few times she tried to soothe or comfort him, he had turned on his side with an irked sigh.
She wondered if the board meeting at Wallaby had started. It didn't matter really, everything was going to be just fine. Stretching, she sat up and adjusted her silk gloves. She leaned across the bed to the night table and opened its drawer, taking from it a fine Swiss biscuit that she unwrapped and bit into as she pulled the sheets from her body and got out of bed. She didn't feel like taking a shower, not right now, anyway. She took her silk robe from the door hook as she passed the bathroom.
Slowly she descended the stairs. With each step her mind turned over her options for the day ahead. Stanford Mall? Union Square again? Clothes? Gourmet food?
Her housekeeper, Marie, appeared at the bottom of the stairway. She was wearing rubber gloves and carrying a bucket filled with a strong-smelling ammonia solution. She greeted Greta with an obedient smile.
"Mrs. Locke, I cleaned the windows on the patio outside."
"Fine, I'll inspect them," Greta said, pivoting from the last step.
She strolled into the large black and white tiled kitchen and opened the refrigerator. As she reached for the pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, she noticed an open bottle of Mumm champagne resting on the back shelf. Why not a mimosa, she decided, to celebrate Matthew's success.
She tugged the elaborate silver stopper from the bottle. It popped weakly, and the champagne fizzed lightly as she topped off her half-full glass of orange juice.
Give yourself a hand, she thought wryly, remembering back to the first time she and Matthew had toasted with drinks. This came to mind every time she had a fizzy juice cocktail. They had met at International Foods' advertising agency. She had been hired as a hand model. It was what she, Gretchen Bonner, had done before she had met Matthew. In her lovely hand she had been holding a can of Orange Fresh, a new, all-natural carbonated orange beverage. While at the agency for another meeting, Matthew had dropped in on the shoot. His eyes had locked on the beautiful hand wrapped around his newest beverage invention. He followed the hand to the arm to the body to the face. Holding his creation perfectly still in her hand, the woman glanced at Matthew and smiled. She was perfect for the part, and when the shoot was over he offered her a glass of International Foods' own brand of vodka over ice. She accepted the drink, warning him that she would become woozy if she drank it straight on the rocks. She poured Orange Fresh into the glass and took a sip. She said she liked it better that way, sweet. At that very instant, unknown to either of them, she had single-handedly invented a multimillion dollar market segment for International Foods, for which Matthew would later garner considerable praise.
Marie entered the kitchen. Forgetting discretion, the servant allowed her critical gaze to rest for a moment too long on the open bottle of champagne in Greta's hand. Bad move.
Greta placed the bottle on the granite counter, set down her glass and, walking toward the long, sweeping kitchen windows, removed the glove from her right hand. "Marie," she called.
Marie, who had gone back to her business, faced her employer. She brushed her hand across her blinking eyes, which showed the effects of ammonia vapors.
"I think these need cleaning too," Greta said, running her index finger along the windows. She smirked.
"Of course, Mrs. Locke."
"And don't forget the outside," Greta added, picking up her drink. She gulped down half of it, then poured the remainder of the champagne into her glass. She left the empty bottle on the counter, and opened the refrigerator again and searched its open shelves for breakfast. She took a plastic container and opened it. Inside were two slices of veal left over from last night's meal. She ate one of the slices. The sauce was congealed and hardened, but the meat tasted good, and she licked the oily shine from her fingers. Her mood was returning to normal.
Greta exited the kitchen and stretched out on the couch in the sitting room. Her hand found the remote control between the cushions and she pointed the thing at the television and pressed its buttons, sipping her drink as the screen flipped through channels. Her mind flipped through its own channels, still contemplating what to do with her day.
She stopped on a commercial showing a young, laughing couple running along a beach hand in hand. It was interspersed with quick, one-second images of cocktails, dancing, dining. It concluded with the pair on horseback, galloping down the beach into the sunset, leaving her with the message: "Live again!"
She tucked the device between the pillows and set her empty glass on the coffee table; she had resolved today's activity dilemma.
In the bedroom she tossed her robe onto the bed. Hesitating, she considered showering. She decided against it; she'd only get dirty again in an hour or so. She pulled on jeans, a rugged cotton shirt, and a scarf. From the closet she collected her riding boots and a vest. She refreshed her color with a slash of blush across each cheek. Running a brush through her hair, she caught the white flash of the remaining silk glove shrouding her left hand. Casting her glance out the window, she removed it and took a pair of worn leather riding gloves from her vest pocket. She put them on, taking extra care with the left one, adjusting it carefully so that it appeared to fit naturally. There.
She backed her car from the garage and slid her sunglasses on her face and cruised down the twisting road, feeling a little buzzed as the convertible gained speed, the wind whipping all around her.
This area of Woodside was hilly and lush. Either side of the road occasionally gave way to gated driveways or hedged walls. At certain bends, off to the right and downhill, she could see the small, artificial lake resting in the middle of this particular smart-set valley. It was a short drive, her destination within walking distance of her home had she chosen to take the footpath that circled the lake.
She turned onto the long private drive. The hot pavement turned to dusty road as she approached the ranch. She passed a small stilted shed that marked the property line of the ranch. To the right, in a liberally spaced cluster, were two cottages, a ranch house, a small stable, and a second, larger double-door barn. Dressage and jumping rings were not far from these buildings, separated from the lake by a dirt path. In one of the fenced circles a trainer led a tethered Morgan colt in medium-sized circles, gently guiding the shining black animal with a long lunge whip. In another ring a young girl neatly sailed a black Hanoverian over post-and-rail jumps, under the instruction of a tall man dressed in mixed hues of indigo. Greta had never seen the man here before. From this distance he appeared lithe and attractive, and her curiosity was piqued. As if sensing her appraisal, he turned and looked in her direction. He leveled his hand against his brow to shield the sunlight. As he did this, she noticed that he was wearing an odd white garment over his right arm; it took her an instant to realize it was a sling.
She raised her sunglasses from her face and settled them in her hair. Had the man been looking at her or at something else nearby? He turned back to the rider, signing with a wave, then turned and jogged out of the ring, disappearing into the smaller barn.
She climbed out of the car and proceeded to the massive double doors. Inside, she was surrounded on either side by large beautiful horses of various breeds. Their heads turned in her direction as she passed. Occasionally she stopped to pet a particular animal owned by an acquaintance. She grew excited by the smell of the horses, the dust, the feed, and the dryness, and was glad she had decided to come here to ride. When she wasn't shopping or doing the other things that consumed the hours of her day, this was her passion, being here at the ranch with these beautiful, powerful creatures.
Stall 28, at the end of a long row, held Mighty Boy, her four-year-old thoroughbred stallion. So black he was almost purple, Mighty Boy had been a gift from Matthew when they had moved to California.
"Hi sweetie," Greta said, stroking the animal's head. She nuzzled her face into his cheek, her chestnut hair mixing and mingling with his black mane. The horse nodded and whinnied, happy for her arrival.
"Hello, Mrs. Locke," said Jennifer, the ranch's owner. She was a solid woman with white-gray hair and eternally sun-squinted eyes. "What a happy boy he is," Jennifer said. "Everyone who sees him is in awe of his beauty."
"He is a pretty boy, isn't he?" Greta said. She paused to appraise the animal for a moment before leading him out of his stall.
Jennifer slipped Mighty Boy a treat and patted his head."Gorgeous day for a ride."