He then showed a slide bearing an ICP BP computer graphic with a circle around it and a slash through it, like the "No Smoking" signs found in public areas. A few chuckles emerged from the darkness.
"Consequently - by design, if you will - few of us at Wallaby are apt to perceive an opportunity that could take advantage of ICP's Goliath size. Locked into our rivalry with ICP, we're too busy reacting, competing with our portable computer technology as if we had a chance to displace its impersonal, worldwide installed-base of systems."
He let them absorb this truth for a few moments, then removed the slide, allowing a pause before asking his next question.
"But what if the Joey Plus were equipped to make a huge leap into the big game?"
Chairs creaked, and elbows settled on the table as those seated around the table moved forward to more attentive positions. The next slide showed the Wallaby Joey Plus computer screen again. But in this one, the ICP globe logo was orbiting within it, with the baby kangaroo hopping from the U.S., across the Atlantic, to Europe.
Matthew heard whispers and low voices. In an instant he understood his position with profound clarity. Here he stood, in the place that for the last decade had been occupied by Peter Jones, with his hand on the lever that, once thrown, would forever alter the focus of Wallaby. He threw it.
"I believe that Wallaby has the potential to penetrate the worldwide installed-base of ICP computer users by becoming more compatible with ICP systems."
Not surprisingly, Hank was the first to protest. Incredulous, he rose from his seat. "Matthew, are you proposing we build an ICP clone computer?" His alarm was amplified by the others, and the room suddenly erupted into a rumble of questioning voices.
"Wait. Listen," Matthew pleaded. "Please."
Hank dropped back in his chair, turning his attention to Matthew.The others followed his lead and quieted.
"No. Hank. We would not, not ever, develop systems that operated ICP's system software. First of all, we would continue with our design to evolve the Joey hardware, adding a simple, inexpensive port that would provide an easy connection to ICP mainframes and workgroup networks. Second, we would implement system software communication hooks in our operating system, which would read and understand file formats and information from ICP systems. These hooks are what would enable the user to easily manage the massive ICP mainframe databases from within Joey software applications, as well as share data between personal programs like word processing documents, spreadsheets, and graphics, to name a few."
Hank was slowly nodding. "We're following you, go on."
The room fell silent, and Matthew placed his next graphic on the overhead.
"We've got a window of opportunity, and if we can act quickly and bring compatibility products to market in the next quarter, Wallaby would enjoy the rewards of major penetration within a year."
The attendees were leaning to one side or the other, whispering back and forth. What Matthew was able to discern sounded positive, and, sensing no opposition, he placed the next slide, a proposed schedule. Midway through the his timeline breakdown, Graham Stevens, vice president of personnel, spoke up.
"Pardon me for the interruption, Matthew." Stevens removed his glasses and folded his hands on the table. His face bore the troubled look of a professor deliberating a complex formula. "There's one thing that concerns me. Something that does not appear on the schedule."
Matthew took a step away from the projector. "Please, go on."
"This company, as you pointed out when you started, was trained to think of ICP as the enemy. Do you really believe we can get the employees to support a strategy that slants us toward our biggest competitor?" His question was supported by contemplative murmuring throughout the room.
"That's a very important question," Matthew said. He tucked his hands into his pockets. "Perhaps the most important of all."
In fact, it was. He had asked himself the same question a thousand times. And he knew he had to be very careful with his response. Both the reason and the solution had come to him when he had asked himself why, all along, ICP had never simply threatened Wallaby with a hostile takeover. The reason was simple - ICP could not acquire Wallaby and hope for the company to succeed without support from Wallaby's highest-level executives and employees. This was precisely where Matthew fit into the whole plan. He was the horticulturist who would graft the sapling Wallaby onto the deeply rooted, sky-high tree that was ICP. He would nurture the company into accepting that this was the right thing to do, this second phase of providing compatibility with ICP's systems. He would convince them that while maintaining its personality, Wallaby would also grow vigorously in size and sales. Later, in the final phase - the plan's ultimate goal - after Matthew's compatibility strategy had proven successful and thereby gained the employees' trust, the process for merging the two companies would begin.
He seated himself casually on the edge of the table. "When Peter and Hank started Wallaby," he said, dropping a nod to the cofounder, "they had a vision of placing into people's hands their own computing power. Naturally this was perceived as competition to ICP because it is also a computer company, which quickly brought to market its own all-in-one computer. But what I've come to understand is that we have a valuable product that can make greater headway by coexisting with ICP's computers rather than try to overtake it directly. And if we carefully educate our employees that it's our vision to keep building great portable computers for individuals, which can also connect to other systems, then yes, we can pull it off." His voice was piping with conviction and enthusiasm. "Joey, with its innovative mobile and expandable design, becomes the dynamic key that opens doors to other systems and other markets around the world."
"It would be tough, Matthew," Graham said, curling his index finger against his chin, "but if we were to get you out there, talking to our people about this strategy, I think you're right. We could pull it off."
Did this first agreement, from the man who raised the most difficult question of all, presage the entire team's vote? Had he just persuaded them to place in him their faith to change the lifeblood vision of the entire company?
He switched off the projector and brightened the room's lights. "Before I go on, it may be good to get an idea of how many of us agree on this strategy."
"Right," Hank said, helping him along. "I think it's smart, mature. Clearly a direction in which we should consider moving. However," he cautioned, sweeping the group with his serious eyes, "only if we can handle the perception aspect of it with the employees. Only as long as we make them understand that we're not selling out and building a clone, that we are actually making our Joey the best choice of portable computer on its own, and in tandem with ICP's computers. If we can accomplish that, then I think we could eventually come out ahead of the game."
Matthew experienced an epiphany. Hank had just explained Matthew's strategy exactly as he wanted them to see it. Furthermore, Hank's approval signified a point that was especially penetrating to the people seated there - higher stock prices. For each of them, this translated to even greater personal wealth.
Matthew quickly took advantage of Hank's definition, while the carrot still hung in the air. "Does anyone disagree with the concept?"
Heads turned, searching for dissent.
None.
He felt a powerful thrill wash though him like the one he had experienced at the last quarterly board meeting, when his organizational design had flexed Peter Jones out of his way. In the last meeting he had been given the opportunity to prove himself. Now, with the new strategy revealed, they had become his followers. They believed in him. That was what it all came down to. They trusted him with their future.
"Very well," Matthew said. He switched off the overhead lights again and returned to the projector. With his finger on the switch, he bade farewell to the old Wallaby, farewell to Peter Jones. He flicked the machine on, and alighted the screen with his next slide: "The Whole World In Your Hand: Wallaby's Future."
* * *
"Thanks, Hank," Matthew said, gripping Hank's arm with one hand, the other locked in a firm handshake.
The board room door silently swung shut, and Matthew dropped himself heavily into one of the chairs and let out a long satisfied sigh.
He'd done it. From here on, it would be smooth sailing. With the executive's support in the bag, he was now free to turn his secret plan into reality. And what did it translate to for him personally? The power and the rewards would be astronomical.
"How'd it go?"
He had not heard anyone enter the room and, startled, he turned to find Laurence Maupin. For the briefest moment he just sat there and admired her in her finely tailored light linen suit. Her soft and flowing honey-colored hair framed her fresh intelligent face, and in her delicate hands she clutched a small bundle of budding branches, held together by a blue ribbon.
"It went great," Matthew said, blinking with exultation at the sound of his own pleased voice. Then, unable to contain his satisfaction, his smile broke into a broad grin. "Really great," he spilled, feeling remarkably comfortable in revealing his joy in front of her.
"That's wonderful, Matthew. Wonderful!" she said, closing the space between them. "These are for you," she said, holding out the bundle.
"Pussy willow," he remarked. He felt a tingling sensation in his finger, where it had brushed hers. "Where did you get them?"
"Believe it or not, I found a bush of them in Woodside. I stole some for you," she said with a mischievous chuckle.
"Thank you," he said, able to meet her eyes only for a second. Her unanticipated arrival and the gift she had brought made him suddenly feel awkward and boyish. It was as if the room, his heart, had all at once changed seasons, going from the promise of spring to the all-out heat of summer. He watched her flip through his collection of slides, and he felt the light tingle return, this time in another place, as she keenly examined his illustrations.
She beamed at him and tapped the topmost slide. "Matthew, it's brilliant. Just three months, and you're already making important changes."
"Thank you. But you deserve some of the credit. Your coaching has been a great help."
"That's my job," she said. "Eileen said you have no other meetings this afternoon."
"None. I didn't know how long this would take."
She returned the slides to the manila folder, then circled her hands around the neck of the overhead projector. "Then how about lunch?"
"Good idea."
"Great. What do you say to San Francisco? I've got to run a few errands, and you can drop me off at home later in the afternoon since I don't have my car. It's being serviced."
He hesitated, then shrugged. "Why not. I think I deserve the rest of the day off. And I haven't been to the city for lunch in a long time." He had forgotten that she lived in San Francisco. Lunch, then a ride home.
They gathered his materials and in a few minutes were on the highway and heading for the city.
He felt relaxed in the car with her. With absurd clarity it occurred to him that while they had worked together almost constantly for several months, everything they had discussed pertained to business. How could he have been so focused on his work and not gotten to know her better? Now, he decided, was as good a time as any.
"How are you adjusting? This being your first full-time job and everything?"
"Excellent. Of course, working with you has made it all worth it."
He had hired her fresh out of school, graduating with a communications degree from Villanova. The previous summer she had been an intern, working in the public relations department as an apprentice speech writer. On two occasions she had assisted Matthew in preparing his speeches. The impression she had left him with was so positive that he had had his secretary contact Laurence as she neared graduation, to ask if she would be interested in working for him as his personal press assistant. Although she was inexperienced, she really had helped him. Enormously. Not only where his public image was concerned, as when she had smoothly handled the press for him after Peter Jones's departure, but also with his self-image, the hours they spent together in coaching sessions, counseling him on his manner and style, reinforcing his self-confidence. He felt as though some transformation was about to happen between them, some new level of communication.
"…right there," she said, pointing to the high hills and valley a half-mile in the distance, to the east.
He had been daydreaming. "I'm sorry?" he said.
"My horse. That's where I keep my horse."
"At Woodside Ranch?"
"Yes."
"That's where my wife keeps hers, too." He remembered Greta for the first time since leaving the house that morning.
"They have a new trainer who recently came to the States to start a new polo club. He's fabulous."
"Maybe that's Greta's trainer."
"It is," Laurence said, then, quickly: "I mean, he knows her, mentions her horse. He said Mighty Boy is the most beautiful horse he's ever seen."
"He's something, all right," Matthew said, changing lanes.
"I'm happy to be riding again. I've missed it so. In school I rarely got home to see my parents in Los Angeles. My father sponsors polo players, did I already mention that? I'm sorry, I'm rambling."
"Not at all. I want to know more."
"Well, a couple of years ago my father spent a year in North Carolina, opening a new company. While he was there he got hooked on polo. That was just when I had gone east for school. I felt like I needed a break from La-La Land, and Philadelphia seemed like as good a place as any, and the school was one of the best for liberal arts. Anyway, I'd fly down to see dad every now and then while he was in the South. We went to a couple polo tournaments together. By the time he went back home he was a member of the Equestrian Center in Griffith Park, in LA. I was quite taken with the game myself, the valiance."
Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Matthew was enjoying himself immensely. In the distance the city came into sight. Seeing the tall buildings, the two magnificent bridges, the bay, he experienced a sense of newfound being. He thought of Greta, and how, in all the time they had lived here and she had had her horse, Matthew had never been the least bit interested in her hobby. Yet when Laurence spoke of it, he was intrigued. The Valley felt well behind him now. Before him lay a completely different world, and his insides stirred with the same excited nervousness a schoolboy feels on a class trip. "I don't come to the city often," he said, "so I'm at your mercy."
"Don't worry, you're in good hands. How about Union Square for lunch? It's near the shop where I have to pick up something."
"Sounds fine," Matthew said.
They pulled off the highway and wound their way through the busy city streets to Union Square. He pulled up in front of the Campton Hotel, and the attendant took the car.
"Can we shop first?" Laurence said. "I'll just run in and tell them we'll have lunch around two o'clock."
With an appraising eye, the formally dressed door attendant held the door for her. After she vanished into the lobby he stole a cursory glance at Matthew, the man so lucky to be with such an exquisite woman. The other man's envy brought a smile to Matthew's face. A minute later she was back.
"All set," she said, then frowned. "What's so funny?"
"Nothing," he said, overshooting his innocence. "I'm just happy.I feel like I'm playing hooky," he said honestly.
"Come one," she said, tugging playfully on his arm. She led them into oncoming traffic and, with city-smart agility, navigated them to the other side of the street. They strolled past the Hyatt and turned onto Post Street. The sun shone brightly on Union Square, and a cable car bell rang out on Powell Street. He fell back a step behind her when they crossed the street to admire the way her wavy hair bounced on her shoulders with each determined step. His eyes trailed to her waist, so perfect and slender, then lower, to the lovely curves of her bottom. She stopped so suddenly he almost crashed into her.
"This is it," she said, standing before an old shop. "It's like a toy store for me," she added, pressing through the doors. For an instant he had the pleasure of seeing the flat of her hand pressed against the glass. Even after they were inside, this image lingered bright in his mind's eye like sunspots on the eyelids.
"Come on," she said, tugging his arm again. She led him to an open stairway that rose to the second floor. He saw various equestrian products as they climbed the stairs. Saddles hung over the rail encircling the upper level, and rows of boots lined the wall, with riding crops, helmets, and assorted garments displayed throughout. He trailed after her as she strode to the rear wall and stopped before a case of leather riding gloves. She spun, hands at rest behind her on either side of the display case. "Do you know about Swaine Adeney?" she said, playfully affecting a British accent. "It was founded in London in 1750. They are the exclusive suppliers of fine equestrian products to the royal family."
"May I help you?" asked a young, dark-haired woman wrapped tightly in a tweed outfit.
Laurence turned serious. "I'd like a pair of these gloves." She tapped her finger on the glass in front of a simple brown pair.
Matthew swallowed. Gloves. The thought of Laurence hiding her beautiful hands inside a pair of gloves prickled his skin with a sensation that was very close to terror. He thought of Greta. Her gloves, so many gloves. Leather, wool, and cotton. Suede, cashmere, and silk. Oh, he thought with dread, those especially, which she had worn to bed every night since the accident…
"Do you like them, Matthew?" Laurence said, flexing ten delicately gloved fingers before him.
"Yes," he said, forcing a smile. "Very much."
"These are our finest pigskin gloves," the sales clerk informed them.
"I'll take them."
"Very good," said the woman, accepting the gloves from Laurence. She closed the cabinet and locked it, and they followed her back down to the lower level. Before Laurence could withdraw her charge card from her wallet, Matthew reached for his own.
"Wait, Lauri. I want to buy those for you."
"Don't be silly."
"Please. A small token of my appreciation," he said. "Please?"
The clerk accepted his credit card.
"I'll treasure them," Laurence said with a pleasant smile. "Thank you."
They strolled back to the hotel, where they were immediately seated in a booth in the rear of the Campton Place. There were few other diners; it was late in the afternoon, and most of the see-and-be-seen crowd was already gone.
"How about Champagne?" Laurence asked. "A toast your success."
The wine steward uncorked a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and they toasted, and while they enjoyed an excellent lunch, she spoke again about horses and polo.
"I would love to go to France. I've never been there. I would give anything to see the championship tournament that's held every summer in Deauville."
Hearing her talk about it, he thought that it might be exciting to go there. With her? Was that why it would be exciting? What had happened in the last couple of hours? What was it she had said or done to break down the restraint he had exercised for the past couple of months, which he now fully acknowledged?
With this thought, and all their talk about horses, he thought again of his wife, and the realization that this pleasant afternoon with Laurence would soon be over.
Back outside, the attendant brought him his car.
"Where exactly do you live?" Asking this question, it occurred to him that he had learned more about her this afternoon than in all their of previous times together.
"In Pacific Heights. Well, lower Pacific Heights. I can't afford real Pac Heights yet."
"Is that where you would like to live eventually?"
"Not really. I don't think I'm really a city person at heart." She directed him up Pine Street to Fillmore, then to a narrow street called Wilmot. Hidden in the middle of the busy Fillmore shopping district, it looked more like an alley than a proper street. He found its concealment unusually exciting.
"There, the second house."
He braked before one of three houses tucked into he middle of the block, sandwiched between business establishments.
"Well," he said. "I had a wonderful time."
"Me too," she said, folding over the top of the bag in her lap.
He paused, unsure what to do next. The air in the car felt charged with possibility, promise. He acknowledged his attraction to her. She stirred in him feelings he had not felt in years, which now suddenly gushed free inside him after today's victory. When she had entered the boardroom, he had felt a potent sense of longing. How long had it been since he had been satisfied, really satisfied? Again his thoughts turned to Greta. He gave his senses a shake. He resolved that after all he had accomplished, which Lauri had helped him attain, he wanted to experience with her their own, intimate celebration. He wanted to take her hand, hold it, and kiss her, to feel her fingers respond in his own hand as their lips met.
From behind he heard the sound of cars passing on Fillmore Street, and ahead of them, a group of young boys were playing basketball in a fenced school-yard. With a sidelong glance he studied her delicate, childlike hands, the impossible softness of her skin. She was so much younger than he. She had been silent all this time, and finally she spoke.
"Do you have any children?"
This startled him a little. Was she too unsure of what to do next? Stalling, as it were? "No," he said, "no children." He and Greta had planned to start a family after the successful launch of Orange Fresh. But after the accident, which happened on the very day that they planned to begin their journey into parenthood, the act by which a child is conceived never again occurred between them.
So that was how long it had been since they had made love, he thought. How long it had been since he had been with anyone that way.
Again Laurence broke the silence. "Why don't you come inside for a moment and see my place?"
He accepted without hesitation, and a moment later they were inside. "I've made do with my limited decorating skills," she said with a wave of her hand. "I'd love your opinion." She excused herself to the kitchen for a moment while Matthew wandered from room to room.
Her apartment was a recently restored Victorian with black and white tile at the entrance and hardwood floors throughout. Dhurrie rugs in light colors covered the floors in the living and dining rooms, and her furniture was a tasteful mixture of contemporary and antique. The bedroom was tantalizing. Her bed was an unusual steel frame design with a dreamy, sheer canopy draped lightly over the top. Its message was at once powerful and delicate. So were his feelings for her. He finished his tour and circled back to the living room, where he found her standing and holding two glasses filled with dessert wine. "Just a little sip, before you drive back," she said, handing him a glass.
He inhaled the bright sweet aroma, his eyes lingering on her hand encircling her own glass. She raised it to his, and he met her sharp, gray eyes.
"Here's to you." Her voice was quiet.
He touched his glass to hers. They each took a sip and, with his head still lowered, he let his eyes stray once more to her hand.
"You like my hands, don't you?" she asked simply, revealing her mindfulness of his regard all along, confirming it.
"Yes," he said, his voice barely a whisper. He swallowed.
"Go on, then," she said.
He knew what she meant. He slowly reached out and traced lightly along her index finger to her wrist, her thumb, to her glass, which he took. He had to have her hands.
He settled their glasses on the table in front of the sofa and folded both of his hands around hers. Never before had he held hands so supple. But these hands belonged to a whole visage of uniform loveliness. There was the difference, he understood at once. He had loved Greta's hands, yes, the power they had had over him, his pleasure, yet that was all. Just her hands. That was why, he now understood, that they had had such an unusual sex life. But Laurence was different. When he looked up from her hands, his heart quickened at his appreciation for all of her. That was it, and he let himself go.
He pulled her hard against him, as if it were the first time he had felt a woman's body against his own. In fact, it was. It was the first time he was really feeling a woman with all of his mind. The sensation was overwhelming, this feeling of taking in her whole image. His mouth came down firmly on hers. He felt a moan come from her throat as their tongues mingled with the wine's sweet aftertaste. He tasted her, felt the material of her dress, smelled her hair, understood that in her shoes were feet that were no doubt as lovely to look as her hands, as rousing to touch and kiss. From head to toe, he wanted to feel all of her at once. Their hips pressed together and she pulled him closer, kissed him hungrily.
"Matthew, you've done wonderful things for Wallaby and for me. I want it to keep going this way for you. Is this wrong, what we're doing?" she said, fingertips touching along the edge of his belt.
"No," he said, and closed his eyes with anticipation. Her fingertips slipped down an inch into his slacks. "I mean yes. Oh, yes."
"It's yours for the taking, Matthew. All of it. There's no stopping you now."
Her words drove him into a frenzy. He gripped the back of her head and pulled her in close, his tongue darting in her mouth, over her eyes and around her ears. He coursed his fingers through her hair, everything coming to him in rushing waves of passion.
Yes, she was correct. There was no stopping him, them. He thought now only of the bed. He pulled back from her. His trousers were undone and her blouse was open. He gripped her wrist and led her, walking backward as he did so, to the bedroom. She grabbed the bottle of sauterne and raised it to her lips, following with no resistance. At bedside, she passed the bottle to him. He took a large swallow of wine, then set the bottle on the night table. He held the liquid in his mouth and kissed her, then reached for more, but she beat him to it.
"Wait," she said. She lifted the bottle, and with her free hand, pulled down her bra and brought the bottle close. Staring into his eyes, she poured some of the sweet wine over her erect nipples.
Never before had he felt so avid. In his urgency, he pushed her back on the bed and crossed his leg over her smooth firm belly. He hungrily licked her breasts, sucking wine from one, then the other, struggling to work off her bra and blouse.
He raised her farther up on the bed, her head settling into the soft, feather pillows. This was the part he had envisioned from the moment he had laid eyes on the striking bed.
He led her hands to the steel head bar, and she understood at once how he wanted her. She gripped tightly, her knuckles turning pale. She lunged for his lips with her own. He met them and forced her down with his head, urgently reaching between her legs.
He worked his erect penis out of his pants. Gripping his hands beside hers on the bar, he entered her. He tuned into her every response, licking her eyelids, feeling the movement of her eyes beneath. He felt her teeth with his tongue, at the same moment aware of her ankles against his calves, and he wasn't sure he would be able to hold back very long. The feeling of the cold steel in his hands welded in his mind the image of their position, both gripping tightly to this linen-draped frame. He drove into her forcefully, with unfamiliar awkwardness. It was better than he remembered, he thought, gnawing at her neck ravenously as he quickened.
He climaxed almost immediately, shouting hoarsely with each burst. Once his tremors stopped he felt drained of all energy. He was so, so tired. Barely pressing off the bed with his arms as her hips thrust upward, he tried to help her finish. She managed to lift much of his weight, but not without effort. Her moans were coming in quick, strained gasps. For one trembling instant, before succumbing to his weight, she moaned. He collapsed on her, forcing her breath away.
He rolled away, onto his back, his legs twisted around hers, too tired to move them. Almost instantly, his breathing slackened and he lay there depleted. He became oblivious to her, to them, to where they were, and to what they had done. He felt pleasantly used up, yet at the same time, in another part of his being, he felt very full, larger than life.
Far away now, a dreamy smile alighting his face, he heardLaurence's words once more in his mind as he dozed off.
No stopping you now…
"Hey, you ready yet?" Kate said, appearing in the bathroom doorway.
Peter stood leaning over the sink, cautiously dragging a razor across his face.
"Hallelujah!" Kate shouted, watching as the beard that had grown long and scraggy over the past few months disappear into the sink. Peter paused for a moment and winked at her in the mirror, his face white and foamy, then returned his concentration to the razor.
She leaned a shoulder against the edge of the door frame and stood watching him. "I like your face smooth, it feels better on me."
"Ouch!" Peter said, jerking the razor from his face. A dot of red instantly formed on his chin.
"So, Lancelot," Kate said, hanging her robe on the door hook, "what do I wear?"
"Whatever you want , it's just a neighborly thing." Peter rinsed his face, then pulled the skin on his neck taut and inspected his work. He saw that she was still watching him, and he took in her full naked reflection before turning to face her.
"I think it's more than that," she said.
"What's more?"
"The dinner. I think this Mr. Holmes is probably excited that he's met you, and wants to get to know your better."
"Well, me too. I could use a friend here. I only see you for two or three days at a time." He crossed his arms, resting his rear against the sink, and studied her up and down with a playful, approving grin. "You know, for a forty-year-old lady, you're still quite a knockout."
"Oh yeah? Well for a thirty-something boy, you're not so bad yourself." She came over to him and slid her fingertips beneath the waistband of his jockey shorts at the small of his back, rubbed her cheek softly against his. "Mmm, this does feel better." They stood there for a while, holding one another.
He pulled away from her a little so he could look into her eyes."What is it about us?" he said. "What makes it work?"
She considered for a moment. "Well, we're a lot alike," she said, lightly kissing his nose. "And a lot unalike."
He nodded and bowed his head, focusing on their touching hips."Do you think maybe we should be together more?"
"Maybe."
"More permanently?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" His eyes widened a little as they sought hers.
"Petey, we work because we both have things in our lives that we believe in."
"Had," he mumbled.
"Have," she said, lifting his chin with her hand. "You're just a little dry right now. You have to give yourself some time to let things happen inside here." She knocked his head lightly with her knuckles. "It doesn't all just suddenly change overnight, Petey."
"I know. But I've been thinking." He hesitated for an instant. "What about maybe if I were to settle down a little, split some time between here and California, take it easy."
Her expression was full of attention and love, but not without a small and knowing frown. They had had the conversation before, usually when he was feeling depressed, and they both knew that neither was fully ready to settle down.
"And what if you and I, you know…" he said, his voice trailing off, his hands brushing her shoulders.
"No."
"But - "
"Petey," she said, pressing her fingertips to his lips. "You know that once you get something zipping around in that carnival-quick head of yours, you're going to be flying at a million miles an hour."
He smirked. "Okay, maybe not marriage, but how about…I don't know. I've been thinking more and more about the feeling I get when I remember back to the first time I saw a kid use a Mate computer." His voice became a whisper. "Maybe a child in my life, a baby, our baby." He stressed his grip on her waist and pulled her closer.
"You know I can't have a baby," she said. Her eyes were glistening. "I'm too old, and I told you I tried long before we met," she said. "You know that. And yet you suggest it." Taking his index finger, she lightly poked her taut belly in an attempt to make light of the situation. "Closed for business. Sorry." She trembled.
He pressed her head against his chest and rubbed the back of her neck. "Hey, I'm sorry." He kissed her eyelids. "That wasn't nice of me to bring up again. I'm really sorry. Okay?"
She nodded and he wiped his thumb under her eyes.
"Petey, trust me. You just need a little time to think. You're thinking right now about what is today, and you're not giving yourself a chance to just take it easy."
Now it was he who nodded and lowered his head to hers, and she hugged him. "It'll come, Petey, I know it will. It will come again."
"Promise?"
"Cross my heart. Now put some clothes on," she said, slapping his rear. "I'm getting cold and hungry, and we don't want to be late for your new friend." She turned and strolled to the bedroom.
Suddenly his underwear whizzed past her head, grazing her hair before landing on the bed. She stopped in place and set her hands on her hips and turned around with a playful grin on her face.
"Isn't it fashionable to be late?"
* * *
"Dinner is ready," Greta said from Matthew's office door, just off the library.
"I'll just be a minute," he said, turning to acknowledge her, but she was already gone.
He finished typing his e-mail message to William Harrell, then clicked the send button. Piled on his desk were notes, charts, and schedules, each a vital facet of the overall ICP Strategic Alliance report he had been working on all day. Another Saturday devoted to work, but that was nothing new. Glancing at his watch he figured he could probably finish most of the outline by morning, so long as he hurried through dinner.
Leaving the light of his library office, he strolled through the uncharacteristically dark house. He padded down the long hallway and passed the closed dining room door, crossed the foyer, and rounded the corner to the family room and kitchen area. The room was dark and there were no plates, glasses or utensils on the table where they usually ate, just outside the kitchen and facing the family room with its big-screen television. Only the day's mail rested on the table, where he had left it several hours earlier.
"Greta?" he called, turning toward the kitchen. In the minimal illumination of the dimmed track lights he saw pots and pans resting with their lids ajar, a few gooey spoons. Having had a moment to adjust to the darkness, he caught the flickering glow coming from the dining room, which was accessed either by the foyer or through the doorway in the kitchen.
"In here," came his wife's voice softly.
He rounded the turn and was a little surprised to see Greta seated at the formal dining table, facing him. The room was dark except for the gentle radiance from two candles. Silverware shimmered and crystal glasses sparkled in the soft light. Poached vegetables and steaming new red potatoes in delicate china bowls sat beside a covered serving dish. Between the candles, in a large vase in the center of the table, were pussy willow branches, fuzzy and in full bloom. When he had walked in the door with them yesterday, she had thought for a moment that he had remembered. But then he explained that someone from the office had brought in bunches for everyone.
"Oh," was all he managed to say before he seated himself.
"I gave Marie the rest of the afternoon off," Greta said. "I fixed it myself."
"It smells wonderful," Matthew said, smiling but puzzled. They only ate in the dining room when entertaining guests. Why so formal all of the sudden?
She poured him a glass of wine and handed it to him, then lifted her own glass and held it out to him. But he had already taken a sip and was lifting the lid off of the covered dish. She hesitated, almost said something, and sighed instead. She tasted her wine and watched him for any sign of recollection, any hint of awareness.
Matthew placed the covered lid aside. "Wow, my favorite dinner," he said.
"I know," she said, clearing her throat.
He gestured for her plate and selected one delicate hen for her, two for himself. He ladled sauce over his birds and vegetables, took another sip of his wine, and dug in. Barely ten seconds into his meal, and Greta could see that his mind was already somewhere else.
No, she admitted to herself, he had not remembered. And with this knowledge came a strange aching feeling, a throbbing, in her left hand, where what had once symbolized their marriage used to be. The doctors had told her that that would sometimes happen. That at odd times it would feel as though everything were in its right place, like normal. The same was true, she thought in silent agony, of her marriage. At odd times it had felt as though it was all still there. But not now. Plain and painfully simple, he had forgotten.
After a minute or two, as if remembering that she was there,Matthew looked up from his dinner.
She sat staring at him with shimmering eyes, her utensils still resting untouched beside her plate. Before he could say anything, she spoke.
"Happy anniversary, Matthew," she said. A weighty tear dropped down her face.
His body slackened. He set down his utensils. All at once he saw the brightness of her lips, the accents around her eyes, the fine, glimmering pattern in the silk dress. He became acutely aware of her perfume lingering among the aromas of the meal. Her tears were painting dark trails down her cheeks. He gazed down into his plate, their anniversary dinner, and let loose a guilty sigh.
"Greta, I'm sorry. I'm, so, so sorry. With all the work and everything…" He lifted his hands a bit. "I just, well, I just forgot."
She reached her gloved hand across the table and touched his wrist. "It's all right, Matthew," she said with a resigned smile. She wiped her cheek with her napkin and lifted her fork.
"It is delicious," Matthew said enthusiastically.
She speared a few vegetables, chewed slowly, put down her fork, and took a long drink of wine, all the while watching her husband's hurried consumption.
"Matthew, can you slow down? Please, can't we enjoy our dinner together tonight?"
"I'm sorry, honey. It's just that, you see, I've got more work to do," he said, then tentatively added, "for the trip."
"What trip?"
"Tomorrow. New York. I told you I was meeting with Harrell onMonday, didn't I?"
"No, Matthew, you did not."
"Hmm. Funny, I thought I said something. Sorry. See what I mean.I'm so overwhelmed these days."
"Matthew, you're changing in unpleasant ways. And there's nothing funny about it."
"I beg your pardon?"
"However selfish you were before getting rid of Peter Jones, you were at least considerate and apologetic. Genuinely. Or so you seemed."
"I said I was sorry about forgetting. You're upset, and you're basing your criticism on that."
"No, Matthew. That's exactly what I'm talking about. This new way you're behaving. You say you are meeting with 'Harrell' - whatever happened to 'William,' your friend?"
"He's not my friend, Greta. He's a business partner."
"Oh, of course. Pardon me. And is that what we are too, Matthew?Business partners?"
He shook his head as if to say he'd had enough. In fact, she thought, that was what was wrong, that he'd had enough of them, of the dead end that their marriage had turned into.
With an disgusted huff she poured herself more of the good French wine, held the glass beneath her nose and she gazed out the window at the reflecting pond beyond the foot of their estate.
"Maybe, Matthew, we should talk. Don't you think, especially since tonight is our anniversary, that we should talk? What's happened to us?"
"Dear, I can't," he said, pausing to wash down a mouthful of food with a swallow of wine. "I'm going to be up until six in the morning as it is. And I've got an early flight. I'll just be able to jog and shower."
He ate and she drank in silence for a few minutes, until she could stand it no more.
"Matthew, is it going to stop? Is it going to change? Ever?"
"What, honey? Will what stop?"
Any remorse he may have felt for forgetting their anniversary was obviously gone now she could see, forgotten with everything else, as if a switch had been thrown, his mind saturated once again with his work. "Matthew, do you understand that you are obsessed with Wallaby? Really, you are worse than Peter ever was."
"It's not an easy job," he said, wiping a piece of bread in the last smear of sauce on his plate. "Replacing him."
"We never see each other anymore. Even when you two had your falling-out, you saw him more than you see me now. Every morning you're up at five-thirty, then you're at work all day, and I never talk to you - "
"Meetings."
"Then you come home and gobble down your dinner, barely a word between us, or if you do have anything to say it's about that damn company, then you're off into your library until late at night until you come to bed and fall asleep." Her breathing had become panicky.
"Look, I've got to do my job," he said, irritated now.
She leaned forward with her hands flattened on either side of her full plate. She didn't care that her gloved left hand was there for him to contend with. Maybe that was the problem, that she had never really forced him to deal with it.
"Matthew, I'm all alone. You're all I've got. It's not that I mind being here all day, but when you come home, it's worse because then you're here but we're still not together, and on the weekends, like today, you work all day in the library."
She intended to force him into battle if that was what it took. But what he did next completely disarmed her: He placed a hand over hers, the left one, and met her eyes with compassion. She felt suddenly hopeful. She had finally gotten through to him.
"Greta," he said gently, "everything I'm doing is for us. The things I'm making happen at work are very complex and important, and these things will change our lives forever." He patted her hand and smiled. "Soon it will slow down a little," he said, tossing down the rest of his wine.
But his words sounded shallow and condescending. Her hopes of understanding disintegrated and the throb in her left hand returned with renewed force. She snatched her glass and finished her wine in one quick swallow. She poured another. Was there no way to get through to him? To make him see how close he was coming to destroying them? "Matthew, it's ruining us, and you're letting it happen." Nothing. She went for broke. "Don't you see, I'm trying not to let anything bad happen to us."
He seemed undaunted by her warning. Wiping his lips with his napkin, he got up, walked around behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders.
"Darling," he said, "I have to get back to work now. Nothing bad will happen to us. I won't let it." Then he kissed the top of her head and left the room.
She turned her head and looked out at the pond again, and whispered to her reflection in the window.
"Then I will."
* * *
"Poppyshit!" Byron shouted, waving his glass at Peter, who sat across the table. "The problem with kids today is their parents!" He set his glass down firmly as if challenging anyone to dispute his opinion.
"Dear," Grace interrupted, gently touching her napkin to her upper lip with raised eyebrows at her husband.
"What? Huh?" he mumbled, confused. "Oh," he exclaimed, dabbing his lips with his napkin, wiping away a small piece of sauerkraut.
Grace smiled and shook her head, her grin spreading wider whenKate smiled back.
Peter had chosen the subject of children to start the table discussion. "I don't think that's a fair judgment, Byron," Peter said. "I think it's more than just what goes on in the home. It's everything, all of society. Kids are hardly given a good example by their parents, their friends. Movies. Television," he said. "It's like they've turned into MTV lemmings."
The foursome ate at an antique Shaker table, situated near the living room hearth. The home was decorated in simple and warm country style. A charming, homey combination. Like Byron and Grace Holmes themselves.
Kate and Peter had both felt instantly comfortable when they arrived a few minutes late wearing jeans and sweaters, which fit in nicely with Byron's work shirt and khakis, and Grace's simple cable-knit sweater and flannel slacks. Dock lamps dotted the inlet outside, and boats bobbed silently in the bay, glowing with a fuzzy luminescence in the moonlight. Peter and Kate's own vacation home was situated a few hundred yards down the inlet. Their dock was similar to the Holmes's, though they did not own a boat.
"We had primarily invented the Mate computer with no one in mind but ourselves, computer guys," Peter said. "But within a short time, parents were buying them like crazy for their kids.
"We want," he started, then paused for an instant to correct himself, "wanted computers to be especially great for kids, to lure them away from the TV set. When some of the software developers created really great learning games, it all took off from there." His eyes were shining with the clarity that comes when you talk about something you deeply care about.
They were silent for a moment then Byron looked up from his plate with a frown. "That's all well and good. And you're right about it, that children especially benefit from computers, and not by television. Now," he said, pointing to Peter's plate with his mustard-smeared knife, "how about you eat that bratwurst before it gets cold."
Grace broke the silence. "They have a computer at the foster home where I volunteer a few hours a week, one of yours I think," she said, smiling at Peter. "Those little kids, and the bigger ones too, they sit there for hours and play games on it, and do homework, and talk about all sorts of things I don't understand, in a language all their own. It's lovely how such a thing could bring these children together and give them a family of sorts."
The discussion carried on some more. Peter had not resumed eating, so Grace got up and began to clear the table.
"Let me help you," Kate said.
"You get no dessert if you don't finish your meal, boy," Byron said. He rubbed his hands across his chest in post-Thanksgiving dinner fashion.
"Everything was delicious, Grace," Peter said. "It's just that I haven't had a very good appetite lately."
"That's all right. You can take home leftovers if you'd like."
"Too late," Byron said, spearing the remaining half of sausage from Peter's plate.
When Kate and Grace were out of earshot, Byron leaned across the table. "You're a lucky fellow," he whispered. "She's a pretty lady." He dropped a big wink.
"I know it," Peter agreed, looking out at the water. There was a stirring in his chest, and he quickly turned his thoughts to other things.
"Come on," Byron said, pushing away from the table. "Let's get some air while the ladies fuss and giggle."
Peter had to laugh at that one. The thought of Kate "fussing" about with Grace in the kitchen made Peter both happy and sad at the same time. It was what he wanted now, yet it was what she would not be for him. How could she be so sure they weren't ready to settle down? As far as children were concerned, they could adopt. Talking about kids, and knowing that there were none in his and Kate's near future, had turned his dark mood of late even darker.
As they headed out onto the deck, Byron pulled a small pouch from his pants pocket, and from his shirt pocket he produced a briar pipe. He filled the pipe in silence as they strolled along the dock. When they reached the end, Byron lit up. The glow of his match reflected back in the black water. That is just what I need, Peter thought, a spark to go off inside my head.
"You know, boy," Byron said, shaking out the match, "I like you."He inhaled on the pipe, regarding Peter for a moment.
"Thanks," Peter said. "You're a good guy, too."
"That's what my wife tells me," Byron said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke. "You and I ought to take a float out on this baby," he said, poking his pipe at his boat, the "Net Work." He sat down, dangling his feet above the low tide, and Peter sat down beside him. "Listen, I'm gonna tell you something, and I want you to promise me you'll think about it. Okay?"
"Sure."
"You're a bright fella. But you're walking around like a little boy who lost his old dog and hates the world for it," he said.
Peter exhaled, his breath forming a faint mist in the cool air, and looked down into the water.
"Son, everything dies. It's how life goes on. Your pooch, he's gone. It's time to go pick a new puppy, and train it, and love it, and make it great."
"That's easy for you to say. You've done it all and it lasted longer for you, most of your life, and you have a wife now and you're happy."
"Poppyshit!" Byron said. "Do you think the 990 was the only thing I ever did with ICP? No way. I did all sorts of things with them, but the difference is that I stayed on board, and times were different then. I was trained to do the things I did. You're different."
"How so?"
"You're a rebel. I was too, but in a different sort of way.You're a real risk-taker, but not for the sake of taking risks.You do it because it's the only way you know how to be."
Peter nodded.
"You've got to understand and accept that it just takes a little healing, over time. Time. I can tell you this because I've been through it myself. I almost died once, had that heart attack I mentioned to you the other day. Got it from not letting go. Almost lost my life. But worse, after I got out of the hospital, I almost lost my wife. Ah, I don't want to get into all that. Just understand something mister, that this isn't the last time it's going to happen to you. You have to know that now, while things are germinating up here." He tapped a finger to his head. "When the next thing comes, when you start out all clumsy and getting into it all over again, even if it's way back in the back of your heart, you have to accept that someday it's going to change, end, and then you start all over again. And again and again. You keep doing it. Over and over. And it gets better and better with age. Just like they say."
Peter felt choked up listening to Byron so candidly share his experience. "But," Peter started with a little more than a quiet puff from his lips. "But it hurts."
"Of course it hurts," Byron said. "But you pick up, dust yourself off, and go at it again. Where do you think all this age-old advice comes from? It's truth, friend, that's why you're hearing it from me. Sure thing."
"I don't know. It's not all the same, you've got more that matters," Peter said, hitching his thumb absently in the direction of Byron's home.
"Hah, boy's blind, too. I see a lady in there who looks at you with real fancy in her eye. She's standing by you strong, I know it."
Byron took his pipe from his mouth and looked thoughtfully into its bowl. "I'll give you something to think about, and you let it roll around in your head a bit." He sniffed. "Thing is, is I've been bored lately. Yeah, I love it here, and our home in Connecticut, and Gracie, and we've been talking about maybe traveling again this winter," he said, waving his pipe in the general direction of everywhere in the world, "but I've been feeling sort of itchy. Like I gotta do something. You ask me, I think there was a reason for us running into each other the way we did."
"How's that?"
"I don't know why. Not yet, anyway. I suspect it has something to do with our difference in thinking. I mean that in a good way. We come from different worlds, yet we we're not such different beings. If you and I put our heads together, I bet we could really show the rest of 'em a thing or two."
"Think so?"
Byron winked. "I know so," he said, patting Peter on the leg. "Now come on," he said, rising to his feet. "Let's go get us a slice of that apple pie."
* * *
She set the dirty dishes in the sink, wrapped the leftovers in foil. On the counter, there sat a cranberry and apple crumble she had made for dessert. The bourbon sauce, which was to be warmed and drizzled over the piping dessert, sat in a saucepan on the stove, a gloppy mess. She dumped it down the drain and left the dishes in the sink for Marie to deal with in the morning.
Matthew was back in his office working, and Greta stood with the last of the wine in her glass gazing out the kitchen window at the valley beyond.
When was it going to end, she had asked him. But she knew the answer to that question. There were two answers, really. The first was that it was never going to end, and the second was that it already had. She had tried - for the last time? - to break through the wall he had over the years erected between them. But she knew now, after tonight's dinner, that the wall would only grow higher, thicker. After Matthew turned Wallaby into what he wanted, then sold it to ICP, it would be no different when he was promoted to a higher rank within ICP, perched atop his ever-growing blockade. Maybe they would stay in California, but probably they would have to go back to New York, to ICP's headquarters. Though she sometimes missed New York, the thought or returning held little appeal. There her friends were all wives of the other International Foods executives, and out here, regardless of all she had heard about the nice people in California, the women were still the same, robots who yessed their husbands at social occasions and dinner parties, while behind their backs they, and their husbands, engaged in extramarital affairs.
That wasn't how Greta wanted to end up living her life. But would she?
She finished her wine and set the glass on the counter - a little too firmly. The crystal base shattered into little bits with a high resonating tinkle, yet the bowl of the glass remained intact in her hand.
"Shit," she cried, the sound breaking a dam in her, releasing a flood of tears. She tossed the unbroken half into the sink, which echoed the same tinkling sounds, even louder this time. She held her breath, wondering if he had heard, wondering if would come to see if she had injured herself. She waited, holding on to this fragile hope with all of her breath.
If he had heard, he wasn't letting her know. She let out a great sigh. Jesus, was that her life with Matthew? Shattered, broken beyond repair? It was too much to consider at this moment. She needed to get out of the house for a little while, to go for a walk in the pretty night and clear her head.
She snatched her windbreaker from the coat hook beside the door to the garage and stepped outside into the evening's coolness. She wandered down the sloping hill to the high, solid gate. She stepped through the gateway and hiked down the trail to the edge of the pond with its narrow dirt path.
Eventually, if she followed it, the path would lead her to the horse stables. Sometimes she rode Mighty Boy along here, circling the entire pond and back around to the stable, passing her own home on the way. Quickly and steadfastly she strode through the twisted, tree-lined path in the moonlight. The stables lay a half-mile ahead.
It was supposed to have been her night to celebrate the memories of her marriage, but now she found herself thinking about the scene that had taken place in Mighty Boy's stall the other day. For better or worse, she had stopped him. She had admitted to him that she and Matthew were having problems, but they were still married, and even though she had desperately wanted him to go on, she said she could not let herself be with him. He had released her, and assured her that it would not happen again. Unless, he said, she came to him. Since that day she had not gone back to the ranch.
She slowed for a moment, then stopped. She absently stroked her left hand with her right hand as she examined her present state of mind. What was she going to do, just knock on the door of his cottage? She turned and looked back up the hill to her home. A few lights glowed - Matthew's office. She swallowed, and her left hand throbbed some more.
Yes, she decided, that was exactly what she was going to do.
She moved on, her pace quickening, her heart pumping. Shortly the stables came into view, illuminated by both the light of the moon and by the floodlights surrounding the property. Trailing along the border of light, just beyond its edge, she grew excited and reckless, like an inexperienced burglar. Her brisk walk had warmed her and she unzipped her jacket as she stealthily slipped around the stable.
She passed the main house, where the ranch's owner lived alone. Purple-blue light flickered from an upstairs window. About fifty yards from where she stood were two small cottages. She had passed them many times while riding. Jean-Pierre lived in one of those cottages, and though she had never been invited inside, she knew which one was his because he had mentioned once that it afforded a beautiful view of the pond from his bedroom window, through which he could see her home and its rear upstairs light glowing late at night. Though her home was too high and far away for him to see inside, she was excited by the thought of him lying in his dark bedroom, fixated on her bedroom window. Had he ever glimpsed her passing the window, closing the curtains?
The sound of a car engine starting suddenly broke through the quiet evening. A second later a swath of light beamed just a foot beside her and beyond, as far as she could see, into the woods. She ducked behind a small wooden utility shed stationed alongside the drive. White light pierced through the tiny cracks and seams of the shed. Cautiously she peeked around its edge. A car appeared from between the cottages, its light sweeping past the shed as it steered onto the drive. Greta flattened herself against the side of the small building and crept around the corner once the car had completely passed.
Was he going out for the night? The sound of the engine grew distant, then came a high squealing noise when the car reached the end and turned onto the main road. Once more, the sounds of the night and her own pulse were all she could hear. She left her cover and pressed on.
No, she saw at once, it hadn't been Jean-Pierre because his MG was parked in front of the cottage. Avoiding the light cast by the lamp outside the front door, she circled around to the back of the small house. She peered into the bedroom window. The room was lit by a small lamp beside an empty bed with twisted sheets. The sight caused her breath to catch. She rushed to the back stoop and halted before the door, flexed her hands a few times. Feeling the night's coolness breezing through the silken material of her gloves, she absently wiped them on her dress and turned and faced the pond for a moment to collect her thoughts.
Could she really go through with this? Her eyes searched across the small shining lake, along to the narrow shore and the trail's edge, up the hill. Her home. She could see the very window where she had stood just minutes earlier, and she could see too the damned glow coming from Matthew's office, where, on their anniversary night, he was fondling his true love, Wallaby.
Yes, she could go through with this, and would. She turned and knocked three times on the Dutch door, so loudly that she startled herself. She heard the short, hollow tamp of footsteps, the clacking sound of the door latch. For an instant it felt as if her wedding band had tightened around her finger. Irrational.
The top half of the door swung open, and there he stood, wearing only jeans and wire-framed reading glasses. His expression bore no surprise. A knowing smile formed on his full lips. She started breathing again. Plumes of mist danced around her head as the warmth of the cottage bled outside into the chilly air. He removed his glasses and closed the top door for a moment, then the entire door opened and he stepped back, his arm extended. She quickly and nervously glanced around the room as she went inside, taking in at once its simple furnishings and his things. There were boots beside the front door, a black T-shirt tossed over the back of the couch, a beer bottle beneath the shaded lamp, a wineglass beside the bottle, a pair of brown leather gloves beside the glass. She heard her own blood pulse in her ears, felt dizzy and a little buzzed by the wine, the rush of activity, and now the stillness.
Following her gaze, Jean-Pierre quickly stepped into the tiny living room. He picked up the gloves. They were women's gloves, she could see that now. Everything was happening so fast.
His shoulders sagged. "You saw them," he said.
Her eyes quickly jumped to the bottle, to the glass, to the gloves, back to the glass. She thought of the car that had just gone. She looked into his eyes. "What?" she said, her voice not sounding like her own.
He held the gloves out to her. "I wanted to wrap them and surprise you."
She blinked. "For me?"
"Of course."
She accepted the gloves in her right hand. There were a few small, barely noticeable scratches on them, but the stitching was clean and new. She wanted to say something, but when she looked into his eyes again, whatever she had thought she wanted to say vanished, and in its place was desire, like what she had felt when he kissed her in the stall.
"Thank you," she managed as she absently watched him take back the gloves and carefully fold them over, then tuck them into her jacket pocket.
He took her by the shoulders and kissed her. Her eyes were still closed and lips slightly parted when he pulled his face away. She had come to him, and now she needed him to guide her.
He stepped aside and indicated the way to the bedroom. She moved and he trailed her holding one of her hands in his, the one she would let him hold. Had he figured it out yet, she wondered, about the other one. She stopped beside the bed, facing the pond. He switched off the lamp and placed his hands on her shoulders. She struggled to see clearly, but could not. He pressed his hard body against her back. The air was all made of his scent, musky, sexy, alive. She wanted to be tumbled and spun in the tangled sheets that lay before her, to move her hands between their softness and his firmness, to flop into the pillows, his weight hard on her, his mouth on hers. She closed her eyes. Yes, his mouth, which was now gently kissing the back of her neck, his lips pulling the small hairs at the base of her skull. She twisted her head into the warmth of his hot and chilling breath. A small sound escaped her as he slid her windbreaker from her shoulders. It fell to the ground with a soft rustle. She closed her eyes and reached her good hand to her left shoulder, placing it over his hand. She leaned back into his hardness and he pressed himself against her more firmly. The wine had helped to numb her feelings, and now the charged atmosphere of his bedroom melted her into yielding. Even her left hand felt normal.