I tried, God as my witness, I tried, she thought with a shudder as he wrapped his arms around her and across her breasts. He held her until her trembling subsided, then he began to unzip her dress, very slowly. She opened her eyes. Her vision had adjusted to the silvery light, which now sharpened the edges of everything and cast ambiguous shadows.
And there, across the pond, she saw Matthew's lamp.
"No," she said, reaching behind for her zipper.
He gripped her wrist.
"Yes," he breathed hotly in her ear.
She challenged his hold. Unable to resist, she yielded, spun fiercely, and sought his lips. He held her head between his hands and kissed her, pushing against her so intensely she felt she would burst into flames. Her hands slid up his chest and across his shoulders, his broad back. This hardness, I want this on me, was all she could think, I have to have this in me.
But again, as if burning into her back, Matthew's library lamp broke her, mocked her. With a cry, she twisted around. "No. I can't. Not with him right there."
"We'll pull the shade," Jean-Pierre said. He nuzzled his nose in her hair.
"No," she said, planting herself firmly. "Not now. Not with him this close."
"Then when, Greta? When?"
This had been a mistake. She had to get away. "Tomorrow," she said, pulling away from him. "Tomorrow, Jean-Pierre." She tugged at her dress, putting some more distance between them as she rearranged herself. Her expression was final, forbidding. She wanted to remember him just like this, standing before her with his arms at his sides, his bright white teeth and eyes, the silvery sharp edges of his muscled chest.
"Where?" he asked, taking her by the elbows.
"Matthew is going to New York. I'll call you." Afraid that the gentle yet firm and alluring touch of his powerful hands would stall her, she forced herself to pull away.
He handed her her jacket, and followed her into the light of the living room. She opened the door, turned around, and slipped on her jacket, zipping it firmly.
He clasped one hand on the door's edge. With the other he gripped her wrist and pulled her close. She gasped. He kissed her long and deeply. The cold night air chilled her back, while the heat of his mouth warmed her insides. She drew away with a frustrated moan.
He raised her good hand to his lips and brushed it lightly. The stubble of his beard on the silken material caused a sound that had an extraordinary effect on her lower regions. She pressed her upper thighs together.
"Tomorrow," he said, and released her.
She nodded, then was off and back into the night, back to her home.
Running through the chilly night she remembered the gloves in her pocket. She stopped and removed her silk gloves and put on the pair he had given her. They made her feel secure and warm, but not all the way. Perhaps they would feel right once she had the left one tailored to accommodate her shortcoming.
Whatever it takes, she solemnly vowed, whatever it takes.
"Mr. Harrell, Mr. Locke has arrived."
"Send him in, please," came William Harrell's voice thinly from the intercom on his secretary's desk.
Matthew was surrounded by the kind of opulence afforded only by companies at the highest reaches of the Fortune 500. Plush carpets, deep, rich wooden desks, fine art originals, and people referring to one another as Mr., Ms., Mrs., and "sir." It was a sobering contrast to Wallaby's compact, Herman-Miller modular partition offices, open-air buildings, and first-name protocols. Had it been only three years since Matthew had occupied an office at International Foods very much like this one, so expansive it was more like a penthouse apartment than an office? Matthew's own office at Wallaby was no larger than the standard manager's office, just big enough to move around comfortably in. He felt queerly out of place entering the ICP building, surrounded by such abundance, such magnitude. He had even forgotten how long it took for elevators to climb tall buildings; Wallaby's tallest building was only three stories high, and almost everyone used the central atrium stairs to travel between floors.
He shrugged his shoulders to straighten his suit - yet another difference between casual West Coast wizardry and starchy East Coast Big Business. He had felt uncomfortable walking through the city, unable to see more than a few blocks in any direction, surrounded by noise, exhaust, and serious faces. Indeed, California, with its rolling hills and vistas, mild weather, and no-hurry attitude had affected him more deeply than he had realized.
In one hand he carried his briefcase, in the other a large binder containing all of Wallaby's product plans, financial summaries, and forecasts, as well as the strategy he had worked on two nights ago. He had finalized the strategy on the plane yesterday and printed the finished copy in his hotel suite last night with his Joey Plus and portable printer.
He had come to think of the binder as his clay, molded into the shape of a new Wallaby, a grassroots company deemed a serious player by the most important counsel of all, based in this very city: Wall Street. Since last week's introduction of the new Joey Plus, Wallaby's stock had climbed four points, and reviews were glowing.
It was all very exciting. So much so it had affected him in his sleeping hours. Last night he had had a shadowy, romantic dream, that he was as a gemologist transporting precious jewels for Sotheby's of London…then it shifted, and the gems had changed to secret documents for the CIA…then it turned out that he was working not for the CIA, but for them…the other side. When he left the hotel this morning for his meeting, he felt as if he were holding in his hands his fate, his life. Many lives. And then a macabre thought entered his mind, left over from his exotic dream: Where was the cyanide pill? He had no cyanide pill if he was caught. It was a preposterous notion of course, his imagination getting the better of him. Nevertheless, still a little intrigued by the role his dream had cast him in, he strode into William's office with his life in his hands and a feeling of pure elation, and just a little fear. Good fear.
"Hello, Matthew," William said heartily, rounding his wide desk with his hand extended. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal business suit, a crisp white shirt, and a burgundy tie. The man's entire appearance exuded sharpness, Big Business. In other words, ICP.
Matthew set his briefcase on the thickly carpeted floor, clutching the binder in his left hand. He noticed William's impeccable manicure as they shook hands. Matthew's own fingernails were chewed and dry, and he could not remember the last time he had had a manicure himself. He was beginning to feel as if he were underdressed, as if he had underestimated the importance of this date. Gripping the binder with both hands, he grasped all at once that it was not his costume that should match William's incomparability; it was the binder's contents: Wallaby. This was not just his life in his hands, it was his love. And it was perfect.
William's secretary returned with a tray of coffee, tea, and pastries. She placed the tray on the table, and Matthew asked her for a glass water.
"What's the matter? No more city fuel?" William said as he poured himself a cup of steaming coffee.
"Haven't touched the stuff in over two years."
"Next thing you'll tell me is that you're into flotation tanks and sushi."
"The sushi part, yes," Matthew said with a light laugh.
"How's Greta?" William asked, sipping his coffee.
"Oh, she's fine, thank you." Matthew accepted the glass of water and finished half of it in one drink.
"And how does she like California living?"
"She likes it. She keeps quite busy."
"Sounds nice."
"Yes," Matthew said, setting the glass down. He placed his briefcase on the table. With the mention of his wife, he thought for an instant of what he had hidden inside his briefcase. Since he had placed it there, he had never once taken it out again and looked at it. Would he ever?
"Let's get started," William said. "I got your e-mail, and I'm pleased to hear everything went well with your executives and board. It hasn't been easy on my end. My advisers keep scratching their heads, thinking their boss has gone crazy, especially after your introduction last week. They want us to build something to 'blow the doors off the Joey Plus,' as my technology adviser puts it. But, to his dismay, I've not approved any new development, other than revisions and enhancements, since you and I had our first meeting."
Matthew was pleased with this confirmation of the Joey Plus's success. It meant that to William and ICP, Wallaby, and he, Matthew, were even more valuable now than when they had first met to discuss their secretive pact.
"I'll tell you," William said, indicating the binder with his eyes, "I'm glad I can finally reveal our plan to my board of directors and the executive staff. As I've assured you already, they will vote unanimously in favor of our plan. They'll have no choice."
"Here it is. The complete strategy, as outlined." Matthew handed the binder to William, who opened it in his lap and was silent for a few moments as he browsed through the various sections.
"Oh yes," he said, "this is a trade after all." He lifted a folder from the table and handed it to Matthew. "Here are all the connectivity specifications for the 990 series, as well as the file compatibility specs for the BP series."
Matthew took the slim nearly weightless folder in his hands and all of the sudden felt a bit let down. The folder felt like nothing compared to the binder he had just turned over. No girth. No satisfaction. No substance between his fingers. This information would go to Alan Parker and his engineering organization, and perhaps to them it was attractive, but Matthew already missed the extensive, intricately organized volumes in the thick binder now in William's possession. The exchange felt uneven, unbalanced. Unfair.
"I especially like your idea of calling our plan a 'strategic alliance,' " William said. "Tell me more about how you plan to handle the announcement."
Matthew stood up and removed his jacket. "I think what we should do is announce our relationship in three months, when we have a working prototype of the Joey II, which will be the first Wallaby portable computer that's compatible with your computers."
William nodded, crossed his legs, and continued to browse through the lengthy document, glancing now and then at Matthew.
"We'll announce that we're working together on strategic connectivity products from an engineering, marketing, sales, and customer service standpoint. We'll reveal that you and I met, several months ago - and by the way, my executive staff and board are aware of today's meeting - and you will explain ICP's election for Wallaby Joey II systems as an alternative to your own portable computer, and that you will continue to support the older ICP BP computer, as well as facilitate co-sales with our people for Joey II computers. And finally, once you begin the merger process, we'll determine Wallaby's value, and you'll follow up about a year later with the acquisition announcement."
William snapped the binder closed. "Excellent."
"Yes," Matthew agreed under his breath as he seated himself. He felt a little dizzy. Perhaps the building's height and the change in environment were getting to him. He wanted to finish this meeting and get back down on the ground as soon as possible.
"It's exactly how I had envisioned it, but better," William said. "You've managed to smooth the transition with the alliance aspect, so we're careful to unveil our deal a little at a time."
"That's the idea."
"Very good." William placed his cup and saucer on the table. Rubbing his hands together he sat a little more upright. "Now, there is one small detail that I'm curious about. Have you spoken with Peter Jones?" His eyes locked on Matthew's.
"No," Matthew said, barely able to contain his surprise.
"I see," William said. "Has there been any communication between the two of you? A letter? An e-mail?"
"None."
"Hmm."
"Why do you ask? Is there a concern?"
"Well, it's more a curiosity than a concern really. Nothing to worry about. What's he doing now?"
"He's been in seclusion in Maine, at his vacation home. He still owns a large amount of Wallaby stock," Matthew added in an attempt to reassure the other man.
"Yes, well, that's no guarantee, is it." William said. It was not a question. He removed his glasses and lightly massaged his eyelids. "What I'm wondering about is the same thing I was curious about when I first contacted you, proposing this venture."
"Which is?" Matthew asked, fully knowing the reason beforeWilliam delivered the words.
"My biggest - " William started, but then paused abruptly to select his choice of words. "My initial motivation for wanting Wallaby was, of course, Jones's product in the pipeline, the Joey. And what is the Joey, really, but the physical evidence of Jones's vision? So naturally, I'm curious about what he's up to, now that he's not spending his time at Wallaby."
This concern had never occurred to Matthew, and apparently his expression said as much.
"Matthew, don't worry, it's not going to change our arrangement," William said. "We want Wallaby, and especially the Joey technology."
Joey technology. Peter's invention. Matthew was at once overcome by a wave of jealousy and loathing. When would Wallaby be considered his? Once Wallaby was merged with ICP, would people still call it "the company founded by Peter Jones?" Would he, Matthew, be forgotten, like some sort of middle man?
William poured Matthew another glass of water. As he accepted it,William said, "There's no way you can persuade Jones to return toWallaby?"
"That seems unlikely," Matthew said calmly, but what he really wanted to say, to shout, was that Wallaby was his now, and Peter Jones was gone for good.
"I see." William nodded and closed the binder, shutting with it any further discussion of Peter Jones. "When do you fly back?"
"Tomorrow."
William tapped the binder. "I'm going to have to spend some time with this before I'll have any questions for you." He glanced at his watch. "Do you have any other meetings while you're here?"
"None. I allotted a full day for us, and intended to go back tomorrow. However, if we're through, I'll go back tonight, and you can contact me when you're ready."
"Fine," William said, rising. He offered a few words of reassurance. "It's all coming along well, Matthew." They shook hands outside William's office, and Matthew exited the suite.
Pressing the down elevator button, he noticed his hand was a little unsteady. Now that their meeting was through, he was grateful to be leaving New York City a day sooner than planned. "Come on," Matthew whispered, pressing the button again and again.
As he stood brooding over William's surprise concern for Peter Jones, waiting for what felt like an eternity for the elevator to arrive, he absently chewed his thumbnail, wishing in earnest for things to move more quickly.
* * *
"Hey, where're you off to so early?" Kate said, lifting her head from the pillow.
Climbing into his jeans, Peter nearly tripped himself in his pants legs as he turned to face her.
"Oops, sorry," he whispered, "I was trying to be quiet." He knelt next to the bed and kissed her. Her eyelids fluttered, wakefulness coming slowly. "Would you mind if we took a rain check on our trip to Boston today?" Her hair lay spread around the pillow, and he combed it with his fingers, smoothing it around her head.
She opened her eyes and shook her head, then smiled slowly, joyfully.
"Why the big grin?"
She lifted a hand from beneath the comforter and gently knocked her knuckles on his head. "Circus is in town," she said, cupping his chin.
"Well, I've been thinking," Peter said, running fingers through his hair.
"Mm hmm."
"When Byron and I talked the other night, you know, outside, I started thinking about some things."
"You don't say?" she said, with mock surprise. "Like when I kept trying to talk to you yesterday at the park and you were in another zone?"
"Yeah," he said, nodding, "then too. I started coming up with a concept I think he could help me work through. There's something missing, a link I guess, and if I talk to him about it he'll probably be able to help me come up with some ideas."
"Hey, you're going to be busy, it sounds like. Maybe I should just go down to Boston myself, then home. That okay?"
"If it's okay with you. I mean, if you want. I'm sorry," he said, planting his hands on either side of her head and looking into her eyes. "I just have to talk to him about this."
"Petey, I'm ecstatic you want to see Byron this morning. I'll be back next weekend. If, that is, you'll still want to see me."
"You're a goof sometimes." He thanked her with a kiss, then went back to getting dressed.
"Hey," she said, propping up on one elbow as he slipped on his dock shoes.
"Hmm?"
"Who's calling who a goof?" She tossed a pillow at him. "You're inside-out, Einstein."
He looked down at his shirt, pulled it over his head, reversed it, and put it back on. "Thanks," he said, then leaned over and kissed her good-bye.
"Don't mention it."
On his way out of the house he stopped in the kitchen and wrote "I'm a lucky guy," on a little yellow Post-it note. He signed it with a tiny heart and pressed it onto the coffee machine.
He walked the short distance to the Holmes house quickly, his thoughts turning round and round. With the tourist season over, the town was somber and cool. Here and there a car occupied the driveway of one of the homes along the inlet, and even fewer boats remained docked. He arrived at the Holmes place just as Grace was coming around from the side of the house carrying a potted plant in her hands. "This one isn't going to make it," she said, holding the sickly plant up for him to see.
"Sure isn't," Peter said. "Is Byron here?"
"He's in back," she said. Then, with a smile, she confided, "I'm glad you came by. Yesterday he was mumbling about some idea he said he's got to talk to you about. He was going to head over to your house in a little bit. He'll be glad you're here."
Peter rounded the house and trotted down the dock. He could see the top of Byron's white-haired head. "Hey," he said, leaping from the dock to the boat.
"I see you got your boat shoes on," Byron said, looking up from his work, as he finished oiling the boat's teakwood bulwarks. "Good," he said, making a few last wipes. "You're ready to sail."
"If you say so."
"I say so. You saved me a short walk, you know, 'cause I was going to come over and talk to you today after I took a little sail." He replaced the lid on the can of oil and tossed the sodden rags in a plastic bag, stuffed both into a canvas sack. "Here, stow this, son," he said, pointing to an open bin just inside the cabin. Peter caught the small sack and put it away. The boat's teakwood and brass cabin was clean, classy, elegant, and sharp - much like its captain, Peter thought.
"Cast off," Byron told him, indicating the boat's mooring lines.
Peter jumped to the dock and unwrapped the lines from the cleats. The engine churned alive. "Now give us a good shove," Byron ordered.
Once Peter was back on board, Byron applied power and the boat lurched once, then smoothed, and they motored for the inlet, the water ahead rolling in small swells, the day clear and crisp.
"Is it going to be windy enough?" Peter asked, shading his eyes and squinting out at the ocean that lay a half-mile ahead.
"Here," Byron said. He tossed Peter a spare pair of sunglasses. Peter put them on and looked again. He could see a few boats in the distance whipping along at a respectable clip, their sails puffed fully.
"Sail much?" Byron said.
Peter shook his head. He gripped the rail behind him with both hands, anchoring himself in a leaning position as he watched Byron work the wheel.
The older man smiled and pulled his pipe from his shirt. Holding the wheel steady with his elbows, he expertly applied his lighter to the pipe's bowl. "You'll get used to it," he said, pointing his pipe at Peter's rigid knees. "Just gotta go with the flow."
When they reached the ocean, Byron began yelling orders to Peter, who followed them with colt-like shakiness. Within minutes the mainsail and jib were swollen fully in the eastern wind.
Byron shut off the engine, and Peter observed the silence, the power of the wind as it pushed the sleek vessel along quickly and quietly, as if by magic.
"Here," Byron said, stepping back from the wheel. "Hold it where my hands are."
Peter placed his hands over Byron's, ready. When Byron let go, Peter's body gave a slight jerk. "Just keep her steady," Byron said, returning his hands. He held them there until Peter adjusted to the boat's pull.
Byron disappeared inside the cabin for a moment, then returnedwith two cans of beer. He popped the lids and handed one toPeter. "Top of the morning to ya," he said, tipping his can toPeter.
The two men shared a couple of minutes of silence between them as they sailed some distance. Peter was the first to speak up. "I've got an idea," he said simply.
"Me too," Byron said. His gaze was focused behind Peter, at the distant shoreline. He took a sip from his beer and gave Peter a nod. "You first," he said.
"Okay. I was thinking about what you said the other night. You know, about our differences, good ones."
Byron took a thoughtful suck of his pipe and nodded, then expelled a plume of aromatic smoke.
"So I started thinking," Peter went on, his speech coming quickly, "that with your experience in big system stuff, and with what I know about little system stuff, what if we put our heads together?"
Byron made a gesture with his pipe for Peter to go on.
"Okay. See, I've been thinking about portable computers, and PIAs - you know, personal information managers. And as much as I think they are helpful, like the Joey, they're not really as helpful as the could be. They don't so much help you, not directly anyway, as serve you, so to speak. I mean, they're really just smaller, more tightly-integrated computers than real helpers."
"Mm hmm."
"So, what if there was a way to make a portable computer really help you? To really assist you, by anticipating your next move. By knowing you better and better the more you work with it?"
Byron took the small metal wind cap off the bowl of his pipe and checked the tobacco. He leaned over the side of the rail and tapped it carefully against his weathered palm, spilling the black ashes into the ocean. Then he leaned against the cabin, took a long swallow of his beer, and pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose.
"What you're talking about is agents. Agent technology. Little 'intelligent' software buddies that run on your computer in the background and pay attention to what you're doing, and what you're not doing, and then act on their own, on your behalf, to help you by anticipating your next move. Sound about right?"
"That's exactly right. We were just starting to play around with the concept before I left. But my lead programmer was really into them, and he had a bunch of friends at MIT who were studying them in a big way."
"Right. And what I was thinking about fits in nice with what's got you all juiced. See, all this poppyshit everyone's going on about, the world wide web and the Internet, it's got me a little ticked off. It's supposed to be the world's greatest 'new' information source, yet getting connected is a bitch. And what with those snappy little computers you make, well, a person should be able to hook up to the net and web by just plugging in the phone. It's too damn complicated the way it is now. It needs to be simpler."
Peter jumped in excitedly. "You know, that's incredible, I was thinking that that would be my next step at Wallaby, to make net stuff easier for people. And now that you mention it, think about the two. I mean, combining both the net stuff and the agent stuff. I've seen demonstrations of net-savvy agents that go off and find information and articles you are looking for, seeking out news that you know you are interested in, and news that you didn't know you were interested in, but based on your previous interests, the agent finds related items for you. That's what I call a real information assistant."
"Yep, that's a damn good idea," Byron agreed . "And that net stuff, you know, is what this old geezer knows best. Hell, I was cruising the net while you were doo-dooing in your diapers. That was when the government was the biggest Internet user and text and numbers ruled the world. Now I log-in and whew, it's like walking into a virtual playhouse, all the stuff that's on there these days. Just the other day I took Gracie for a 'tour' of Prague, thanks to that city's new web page, created by this group of expatriates who just up and moved there. It was all there: snapshots, video clips, restaurant and hotel guides, travel information, the whole works."
"Wow. Sounds like you've really kept up on all this stuff."
"You better believe it. What, you think a guy like me retires and then just unplugs? No siree. And as for those snazzy little agents you're all worked up over, I've got a recent report on them back at my office in New York. In particular, the ones with net smarts."
Peter smiled and gave an amused shake of his head. "You know, it looks like you were right. I mean, that you and I have more in common than I thought."
Byron shrugged and looked off into the distance for a few moments, then looked Peter in the eye.
"Guess it's time I fess up," Byron said. "See, I'd been watching you sit in that cafe for a couple of months. I knew who you were. I saw the way you looked. I saw the way you didn't look, too, at anything around you. It was in your face, that you wanted to be left alone. I knew I couldn't introduce myself to you, not for a while, anyway. So I waited. Until the other day, when that new Joey Plus was introduced. Hell, I figured it was as good a time as any to throw a line to a fellow sea dog. All along I've been hoping since I saw you the first time that we'd get it on in the brain, like we are now. You know?"
A beaming grin peeled across Peter's face. "Yes. I know. And so what I was really wondering is, do you think maybe we could work on some of this stuff together?"
Byron scratched his head. "Sounds like I've got a new hobby," he said. He raised his can of beer. "Partners?"
Peter felt a little sting in his eyes. It was the briny ocean mist, he told himself, blinking behind his sunglasses to rid his eyes of the moisture that had abruptly formed there as he touched his beer can to Byron's.
"Partners."
Her tears had caused her mascara to run all over the pillow in black streaks. Applied two nights ago, the night of their anniversary, her makeup was all gone now from her puffy red eyes. She turned the pillow over, revealing more smears, then reached across the bed for one of Matthew's pillows, which she punched it into shape and stuffed under her head.
After rushing home from Jean-Pierre's cottage Saturday night, Matthew had noticed neither her absence nor her return. He had been in his office the whole time, and was still working when she went to bed, where she spent several restless hours alone. Finally, unable to lie still, she had gotten up and sat gazing out the window, across the pond, to the cottage. A few times she had actually considered going back to him, but she told herself that maybe Matthew would come to bed. Her imagination had ultimately forced her back to the welcoming pillows, and in a few moments Jean-Pierre had magically come to her, by way of her own sleight of hand, stroking her, yes, like that, then sweetness, and finally she was satisfied, and then sad, and then guilty. She had cried herself to sleep. A few hours later she was awakened by Matthew rustling with his jogging things and again, a little later, by the shower. She had pretended to be asleep while he dressed and packed for his trip to New York. She had heard the gate bell, indicating the arrival of the limousine that would take him to San Francisco International Airport. She waited, half expecting at any moment to smell his clean scent wafting near, a light kiss on her cheek. But there came no scent, no kiss. Just more of the same indifference, more hurt.
She had slept until noon, then gone downstairs, in her robe, and eaten the remainder of last night's dinner for lunch. She put her dish in the sink and pulled a clean champagne glass down from the shelf and snatched a bottle from the refrigerator. By two in the afternoon she was drunk in bed, and crying. She could not bring herself to call Jean-Pierre as she had promised, could not bring herself to dial the number she had by now committed to memory. She could only cry and doze, cry and doze, all through the afternoon. Once more, when it was dark outside, she ventured downstairs for something to eat. She found lasagna in the freezer, which she reheated in the microwave. Afterwards she washed down three Extra Strength Tylenol with champagne from the second bottle she opened. Retreating once more to her bed, she pulled the shades on her windows and climbed under the covers.
She had slept through most of Sunday night in drunken illness, and except for using the toilet and descending to the kitchen, had been in bed from Saturday night until now, early Monday evening. She wondered if she should get out of bed, or just go through the night again. Marie had knocked cautiously on her bedroom door earlier in the day, asking her if she was feeling ill. She had told her yes, and told her not to make dinner, that she would find something in the freezer.
She felt exhausted from thinking and dreaming and worrying about her predicament, which only seemed to tighten its hold on her heart.
How could she face Jean-Pierre? She wanted him, yes, but she had felt awful after Saturday night, struggling to understand her motivation, her fantasy of having him. Was she only reacting selfishly to Matthew's rejection? Perhaps. But that was what hurt the most, facing the fact that she had lost Matthew.
And every time she thought about this, she thought about her own very personal loss, and the irony of it all. It had been her upper hand, she mused, with which she had originally attracted Matthew, the young marketing manager on the rise among the ranks of International Foods.
After their initial meeting at ICP's Orange Fresh advertising photo shoot, Matthew had asked Greta to dinner, where he excitedly told her there was talk of his promotion. Yet, during dinner, his confidence seemed to weaken. When he told her about some of his ideas, she expressed genuine interest and fascination, to which he brightened. She could plainly see that he was a rising star, yet his mood had vacillated wildly between confidence and insecurity in the span of time between the first course and the dessert. After their first dinner date, a pattern then developed. As often as possible they would dine together, and sometimes he would invite her to spend the night with him. What she never seemed to notice was that he only asked her to stay during periods in his career when he was lacking in confidence about a particular campaign or promotion. It was during their evenings together that he had first introduced her to his unusual sexual tastes. Almost every time she would end up masturbating them at the same time, him with her left hand, and herself with her right. He always complained that he was too tired for intercourse, but if she wanted, they could do it that way, his way. He was a young, busy executive on the fast track, who had spent all of his prime years working hard at his career. Clearly he was going to be very successful, and if this was the price she had to pay, she concluded, then for the time being it was worth it. She wanted him.
A year later they married. She continued to pull him from the emotional fluxes that arose whenever he started to lose his nerve, especially when he was deciding whether or not to go to Wallaby, and then later, when he faced his first confrontation with Peter Jones. In the few of months that had followed Peter's ouster, Matthew had come to her less and less with his dilemmas, suddenly, miraculously confident in all aspects of his work.
As much as she wanted to deny it, she had finally, in the last twenty-four hours, forced herself to admit that the essential separation had happened the day of her accident onboard the yacht when they were celebrating the success of Orange Fresh.
And after last week's introduction of the new Joey thing, she had sensed the last of her power of persuasion slipping from her grasp. This past Friday night was the worst. He had gotten home later than usual, and when she had asked him how his day had gone, hoping for a hint of something special for their anniversary the following day, he had told her all about his meeting with his executive staff, that they had granted their support to work closely with ICP. This was just the beginning, he told her excitedly. How many times had she heard that? When the truth was that their marriage had ended long ago, when, drunk on the very potion that had earned him esteem, she had gone overboard, landing in the lagoon with a bloody splash. Yes, that was when she had lost him, lost them.
And that, she knew, was the real reason why she could not bring herself to call Jean-Pierre. Now, for probably the twentieth time, she picked up the telephone and merely stared morosely at the green digits glowing enticingly before her. She had memorized the phone number, not by digits, but by the pattern of tones that she played over and over with her index finger. Each time she pressed every digit in his phone number except the last, the six-note Touch Tone song deepening her dilemma because it reminded her of one of International Foods' stupid little commercial jingles for soda pop or corn chips. And, of course, the real reason was that when she dialed, she had to look at her hands, which, since the accident, had never been seen or held by another person unless they were gloved, and even then she would only offered the right one. She too had learned how to avoid seeing the left one. By diverting her eyes she only ever caught a flesh-colored flash, nothing more.
She tossed her head into the pillows. Maybe he would understand. Maybe it was not as grotesque as she imagined. Should she simply go to him, as she had the other night, and try to explain her problem to him?
No. She could not, not now. She was too drunk and tired, and had not showered in two days. But she could be with her fantasy of him, she thought with painful longing.
She turned off the bedside lamp and reached inside her robe, touched her breast. If she was going to consider herself grotesque, she thought drunkenly, she might was well begin to associate the act with the cause. That way, perhaps she would eventually banish him from her mind out of sheer disgust. As if to punctuate this point, she removed the gloves upon her retreat to bed on Saturday night, and for the first time she could remember, she had skipped her nightly ritual of creaming her hands with moisturizing lotion. Already, she told herself, she could feel them drying out. She switched hands and used the left.
Before she got any further, she froze.
A sound, outside.
She strained to listen…heard the wind through the trees, but nothing else.
Just when she was ready to discount the noise as her mind playing tricks on her, she heard it again. Closer this time, as though just outside on the ground level, below the terrace.
Except for the faint light from the downstairs foyer lamp that bled up through the open bedroom doorway, she was in nearly complete darkness. The lamp, she thought, turn on the lamp. Shakily, she stretched to her night table, and, unmindful of the champagne bottles, her hand blindly knocked one to the floor. It landed with a solid thud.
Silence.
She hunkered down onto her hands and knees beside the bed to retrieve the bottle. It was the empty one, and it gave her an idea. She hefted it in her hand, considered its weight. Could she use it to protect herself?
She heard the sound again, louder. Closer. A scratching noise, along on the side of the wall where the ivy clung to the trellis and covered the huge stone pillars supporting the terrace.
It was probably nothing, she tried to assure herself. A cat. Or just the wind, she ventured. But then why if it was only a cat, she asked herself, was she holding her breath and the neck of a champagne bottle so tightly in her fist? She crouched beside the bed and stared hard at the drawn cotton curtain hanging before the French doors. Silver blue moonlight shone through the sheer fabric, picking up the shadows from nearby trees that swayed to and fro in the easy breeze.
What to do, what to do, she wondered with growing panic. Run downstairs and get a knife from the kitchen? Call the police? Why didn't they have a gun?
Deciding on the second option, she reached for the phone. The number. What was the phone number? Drunk and scared, she struggled to remember the something-something-one number in her head, but no rhyme came. Instead, Jean-Pierre's phone jingle bleep-bleeped over and over in her mind.
The scraping sound again, much closer. As close as the edge of the concrete terrace wall.
The dial tone questioned loudly. She pressed the zero button and waited a moment before realizing her error. She remembered the number: 411. She smashed her thumb down on the disconnect button and redialed.
A large form settled heavily on the platform just beyond the door, a human form silhouetted against the curtain.
A voice from the handset: "What city please?"
Greta gasped and swallowed a dry lump in her throat as she realized her second error. Dear God, she had dialed wrong again. No, she had remembered wrong. Not 411!
"What city please?" the voice repeated.
Nine! 911! Yes! That was it, ask her to connect you -
But before she could speak the line click-clicked, disconnected.
"Wait!" she hissed, straining to be both heard and quiet at once.
Dial tone.
A soft knock on the French doors.
She punched the correct sequence into the phone.
The knock again, more loudly now.
She looked outside. The silhouette crouched.
"Woodside Police emergency services. Can I help you?"
"Greta?" His raspy French accent from the terrace.
"Oh," she murmured into the phone, snapping her eyes shut for a moment.
"Hello? Can I help you?" the phone voice repeated.
She placed the phone back on its cradle and breathed a fatigued sigh. She would have to make no decision now. He had decided for her. And it was the right decision. Clutching her robe tightly around her, she got to her feet and went to the closed door. All at once she halted, remembering that she had not showered or even brushed her hair. But her greatest negligence during her temporary invalidation was that she had even let her hands go unconditioned. And ungloved. She leaned closer to the drawn curtains.
"Jean-Pierre?"
"Greta. Yes." The shadow of his head leaned closer, just inches away. "Open the door."
"Jean-Pierre. I can't. I look just awful," she said. "You can't see me like this. I've been so upset. In bed for two days."
"Greta," he crooned softly. "You did not call me yesterday. Nor today. I have been waiting, but could wait no longer. I thought Matthew may have come home early, so I sat nearby and watched for a while. I know he is not here. Let me in, Greta."
The thought of Jean-Pierre sitting in his bedroom, or just outside the gate, watching for signs of Matthew being home made her feel suddenly roguish and sexy. Desired.
"Jean-Pierre, it's been so awful staying here. I wanted to come see you, but I could not bring myself to do it."
"I am here. I brought you something. Now let me in," he commanded, his voice much louder.
"Yes," she said and unlatched the door.
He stepped inside the room and gripped her shoulders. Night air and animal and maleness flooded her senses. She gasped all of it in, then her breath was cut off by his lips. He kissed her, hard, and snapped his head away. "Matthew. When?"
"He won't be back until tomorrow."
"Good."
"Yes." She looked past his shoulder, outside the doors, and began to cry softly.
He frowned and pulled her down beside him on the bed. "Greta, what is it?" He wiped her cheeks with his thumbs.
"I've been so upset and confused by everything. This is so hard for me." She closed her eyes and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. Her mind flashed with images of the first time he had kissed her, in the horse stall.
"You mustn't cry." He kissed her again. His hands touched just inside her soft robe. Lightly, down to her belly. Gooseflesh prickled her forearms, spread to her stomach, her loins. Her nipples felt pinched and hard, needed pinching.
"Wait," she said, squeezing his strong forearms. "I've been in bed for two days. I really must take a shower."
"Mmm," he hummed. "Never mind that." In one quick motion he slid the robe from her shoulders and undid the belt, parting the garment at her waist. Pushing her down, he crouched over her, facing her, supporting his weight on either side with his knees. His jeans-clad thighs rubbed lightly against her own. She had imagined and wanted this moment for so long. However she could not be with him here like this until she had a quick shower.
"Please," she said, squirming from beneath him. "I'll just be a few minutes," she said, and darted from his lunging grasp to the bathroom.
There, she looked at herself in the mirror. With horror, she remembered that her hands were ungloved. She let her eyes go first to her right hand, then the left. She forced her vision to stay there until she could breathe again. Yes, she would have to tell him. And show him.
A few minutes later she emerged from the bathroom wearing a towel around her midsection. Jean-Pierre was lying on the bed propped on one elbow, naked. Timidly, she proceeded to the bedside. He raised himself to his knees and placed his hands on her hips. Before she could take in the shape and size of his nakedness, he had her on the bed in one quick movement, the towel discarded with a flick of his wrist.
He breathed a lusty sigh and lowered his lips to hers. She felt his hard, blazing length along her entire body. She wanted to look at him next to her like this, but before she could take in their togetherness, he kissed her again, gently this time, teasingly. She expected that in any second he would enter her, have her.
But instead he gently clasped her hands in his own. "Your hands,Greta, this is the first time I have felt them."
"Feel them. Both of them. Go on."
It took him a moment to register. "Oh, Greta. Is this why you have been afraid?"
She began to cry again. "It's so horrible. I was once a hand model, and then that happened. And everything ended."
He said nothing. He kissed her, told her softly to cry and let it out. "What happened, Greta? You must tell me. There is nothing bad about it to me."
When she stopped crying she wiped her eyes and sat up, allowing his hands to remain on hers through the entire story, which she recounted in a quiet monotone.
"We were on a yacht anchored in a windy lagoon, celebrating a new soda of Matthew's that was a huge success. I'd had a lot to drink. At one point I was standing off to the side all by myself. I was poking my ring finger in the little hole of an empty can, thinking about how Matthew and I were going to start a family. Apparently we were getting ready to sail some more. It was dark. I remember they were taking Matthew's picture just a few feet away. The flashes popped and at the same time a strong wind rocked the boat. I lost my balance and reached out to grab the rail but I was blinded by flashes and couldn't see. My finger was still in the can and I had no time to shake it off before grabbing on to stop myself from falling. I felt rope and metal and pain all at once. I had grabbed between the support line and the rail, and the can was caught between that and my hand. I think that was when I started to scream. I was leaning forward trying to free my hand when the boat lurched. I fell overboard. My finger didn't come with me. Matthew was standing at the rail of the boat, screaming hysterically. Someone jumped in. It was dark, but I saw the blood then, and when I reached for the life preserver I saw what had happened. The little white nub of bone. The rest of it gone. I passed out and woke up in the hospital. They said that the can with my finger and my wedding band had fallen overboard with me. They never found it. It's still out there in the ocean, lost, Matthew and I with it."
They were silent for a very long time. She did not cry anymore, she only lay there with her head turned on the pillow, eyes closed, waiting for him to let go of her hand. But he did not let go. Instead he kissed her right hand, then the left one, each knuckle. She was frozen in place as he did this, as he kissed between her pinkie and the middle finger, at the space where her ring finger once was. She gasped when she felt his tongue there.
Holding the hand, he leisurely traced along her breasts with her own fingertips. He trailed their course with his lips and tongue, taking tiny nips at one breast, then the other. He squatted over her, his knees on either side. His ponytail fell forward into her face and she let some of the gathered hair enter her mouth as he sucked her breasts with growing urgency. Her hips responded. She lifted herself against him, pressed his head harder into her chest. He held both of her breasts, licked beneath them. She felt a chilling tingle along the back of her neck each time the fine hairs of his buttocks brushed against her thighs. Gripping him beneath his armpits, she squeezed his strong chest between her hands and pulled him fully down onto her with all of her might.
"Slowly," he whispered, resisting her insistence. "There is no hurry."
"Yes," she moaned, nearly in tears. "Yes, hurry, I want you so bad." Never before had she been kept on edge like this, all of her energy wriggling beneath him, wanting him. It had always been Matthew wanting her when he needed, and she had always been there to service him. But this was not like that.
And then she felt a new emotion that was both exciting and frightening. "I need you," she mouthed without a sound into the pillow. Her inhibitions lifted and, as if beyond her control, she felt her entire self slacken, acceptance at last releasing her anxiety.
Sensing her sacrifice, he pressed his whole hard body against her, claiming her entirely from head to toe. His hot sex lay rigid between them, ready to consummate their bond.
With a lustful moan of anticipation he lay on his side and took her hand again. He kissed her wrists, her lips, her throat, traced her fingers along his ample sex, beneath his scrotum, which lay swollen over her hotness. She attempted to wrap her hand around it entirely, attempted to gently cup and fondle his testicles, but his control was beyond her own, and so she let him lead her maddeningly, pleasurably, on an erotic discovery of their bodies.
With his penis in both their hands, he played its tip along her folds, as far up to her navel, back again, and down and around the edge of her anus. In an instant he was inside her with his fingers. Then he removed his and encouraged hers in. At first she pulled away, her entire arm taut in his grip. He eased her resistance with a kiss that was both tender and probing, secure. "Shhh," he whispered, gently pressing her fingers inside her. She yielded, pressed a breast to his mouth as they alternated their exploration of her innermost region. Gently he withdrew his hand entirely, and watched her as she continued by herself, tuning in to her own rhythm.
"Yes," he said encouragingly, caressing between her buttocks with his hand. He changed position so that he could work his tongue between her fingers. She quickened her rhythm, squeezing his tongue with each press and flick. He followed her fingers inside with his tongue and she cried out his name when she felt it slide in the gap created by her missing finger. Her free hand flew to his hair and with a moan she freed his ponytail, wanting all of him inside her. His hands rolled and pinched her nipples in time with each lunge of his tongue, propelling her on mercilessly. She moaned deeply, and he pulled back when she drew close.
She pulled his head up by the hair and crushed his lips with a kiss. She opened her legs and slid them up, pressing her knees into his flanks. Then she led him in, pulling her hand from between them. He alternately kissed her and her hand, the stubby knuckle. With each of his thrusts he kissed her, and it felt marvelously good and wicked at the same time, feeling him inside her and holding her hand and kissing her. With each lunge he squeezed more tightly, as they inched closer, until his unflagging rhythm suddenly altered to forceful, jutting bursts. With each hot gush inside her, she cried out his name, her hand twitching spasmodically in his as she was overcome by wave after wave of irrepressible pleasure.
After their breathing returned to almost normal he took her in his arms, their steaming bodies sticking together as they lay entangled, too exhausted to move. Her head was spinning from the champagne and from their intoxicating lovemaking.
Never before had she felt like this, she thought, feeling him still inside her, softening. Matthew had always been the one to want, and she had always given to him, but now she understood all at once her desire to be given to.
Their hands remained clasped together as she drifted away from her thoughts, the tingling inside her turning to numbness as she cooled, cooled, then felt chilled, as though she were shaking.
Being shaken.
"Greta!" Jean-Pierre whispered.
"Mmm?" she moaned, disoriented.
"Matthew!"
Not Matthew, she thought half-consciously. No, not Matthew. Not for a while. Only Jean-Pierre now.
"Matthew!" Jean-Pierre hissed again, leaping from the bed.
She sat up, wide-eyed. It was dark in the room. She turned on the beside lamp. Jean-Pierre was hastily gathering his strewn clothes. No, he didn't understand. They were safe. Touching her hand to her head for an instant, she relaxed a little, felt a little laugh begin in her chest at the comedy of his panic. He must have heard Marie, because Matthew wouldn't be home from his New York trip until tomorrow afternoon.
But then she heard his voice, "Greta?," faintly, coming from downstairs.
Judging by the echo she guessed that he was in the kitchen - and only one minute away from making his way through the foyer, up the stairs, and into their bedroom. "My God!" she gasped, struggling with her robe. "Hurry! Leave!"
Jean-Pierre had managed to pull on his pants, shirt, jacket. Snatching up his shoes and socks and wristwatch, he stepped outside, onto the terrace. She gathered her robe and tied it closed as she rushed from the room.
"Matthew?" she called from the top of the stairs. "I'm up here," she said, composing herself as she descended quickly.
"There you are," Matthew said, his garment bag and briefcase in tow. He set down the briefcase at the bottom of the stairs and flipped through a few pieces of mail. Yes, she thought thankfully, take your time and read your mail, all of it. "I came back tonight instead. My meeting was shorter than I'd expected." He glanced at her.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he stopped going through the mail. He dropped it next to his briefcase and began climbing the steps. "Why is it so dark in the house? Are you in bed already?"
She stopped and raised her wrist to her head, fumbling with her words. "I'm not feeling very well," she said. She pulled a tattered tissue from her pocket, dabbed it beneath her dry nose, coughed. "Darling," she said, blocking his way, "could you please get me a glass of water?"
He stopped, eyed her with subdued curiosity. Then he let out an impatient sign and turned and started back down the steps. Just another minute, she thought, and Jean-Pierre would be safely gone.
But then Matthew stopped, turned around, and climbed toward her again. "There are cups in the bathroom," he recalled aloud as he passed her. She clutched the hem of her robe and lifted it and chased after him in hopes of getting to the bedroom before he did.
She didn't.
He flipped on the light switch, which lit up several lamps in the room all at once, and tripled its brightness. Now everything was fully illuminated, exposed.
She tried to see what Matthew was seeing: The bed was a shambles.Sheets, pillows, and the comforter strewn across the mattress andonto the floor. The two empty champagne bottles. One on its side.The bath towel beside the bed. The unlocked terrace door.
He strode past the bed to his walk-in closet and hung up his garment bag, acting as though he did not notice the mess. Pulling his tie from his collar, he caught her earnest reflection in the full-length closet mirror. He turned around to take a closer look at her disheveled appearance, and for a moment his eyes fixed on the empty champagne bottle resting atop the night table. He graced her with a brief, condescending glance, then went back to undressing.
A chilly gust of wind blew open the terrace doors and lifted the curtains. He clucked his tongue as he crossed the room to close the doors.
"Oh" Greta said sharply, coming up quickly behind him. "I was so hot. I think I have a fever."
Ignoring her, he pulled the doors shut.
She angled her head to see outside. Jean-Pierre seemed to have gotten away safely.
Matthew twisted the lock and grabbed the curtains and started to slide them together. Suddenly he stopped and crouched a little. "What's that?" he said, squinting outside.
"What's what, darling?" Greta said, hearing her own voice crack as she rushed to his side.
Matthew stepped out onto the terrace.
"This." He bent over and picked something up. "It caught my eye in the light," he said. From his fingers he dangled a fine gold chain, with a sparkling gold object dangling from it. A charm of some sort.
She scrutinized the object for an instant, then broke into a wide smile. "Oh, there it is," she said, taking the chain in her hand and holding it up with a glad smile on her face. "I've been looking for this for days."
"Hmm. I've never seen that one before," Matthew said indifferently before disappearing into the bathroom.
And neither had she. Her heart was galloping in her chest. She sat on the bed and took a quick peek at the charm necklace in her palm. Then all at once she remembered Jean-Pierre saying, when he'd arrived, that he had brought her something.
The bathroom light went out, and she carefully tucked the object into her robe pocket. Assembling the bedclothes as best she could, she pulled the comforter over her legs, then shut off her night lamp.
Dressed in his pajamas, Matthew stood at the foot of the bed. "Since you're not feeling well," he said, glancing at the mascara-streaked pillows, "I'll sleep in the guest room." He shut off the remaining lamps as he left the room. When she heard his door close down the hall, she switched her night lamp on again and pulled the necklace from her pocket. She inspected it more closely under the light.
It was a tiny horseshoe charm. She squeezed the charm tightly between her palms, feeling him again. Then she clasped the necklace around her neck and turned off the lamp. She pulled the comforter over her body. "Good night, Jean-Pierre," she whispered. She kissed the charm, then squeezed it tightly in her left fist and held it against her breast.
As her thoughts swirled into pleasant dreams, her grip relaxed, then gently unrolled, and the symbol of Jean-Pierre's love slipped through her fingers, and she slept like never before.
* * *
After William finished reading through the binder Matthew had given him earlier in the day, he got up from his reading chair and stretched.
The strategy was perfect. Matthew had put together a plan that, after they announced the Joey II computer in about a year, would demonstrate that Wallaby had grown up and was venturing into the big-business world by working a strategic deal with ICP. Soon after that, before the stock had too much time to climb, Wallaby would be acquired by ICP and become a subsidiary of the huge computer giant.
William thought for a moment about Matthew and his manner. He seemed high-strung and edgy when they had met earlier in the day. When he had asked about Peter Jones, Matthew had turned defensive. Though William had every intention of following through with his plans to acquire Wallaby, he wondered if maybe his inquiry had caused Matthew to fear that he was losing confidence in him, and in Wallaby.
William was in fact more than mildly curious about what Jones had been up to over the past few months. Even though he was still on the payroll at Wallaby and officially an employee, after what Matthew had told him, William felt certain that there was little hope of Jones ever going back to Wallaby.
An unhappy thought, for, after all, it was Jones who had invented the Joey, and the older Mate, which was the reason he had even started formulating the secret acquisition plan a few years ago in the first place.
He wondered: Could Jones be a threat to ICP and Wallaby if he decided to resign and go it alone, perhaps competing head-on with his "old" company with a newer product, something more compelling than the Joey?
William knew that Jones had substantial financial reserves, and combined with the venture capital he could gather by simply picking up the telephone, he would easily gain the resources necessary to do something big. But in an industry dominated by only a few major players, even Silicon Valley's wunderkind would face obstacles at this stage of the game. And of course, William reminded himself, suddenly taking down his fear a few notches, the largest obstacle Jones would confront was Jones himself. Wasn't that why he had originally hired Matthew Locke? He was not an organization man, incapable of managing a large company. And that would hurt him. Thank goodness for small wonders.
With some amusement at the irony of this last thought, William placed the binder beside his Joey, with which tomorrow morning he would compose an e-mail message to Matthew, congratulating him on his work. He was too tired now, and his elation had turned to exhaustion. He needed a good night's sleep. He glanced at Martha's picture for a moment, then shut off his desk lamp.
The ring of the telephone startled him. He reached across his desk to answer it before the second ring, noticing the time on his wall clock. Quarter past midnight.
"Hello?"
"Billy, did I wake you?" a croaky voice asked.
"Who's calling, please?"
"I knew it! Working late as usual. How's the ol' boss?"
"Byron! I'm fine. How are you and Grace?"
"A-okay. We're staying for an extra while here in Maine.Sailing's been good. Few more weeks left."
"Great to hear."
"I'm calling for a favor," Byron said.
"Shoot."
"I need some of my old stuff from my office there in New York."
As the most prominent inventor in ICP's history, Byron was granted lifelong privileges that included an office that was cleaned every day and kept in a ready state, should he ever decide to drop by and sit in, for whatever reason.
"Sure. What kind of stuff?" William said and smiled to himself. His honorable former partner was experiencing post-retirement pangs. He probably wanted to browse through his old journals, notes, take a trip down memory lane, as it were.
"On my shelf, right behind my desk, there's a binder called'Advanced Network Agent Design.'"
William snapped on the desk lamp and wrote himself a note.
"I'll have Barbara send it to you. Anything else?"
"No. I mean, no, I don't want you to send it to me. I want you to send it to this address," Byron said.
William heard some papers shuffling.
"Here it is: 42 Inlet Drive, Camden, Maine, 04288."
"You got it, Byron. I'll have Barbara fetch it tomorrow and express it to you so you get it by Wednesday. Oh, wait a second, who's the addressee?"
"Peter Jones."
William's eyes shot to Martha's photo. He blinked rapidly and his lips parted. But no words would come out. He shut his mouth, took a deep swallow. Heard himself repeat the addressee's name, then for a few beats he heard his own blood pounding in his ears.
"Yep, new buddy of mine. You know who he is, right?"
William took a few seconds to answer. "Of course," he said, staring at his Joey. Then, struggling to sound as matter-of-fact as possible: "Why are you sending him this?"
"We're kicking around an idea we've come up with," said Byron, all snappy and playful.
"I see," William managed. "Byron, are the two of you thinking of starting up something new?"
"Hell, I don't know. It may be nothing. But it may be something, too. Listen, I don't want to talk your ear off. It's late, and you've got a real job to go to in the morning."
"It's okay. I was just reading."
"Well, if you've got a few minutes."
"I do. Really. The time doesn't matter," William said, and shakily seated himself in his chair. He reached over to the bookshelf and lifted Martha's photo. He placed it in his lap.
"Please, go on," he said, and for the next forty-five minutes, he listened.