Four months had passed since William Harrell and Matthew Locke had traded secrets in New York…and since Matthew and Laurence Maupin had met on her bed.
They were together again now, backstage at Lincoln Center in New York City, preparing for the announcement of ICP and Wallaby's strategic alliance before an audience of executives from both companies, and industry partners, customers, and the press.
"Matthew, you seem a little nervous, and that will show to the audience," Laurence said, standing before Matthew, who sat backstage in a dressing room. A makeup attendant patted his forehead and cheeks with flesh-tone powder.
"I'm just excited," he said.
"Smile. Make sure you smile," Laurence urged, trailing Matthew as they moved along the rear hallway to the stage area. They stopped behind the curtain's edge, and Matthew checked his watch.
"Hello, Matthew," William Harrell said warmly, joining them. Though they were dressed similarly, William appeared very cool, very calm, very much in control, the very opposite of how Matthew was feeling.
A man appeared wearing a microphone and earpiece headset. He nodded to Laurence then faced Matthew. "Mr. Locke, you're on in one minute, as soon as the music stops."
"Good luck," William said, shaking Matthew's hand. He stepped aside, opening a clear path to the stage.
The auditorium grew silent as the overhead lights dimmed and the piped-in classical music dissolved. An announcer's voice greeted the audience and a large screen unrolled, on which a slide projector beamed the Wallaby logo.
"Good luck," Laurence whispered, squeezing his hands. A spotlight focused on the podium gaped wide and bright.
The announcer boomed: "Please welcome the Chairman, President, and Chief Executive Officer of Wallaby, Incorporated, Matthew Locke."
Applause sounded when Matthew appeared. He traversed the distance to the podium with clear composure and stood before the audience a few moments, allowing them to take in his dark gray suit, his confident air. He graced the audience with a sweeping smile, then focused his attention at the center of the auditorium, just above the heads of his audience, as his mistress and tutor had taught him.
"Thank you, and good morning. Today will mark a very important day in Wallaby's history. As you know, Wallaby is a company that has always been focused on empowering individuals with portable computer technology. Many of you today, stowing your own Joey or Joey Plus in your briefcases and folios, have first hand experience with Wallaby's products, and today we'd like to take that experience to the next level."
In sync with his speech, the slides Matthew had shown the executive staff just four months ago, when he first proposed the strategic alliance with ICP, flashed behind him on the high screen.
"What we are about to show you will enable Wallaby to continue to deliver on its original vision of powerful portable computing, but with more flexibility than ever. That means customers who were previously locked out of the Joey platform because of its incompatibility with other systems can finally hop on the bandwagon and benefit from the Joey's advanced technology, and continue to access files and documents created on those other systems, simply and easily."
At this the crowd stirred. It was exactly the kind of reaction Matthew had hoped for. Barely able to contain his smile, he pressed on.
"Today, Wallaby announces a new and friendly personality in compatible computing." The spotlight on Matthew faded to a dim glow, and a second circle of light appeared, center stage.
"But rather than standing here and telling you about our exciting news, why don't I let the new Joey II show you."
The excited audience silenced. On drum roll cue a shrouded, remote-controlled box about the size of a shopping cart glided from stage right to center stage, into the spotlight. The drum roll intensified.
The entire auditorium went black for a few seconds, then cymbals crashed loudly. The shroud was gone, and there, bathed in intense light, was a dark gray prototype Joey II computer.
Matthew himself joined in the thunderous applause. He felt as though an intense wave of heat had just washed over him. For the first time in Wallaby's history, someone other than Peter Jones was revealing a new product before a cheering audience.
Seconds later the computer's screen, controlled by an automated script, came to life, and its image was projected, via video output, to the overhead screen for all the audience to watch.
The screen cleared and then the Joey II went into a six-minute animated presentation demonstrating the system's new features, including a new slot for plugging in a local area network card, a larger hard disk, faster fax sending and receiving, and built-in file translation software for reading documents and other files directly from ICP's formerly incompatible BP desktop and portable computers.
When it was over, cymbals crashed and the audience applauded wildly, thrilling Matthew to the bone. He stole a quick glance to his left, offstage and behind the curtains. Laurence signaled with a thumbs-up gesture.
He turned back to the audience and waited for the applause to finish.
"Today you just saw a prototype of the new Joey II computer, the first engineering collaboration between International Computer Products and Wallaby.
"When the Joey II is available in six months, Wallaby and ICP will begin a co-selling relationship. For the first time in history, two former rivals, Wallaby salespeople and ICP salespeople will share and support the same customers.
"This is a non-financial arrangement, and represents a first-ever strategic alliance between our companies, enabling Wallaby to continue to develop exciting and powerful portable computers, now with built-in ICP compatibility that makes the Joey II the perfect companion to ICP's line of BP desktop computers."
The presentation continued, and Matthew detailed the specific markets and technologies that each of the companies had agreed to develop together. Afterward, as Matthew and Laurence were collecting their notes and briefcases, William strolled into the press room.
"Well done, Matthew," William said, smiling politely to Laurence.
"Thank you."
"May I have a word with you?" William said. "It will only take a minute."
"Sure," Matthew said, shutting his briefcase. "I'll be right back, Lauri," he said, and followed William from the room.
"In here," William said, pushing into an empty dressing room. The light from the hallway fanned into the room and aided their search for the wall switch.
Finding none, Matthew switched on one of the makeup tables mirrors. Twenty light bulbs lit up around the mirror's rim, and he turned around the chair facing it and seated himself. William pulled up a small stool and sat down.
"It all went very well, Matthew," William said. "I just wanted a moment alone with you to tell you how happy I am, especially after the shakiness we've experienced over the past few months."
"Thank you. And I understand. We've both had our own concerns, you on one side, me on the other."
"Yes," William agreed. "I sometimes didn't believe we would make it to this day, but we did, and now we're ready to move into the final phase." The final phase: ICP acquires Wallaby, and Matthew comes under William's command. "And they bought your response with nary a doubt," William said. "That was good. Because they're going to have a big surprise in a couple of months."
He was referring to the reporter's question that had been directed to Matthew minutes ago: "With this 'strategic alliance,'" the reporter had said, affecting a difficulty with the definition of the agreement, "aren't you afraid, Mr. Locke, of a possible ICP takeover of Wallaby in the future? Or is this perhaps something you may want?"
Despite the dead-on accuracy of the reporter's speculation, Matthew had not wavered in his response, explaining, with a discernible hint of Peter Jones's once-infamous arrogance, that today's strategic alliance announcement was as close as Wallaby intended to get to ICP. To further squash the theory, he threw in a nugget about takeovers, and how FTC regulations would prevent ICP from subsuming Wallaby as long as Wallaby continued to build portable computers.
However the reason his response had sounded so believable to everyone, and to himself especially, because it was the truth.
Was.
Right then, as he had answered the reporter's question, a new plan, a revised plan, had crystallized in Matthew's mind: There would be no eventual merger between ICP and Wallaby.
"It's back to the office for me," William said, checking his watch.
Matthew said good-bye and turned to face himself in the mirror. He felt different, felt he looked different. Younger. More alive than ever. He pinched back a smile as he whispered the words he would say if it were Peter rather than himself looking him in the eye right now: "I told you so." He said it again, and this time broke into a huge self-satisfied grin, his laughing eyes piercing back from the mirror into his own.
"Matthew?" Laurence stepped into the room. "Who are you talking to? Is everything okay?"
This somehow stuck him as funny and he let out a burst of laughter. "Fine. Great. Super," he said. He whisked his fingers through his hair and inhaled a deep breath.
Ironically, he at once understood that Wallaby - no, that he - now had ICP in a precarious position. William himself had told Matthew that he had not approved any new portable computer designs, banking everything on today's announcement, so that ultimately he could acquire Wallaby with its now-compatible technology. The way Matthew saw it, Wallaby - delightfully modest and manageable, both in size and volume compared to ICP - now held at least a two-year technology advantage over the world's biggest computer company. And the thought of having them by the tail delighted Matthew beyond any dream he ever had of merging the companies as one.
"Good," Laurence said. "Come on, let's go play in the city." She shook her rental car keys at him. "I've got the keys."
"Wrong," Matthew said, and with a playful look in his eye produced his hotel room key and twirled it on his finger. "It looks like I'm holding the only key we'll need."
It was on days like this, bright and sunny with a slight morning chill, that she felt happier than ever. With Matthew in New York on business, Greta had given the housekeeper the past three days off, letting her know that she could handle her own meals. But that was hardly the reason why it was better for Marie to be out of the house.
She gripped the handlebars firmly, admiring her own hands without ill feelings. The gears of her exercise cycle spun quietly, crisp air breezing in through the open balcony doors. Her breathing was heavy but controlled, just as he had taught her.
She heard the shower stop and checked the cycle's timer. Another quarter mile before she was through. That would work out almost perfectly, giving her a few minutes to cool down before he was all finished in the bathroom.
The cool winter air whispered across her face, and with each misty exhale puffing from her nostrils she imagined the sensual air of France, of Europe, so much there for them to see and do together, an afternoon ride in dewy green hills, pedaling along right behind him with his strong back in view, the bobbing of the red and white checkered tablecloth peeking out from the picnic basket strapped to his bicycle…
"Darling, are you going to pedal all the way to Alaska?" Jean-Pierre said, glancing at the accumulated mileage on the cycle's odometer.
Greta laughed heartily. "I stopped looking and…I guess…I just…kept…going."
"To the hospital is where I'll be going," Jean-Pierre said. Hitching his towel around his waist, he went to the balcony doors and closed them. "With pneumonia!"
"Oh, darling, I'm sorry," she said, lifting her feet from the pedals. She dropped her head into her crossed arms over the handlebars and regulated her breathing as she cooled down. The machine's flywheel slowed to a stop and she shook herself briskly. "I feel so good!" she shouted.
For the past four months, since the beginning of their affair, she had exercised every day. Though Jean-Pierre had been the one to suggest the calisthenics, she had become obsessed with her daily workout and needed no encouragement to get on her cycle and go every morning. With each strained breath she pictured herself becoming more slender, more youthful, more attractive and beautiful and sexy for him.
Clad in undershorts, Jean-Pierre stood combing his long hair before Matthew's bureau mirror. He swung his head back, collected his mane with both hands behind his head, and worked an elastic band over the ponytail.
Greta tugged off her headband and playfully pulled it over his head. "Now you look like an Indian."
He smiled and tugged the band off. As he reached for his shirt hanging on the bedpost, she grabbed his wrist and roughly pulled him beside her on the bed. She flattened his hand against her chest, his middle finger settled over the horseshoe charm he had given her. "Are you an Indian giver?" she said suggestively, moving his hand from the charm to her breast.
He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. When her grip loosened he stepped back and stood before her with his hands on her hips. "Greta," he warned her, "I must get ready. I have a nine o'clock lesson, and already I am going to be late."
She stretched, "Okay, okay, no pow-wow for now."
"Besides, darling," he said to her reflection in the mirror, "you too have a busy day ahead of you."
"Yes, yes, I know," she said with an unpleasant expression. "I'll call as soon as I get out of the shower."
He sat beside her, boots in hand. "Maybe you should call now," he said, "so I can be here with you."
"After the shower. I promise." She stood and unzipped her athletic top.
He tugged on his second boot. "It is just that they can be so pushy and overwhelming."
"He is a friend of ours, Jean-Pierre. Well, of Matthew's anyway. But I trust he'll be straight with me," she said, sounding not totally certain.
"I am just trying to help," Jean-Pierre said, tucking in his shirt.
She slid her little horseshoe charm back and forth on its chain. Should she call now? Perhaps with Jean-Pierre here it would be easier. And if she really was going to go through with this, she might as well do it with him here. He was, after all, the reason why she had made up her mind in the first place.
"Wait," she said, as he was zipping his suede jacket. "Pass me my little address book. It's over there next to my wallet." She flipped through the book and found the number she wanted and dialed the telephone.
Jean-Pierre stood with his arms crossed, broad shoulders pressed squarely against the wall. He gave her an encouraging look.
She turned her attention to her free hand, the left, which she had kept ungloved since she and Jean-Pierre had made love the first time. Somehow it seemed only fitting that she stare at where her finger once was while making this call. On the second ring a young woman's voice greeted her.
"This is Greta Locke," she said, and after a moment's hesitation, "Matthew Locke's wife." She met Jean-Pierre's intense stare. "I'd like to speak with Mitchell, please." A pause, then: "Mitchell, hello. Yes, he's fine, thank you." Her expression turned serious as she smiled through the last of the lawyer's greeting.
"Actually, Mitchell, things aren't exactly perfect," she said, twisting the phone cord in her hand. Her eyes went to Jean-Pierre for a moment, taking him in from head to toe, his boots. The ranch, she reminded herself, boosting her courage. This was all for their ranch. She took a deep breath and plunged on. "I'm calling you, Mitchell, because I want a divorce." Pinpoint dots of sweat had formed on her upper lip.
"I'm sorry?" she said, shaking her gaze from Jean-Pierre. "No, Matthew and I have not talked about it yet." Another pause. "No, I don't know if it's what Matthew wants. It's what I want." She swallowed a deluge of conflicting emotions, her eyes pleading with her lover for support.
Jean-Pierre dropped before her and rested his head in her lap.
"Yes, I will," she said, and placed her hand on Jean-Pierre's head. "Yes, as soon as he gets home from New York, yes."
Jean-Pierre lifted his face. He was silently mouthing a word, but she could not understand him.
"No, I can't think of anything. I'm sure by the time I call you back I'll have - oh, wait." She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece.
"Property," Jean-Pierre whispered.
"Oh yes, Mitchell, I do have one question." She held the phone with both hands and looked out the window. "Mitchell, I'm not clear on a few things in these matters. The property. The house. Assets. Those sorts of things."
Jean-Pierre held her around the waist with both arms. In the distance she could see his small cottage, the ranch, a few horses being led from the stable.
"It is half, then," she said softly. Her hand dropped to Jean-Pierre's head and slid down to his shoulder. She held on tight. "Half of everything," she uttered, feeling as if her lips were suddenly anesthetized.
"Okay," she said, her voice different now, smaller. "Thank you, Mitchell. I'll contact you soon." She placed the handset on its cradle and closed her eyes.
Jean-Pierre seated himself beside her and wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He whispered to her soothingly, to breathe slowly, relax.
She opened her mouth, tried to form words, but they would not come. After a minute she regained some control. "My God, Jean-Pierre," she managed, hiding her face in her trembling hands. "That amounts to millions."
"Greta," he said, pulling her from him, "You have earned your share. You have worked for it."
"Yes," she said. "Yes," an emphatic whisper. "I have worked hard for it, haven't I?"
"Yes," Jean-Pierre assured her, petting her hair. He smiled. "You have indeed."
* * *
"That's right, as much of it as I can sell," Peter said into the telephone. With a disbelieving expression he shook his head at Byron, who crossed his arms and shot him a mildly disturbed look.
"Okay, Peggy, thanks," Peter said, then hung up the phone.
"You sure you want to do that?" Byron said carefully, turning his coffee cup in his palm.
"You bet I am! Byron, I can't believe this! I can't believeMatthew has formed an alliance with them!" Peter said, battinghis hand at the "Wall Street Journal," whose headline announced,"ICP, Wallaby Announce Strategic Venture."
"Petey, don't forget that 'them' is where this old timer comes from."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean to disparage you, or where you're from. I'm just astonished Matthew has actually done what he was trying to get me to agree to do. To sell out Wallaby to ICP."
"He's not selling out, boy. He's upping Wallaby's market. Probably triple it in a few years because of that two-step he pulled today."
Peter folded his arms. "All the more reason for me to sell my share in Wallaby and invest it in what we're working on. You know, I'm in the mood for a little shopping spree. I think my mind is made up about those couple of acquisitions we've been talking about. The net browser. The compression routines. And definitely that knock-out handwriting recognition kernel. Yes indeed, it's time to do a little spending."
The two men had turned the extra bedroom in Byron's Maine home into a lab and workroom. Scattered all around were diagrams of circuit boards, tools, and assorted computer and electronic parts. A flowchart of the software that Byron was engineering, based on the design the two men had come up with in the last four months, was spread out on the table before them.
"Well, that's settled then," Byron said. "Good. Now what do you say you wipe that little snarl off your face and we get back to work. Come on." He patted the stool beside him and Peter, still plainly agitated by the news, returned to his seat beside his partner.
"This is what I changed last night," Byron said, pointing at a series of boxes indicating the user interface portion of the code. "It's what's going to make this baby different from every other portable doohickey out there."
Peter leaned over the table, following Byron's finger. He shook his head. "No."
"No? No what?"
Peter roughly took Byron's hand in his. "This!" he said, encircling the entire drawing with the other man's finger and, in doing so, pulling Byron from his stool and practically stretching him across the table.
"Hey!" Byron yelled. "If you want to dance, just say so, but be careful, boy, I prefer the floor to tables!"
"I'm sorry," Peter said. He let go of Byron's hand, and gently patted it.
Byron tugged at his sweater sleeve and flexed his arm.
"But look at this," Peter said. "All of this!" he continued, gesturing in a frenzy now with both hands at the entire table, the scattered parts, the room.
Byron casually fished his tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket.
"Don't you see what's wrong with all this stuff you're talking about?"
"Why don't you tell me," Byron said. He crossed his legs and began packing his pipe.
"First, with all respect to your history," Peter started, "it's too complicated."
Byron took a few glowing tokes from his pipe than shook out the wooden match. His motions were slow, unruffled. He exhaled a plume of smoke, then strolled slowly around the table, eyeing the diagram from over the rim of his glasses. "Well, now that you mention it, she is kind of a little monster, ain't she?"
"Little? Hah! If we were to code this thing as it is we'd need an army of programmers. We need to break it down into smaller, smarter chunks. Objects. Maybe we should snap up that little object system those kids from Cal Poly showed us last week. Hell, looking at this, two million doesn't sound like that much anymore."
"Mmm, that would definitely let us break her down to a more manageable size. And adding features would be trivial. Okay, let's call them back and have another look, make sure it'll do what we want," Byron said.
"There's something else."
"Such as?" Byron said, squinting through the rising smoke trails.
"I'm not sure what it is, though. I mean, everything we've got worked out with the agent software is right on. All the cross-referencing between the applications, the net-savvy look-ups and updates and all. But when I step back and look at this, at how it's going to actually look and operate when it's done, I feel like it's missing something. Under the hood we're doing things no one has done before. But on the surface, as nice as it will look, it doesn't seem, well, new enough to me. Different enough. What can we do to make ours really different from the others that are cropping up out there. They've all got styluses now. And there's that Sony slate computer that came out last week with a track pad almost exactly like the Joey's, so that's caught on too. All of it has. The add-on keyboards. CD-ROMs. Modems. PC Cards. The whole works. I don't know. Other than the smart software agents we're putting in, what can we do to make ours the all-out winner. The really intelligent assistant."
"Mmm," Byron hummed.
"What we need is a new paradigm. A bigger-picture metaphor that goes beyond what's already out there, taking this whole business to not just the next possible step, but two or three steps ahead. Something that really get the juices flowing. I mean, this is all well and good, but is it good enough?" He knocked his fist gently on the flowchart and stared intently at Byron.
"I'm with you."
Staring intensely at the drawing, Peter let out an exasperated sigh. "I just don't know what it should be. And that's the frustrating part."
Grace appeared at the doorway with a tray in her hands, holding sandwiches, French fries, two glasses of milk. "Time for a break, boys."
"Ah, relief," Byron said, rubbing his hands together. "Honey, we got any vinegar for those fries?"
"Coming right up," Grace said, handing the tray to her husband.
"Now, while we eat," Byron said, blowing on a hot French fry, "you can give your head a rest for a few minutes, and I promise you, while your stomach is doing some work of its own, your brain'll be busy too."
"I'm not so sure," Peter said. He took a sip of his milk.
The telephone rang.
"I'll get it," Grace said, returning from the kitchen with a bottle of cider vinegar. Byron made a beckoning gesture for the bottle.
"I got it," Peter said. "Holmes residence," he said, wiping his lips on his sleeve. "Hi, Peggy. What's up? Wait, let me guess, a problem with my stock sale already," Peter said with a smirk and a roll of his eyes at Byron.
"His secretary," Byron said, identifying the caller to his wife.
"What?" Peter shouted, eyes suddenly wide with panic.
"What is it?" Byron asked, coming to Peter's side.
"Hello?" a voice called softly, from inside the house.
"All right, yes," Peter said. "I'll get there as soon as I can."He hung up the phone and stared at the handset.
"Hi," Kate said, bounding cheerfully into the room. "I let myself in." She froze in place when she took in Peter's aghast expression as he turned away and faced the wall. He locked his hands behind his neck and looked up at the ceiling.
"What the hell's wrong?" Byron said.
"What's going on?" Kate asked Grace, who replied with upturned palms. "Peter?" Kate gripped his arm. "What is it?"
"Something back home," Peter said, avoiding every set of staring eyes.
"Is it the stock sale, boy?"
He shook his head.
"Then what?" Kate asked, tugging his arm to make him face her.
He turned around and took her hands. "Something happened. I have to go home." He studied their interlocked fingers. "I can't tell you about it right now." He looked her straight in the eye. It was the wine, he thought grimly.
He let go of her hands. "I need to get to the airport right away," he said to Byron.
"Okay," Kate said, "let's go," taking his arm.
Peter's feet remained planted.
"Peter?"
"I have to go alone," he said, leaving no room for disagreement.
Grace discreetly nudged her husband.
"Okay," Byron said, settling his hands on both Kate's and Peter's shoulders. "Put your coat on. I'll take you to the airport." He gave Kate a reassuring look and a wink.
"Don't you want to pack some things?" Kate said.
"There isn't time," Peter said. "I'll call," he said, unable to look her in the eye again, then turned and left the room.
"Be back in a bit," Byron said, kissing his wife on the cheek. "Keep those fries in the oven please, dearest." He turned to Kate and gently squeezed her arm. "It's going to be okay." Then he turned and went after Peter.
Hearing Byron's words of reassurance as he waited outside the workroom, Peter felt the thing in his heart come fully awake. It had been hibernating all through the winter and he had forgotten about it. But now it was time to for it to reemerge.
A knot of contradiction swelled in his throat when he remembered back to the premonition he'd had on that fateful night, more than half a year ago, that he was going to lose everything close to his heart, everything that ever mattered. It was starting, he reasoned, and by the looks of it, Kate would be the first piece to fall away.
William Harrell flipped through the folder of reports his technical adviser had left him, a pleased expression on his face.
His plan was approaching its final stages. Yesterday's strategic alliance announcement had been deemed an enormous success by the press, and in just a few short months the plan's final phase would reach its climax.
He felt at ease and at peace now as he awaited the completion of his original plan. Though he had a real scare when Byron Holmes had called him four months earlier, asking for some of his notes and documentation, his former partner had ultimately assured him that what he and Peter Jones were working on would not become a "real" product anytime soon.
Even so, he still felt more than a little concern for what the two were up to, but after finishing his conversation with Byron, William realized he had initially overreacted to his old friend's new hobby, as Byron himself had referred to it.
And now, with the strategic alliance phase complete, William felt for the first time like he could lift his feet from the pedals and coast through the final stretch as he advanced to the finish line.
With regard to the merger, the FTC would never allow ICP to acquire Wallaby under the two companies' current modes of operation. To counter this regulation, ICP would halt production of its BP portable computer, thereby avoiding a monopoly by pulling its own entry from the market-the Joey line would become ICP's new standard. In doing so, an even greater battle would cease. The clone makers, companies that manufactured computers that operated the same software as ICP's, would be nearly shut down once ICP announced Joey as their new portable computing standard. Unlike the BP, which used a third-party source operating system, the Joey was built upon Wallaby's proprietary hardware and software technologies, and was therefore illegal for other manufacturers to replicate it.
William's desktop now proudly displayed his prototype Joey II system, which he used for all of his office work. He'd had his technical adviser move his "old" BP to a shelf against the wall. As far as he was concerned, he would no longer need it.
The irony of his plan was beginning to hit home. Here he sat, the chairman of the largest computer company in the world, with his "competitor's" product on his desk. William's dream was nearly reality. "I liked the product so much, I bought the company," he quipped to himself as he activated the e-mail program.
The machine's modem dialed the phone and connected to the host computer. There was only one message, and as it was being written to his screen, scrolling quickly from the bottom of the screen to the top, he saw that it was from Matthew Locke. The action was too quick for his eyes, so as he waited for the message to finish downloading, he pulled a tissue from his drawer and cleaned the computer's monitor.
Matthew's message was now unfolded on the display, complete, and as he wiped, the e-mail's subject caught his eye. He quickly scanned the screen for the gist of the message-and he froze.
His throat constricted and his mind slammed on the brakes, chucking him from his exhilarating joyride. He felt his insides rumble as if he were about to lose control of his system, not unlike the feeling, the lack of feeling, that he had experienced as Martha's hand let go of his when she had slipped away.
He forced his hands to be still on the desk and read the message from the beginning.
- - - - - - - - - -
TO: wharrell@icp.comFROM: mlocke@wallaby.comSUBJECT: REVISED PLAN
William, I'll get right to the point: Yesterday's introduction of the Joey II was phenomenal.
Therefore, Wallaby and ICP will maintain a strategic alliance relationship, as we disclosed to the press: Wallaby will work with ICP to develop powerful Joey products which are compatible with ICP systems.
We will not go through with our private original plan of merging the two companies into one.
I am satisfied with my role at Wallaby as chairman, president, and CEO, and I look forward to our two companies working together.
—Matthew
- - - - - - - - - -
"No," William declared breathlessly as he sank heavily into his chair. He raised the tissue to his brow, blotted the sweat that had instantly formed there.
In one fell swoop, Matthew Locke had just changed William's entire plan-and the future of ICP. He felt his heart racing, and he began to hyperventilate. He wondered if he was experiencing the onset of a stroke. He held his palm over his heart and willed it to slow while he attempted to breathe evenly, all the while staring at the message spilled across his-no, Matthew's!-screen.
When he eventually calmed down enough to think a little more clearly, his panic was replaced by shallow emptiness. Then, vaguely at first, a strange feeling of grief and mourning numbed his senses, resurfacing for the first time since he had begun his plan to acquire Wallaby.
His mind started racing, and his immediate reaction was to quickly counter Matthew's scheme by unveiling ICP's own competitive product, showing him that no one pushed the number-one computer maker around. Thinking this through, however, William could hardly bring himself to ask the question, What can I do? He already knew the answer. Nothing. Hadn't he himself halted any new designs of ICP's BP series, or for that matter, any new portable design, after reaching the "Jones" phase of the original plan, when Matthew had moved into power?
No backup plan, he thought and shook his head sadly. The funeral…the rebound to Wallaby…through these events he had lost the foresight to build a backup plan in case something like this should happen. And, he realized, taking the final blow, there could be no going back. While he could simply pick up the phone and call his development heads in and put together a team to begin accelerated development of his technical and market advisors' proposed concepts, a real product would not surface for at least twelve to eighteen months, probably more. He had no immediate backup plan, no product of his own to augment ICP's new strategic dependence and commitment to Wallaby and the Joey. He could not cancel the strategic alliance.
His gaze lingered painfully over the Joey II stationed before him. Its beautiful compact design, its crisp high-resolution screen, its ergonomic keyboard, its slick trackpad. Gently, William touched the trackpad, slid his fingertip across its smooth black surface.
Suddenly, strangely, his thoughts turned sympathetically to Peter Jones. Matthew Locke had just pulled on William the same surprise he had inflicted on Peter Jones.
Then all at once he felt charged as if by a synaptic tingle, a stirring in his fingertip that shot up to his brain. At first he feared he was completely losing control, but then he let out a little laugh, realizing, yes, he had crossed a fine line, and suddenly it all made complete and wonderfully perfect sense to him.
The call. Of course. It had been there all along, a hibernating backup plan, but William had simply ignored it. There had been no reason to notice it. His old friend calling just to say hello, to ask for a few notes, all along up to his old playful tricks.
Could it be possible? Were they really onto something? Something that William could perhaps enlist to save ICP from the switch Matthew Locke had just thrown?
Jones. That was the mistake he had allowed Matthew to make. A mistake that would now work in his favor.
Perhaps you were right, Matthew, William mused, sliding his fingertip to an appended e-mail file. He opened it and searched for Matthew's very first message to him after the board meeting in which Jones had been voted out of Wallaby. There it was. Though Matthew had tried to persuade Jones to stay on at Wallaby, his exact words in the message were, "We'll succeed regardless."
You may be right, Matthew, William thought silently. He slid his fingertip over to a tiny card-file icon on the screen, typed "Holmes" on the keyboard and tapped the find icon.
He tapped the phone icon and the Joey's modem dialed Byron Holmes's telephone number. As he waited for his old friend to answer, he stared at his fingertip resting comfortably on the trackpad. A sudden awareness hit him as if somehow he had just solved a puzzle that had been silently challenging him for a long time, that Wallaby without Peter Jones was as unsound as a the Joey without its sleek intuitive trackpad.
Grace answered, and they exchanged a few moments of courteous conversation then William asked for Byron.
"He's in his play room. I'll tell him to pick up."
A moment later, Byron came on the line. "Hi, Billy."
"Byron, how are things coming along?" William asked.
"Oh, not bad. You know, too cold to fish, mostly sitting around the house, stoking a fire."
"Right," William said, knowing he couldn't just pop Byron's cap open without a little playing. "And in your spare time, how's your hobby coming along?"
"Well, now, Billy, is there something you're curious about?"
"Yes, there is." He decided to come right to the point with his old friend, to simply ask for his help. "I'm very interested in what you and Peter Jones are working on."
"It's good stuff, Billy, though we've had a little bit of a pause."
"What kind of pause?"
"Petey had to go back to California. Had some business to deal with."
California: Wallaby. Was there more to Matthew Locke's scheming? Had he persuaded Jones to come back to Wallaby, to rejoin him in leading the company? That would explain Matthew's newfound resolution to go it alone, without ICP. After all, wasn't Jones the one who had been so resistant to ICP all these years?
"Back to Wallaby?"
"Hell, no. Quite the contrary. Petey started selling off hisWallaby stock yesterday to fund our project."
William knew that Jones's stock sale would yield millions of dollars, many digits, the sort of lengthy figures required for serious development. Things were coming along, then. Which meant that they were probably well on their way to a real product design after all.
"He's selling the stock because he was disgusted that you and Wallaby are in a deal together," Byron said. "He predicts that you're going to buy them in less than a year, and he doesn't want any of his money going to that. Nothing personal, Billy. It's Locke he's angry with."
Touche, William thought, ironically pleased that Jones's speculation was right on target. He dabbed his forehead with a fresh tissue. "Byron, I'd like to make a proposition."
"Shoot."
"I'd like to have a look at what you are working on. When you are ready, of course."
"Hmm. I like that idea, Billy, but I don't know if Petey would feel the same way."
"Byron, listen to me," William plunged on, pulling out all stops."The Wallaby announcement is meant as a temporary solution. Wewant to come out with our own system that will do everything theJoey can, but more."
"Billy, you don't sound so good. Are you all right?"
"No, Byron. I'm not. I'm asking you for a favor, from one old friend to another. Let me have a look at what you're working on."
"Well, since you put it that way, let me see what I can do. I think I can get Petey to agree to let you have a peek."
"When?"
"That I don't know. A little while. He needs some time to himself to take care of some personal business."
"Fair enough," William said, and said good-bye.
He glanced out the window at the World Trade Center. This may be the best way, he reasoned. After all, the portable system stationed before him had been invented by Jones. And even if his plan to acquire Wallaby had worked, wouldn't he have been plagued with worry over Jones's next step?
Perhaps this time, he pondered as he gazed out the window, he would get the strategic ally he had been after all along. Peter Jones.
* * *
Peter stared absently at the clock mounted high on the yellow cinderblock wall. Following the second hand's ride around the dial, he mused at how as a boy he used to watch the clock in school, the thin red line sliding silently past the bold black numerals, inching painfully closer with each agonizing second toward the end of the school day. Would this baby ever have the opportunity to watch the second hand sweep the dial in a schoolroom?
He had been sitting at Stanford Hospital for hours. His neck and back were sore from sleeping on the hard plastic furniture, and now, staring at the clock once more, he willed the thin red line to go slower, for each precious second offered more hope, life, for this unborn baby.
His baby.
At first Peter had not wanted to believe the doctor, insisting that there had been a mistake, a mix-up, that he was just a friend of Ivy's, and it couldn't possibly be his baby. But the doctor relayed to Peter, from Ivy, that she had been with no one else in more than a year before Peter, and no one after. The doctor offered to conduct a simple blood test that would settle the matter, but Peter decided against it.
He knew Ivy was telling the truth. It was his baby, and he prayed that it not be delivered. Not just yet. It needed more time.
Dr. Chen, the resident physician caring for Ivy, said the chances of survival for the twenty-eight-week infant were roughly ninety to ninety-five percent.
Peter could not believe this was happening to him. It was not something he asked for or wanted. Not like this, anyway. He had assumed (hadn't he?) that she had used some sort of protection. In the past, he and Kate had never worried about birth-control. With Kate it was neither an issue or a possibility.
He thought back to their night together, her desperation. He also recalled the indications of her drug usage. The doctor warned him that she was very weak, and had admitted to taking drugs during the pregnancy. The birth would be difficult and extremely dangerous for her, considering her overall poor health. Presently the physician was attempting to prevent the premature birth by administering medication that could retard labor, to allow the baby its final eight weeks of development in the womb.
Now, waiting to find out if the drugs would take effect, Peter sat alone, wondering what he would do if the baby was born today, or next week…or whenever, for that matter. Even if they successfully postponed the birth, there was no running away from the fact that it was his child. And what about Ivy? Would she ask him to marry her? Who was the faulty party? Hadn't he known that he had done the wrong thing? Hadn't he known afterwards that things would never be the same again with Kate?
Kate. Their talk, before they had gone to dinner at the Holmeses' for the first time, about wanting a baby. About wanting to settle down, to marry. What would happen to him and Kate?
"Good morning, Mr. Jones," Dr. Chen said, snapping Peter's gaze from the clock.
"How is she?"
"There's been a change. After her first round of medication the contractions were less frequent, indicating that the pregnancy would not proceed," the doctor explained.
"That's good news, right?"
"It was good. But Ivy has passed fluid. The amniotic sac is leaking. Her labor has resumed. We have no choice but to see it through."
"But the baby?"
"We don't know how much damage Ivy's drug abuse may have caused the baby, or herself. Any baby coming into the world early runs the risk of respiratory distress syndrome."
Peter shook his head impatiently to indicate that he didn't understand, and Dr. Chen explained.
"A vital substance that coats the lining of the baby's lungs and its small interior cavities, called alveoli, is not fully advanced at this stage of development. The air sacs in the lungs tend to stay collapsed. We'll have the baby on a respirator, of course, but there may be other complications."
Peter closed his eyes, images of tiny pink, deflated balloons streaking across his mind. So fragile. So vulnerable and helpless.
The doctor placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. "This isn't going to be easy," he said. "We'll do our best."
And then the doctor was gone, leaving Peter to stare once more at the clock and wait, all by himself.
"Hello, Matthew," Greta said coolly, settling her coffee cup onto its saucer.
"Hi," Matthew said brightly. He dropped his garment bag and briefcase in the doorway, strolled past her without so much as a glance, and went to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of orange juice, drank it in one gulp, and set the glass on the countertop.
"Has Marie been sick or something?" he said, striking up conversation as he strolled into the breakfast area, peeling the paper wrapper off a muffin.
"I gave her a few days off," Greta said. "She'll be back this afternoon."
"How come the time off?" Matthew said, without much interest. He ate his muffin and pulled apart the newspaper, folded it on the table, scanned the page, then glanced across it to his wife.
"I didn't want her around. I wanted to be alone."
He nodded, as if respecting her wish for privacy, then started reading yet another article reporting yesterday's Wallaby and ICP New York City announcement.
"Matthew," Greta said abruptly.
"Hmm?" he replied, his eyes never leaving the article.
"We need to talk."
He looked up distractedly for a moment at his wife, then returnedhis attention to the newspaper. "Okay. Do we have yesterday's'Examiner'?" He looked around the room. "I couldn't find one inNew York."
"Over there. Next to the sofa," she said, indicating the pile of papers in the sitting room. He went to the stack and picked up the topmost issue and sat down on the sofa. "What were you saying?"
She studied him, instantly oblivious to her again as he read about himself and yesterday's news. In an odd way she was glad that he was behaving like this, poring over himself in the newspaper, for it solidified her determination and kicked up the heat of her anger a few more notches. There he sat, holding in his hands the cause for their breakup, smiling proudly at his own picture of himself and his damned machine. Should she feel any guilt or remorse for having taken a lover, for calling the lawyer yesterday to inform him that she wanted to divorce Matthew, when there he sat beaming at his engagement announcement to a stupid little computer?
Well then, let's see how he liked her newsbreak announcement. She stood up from the table walked over to where he sat, crossed her arms and waited for him to acknowledge her.
"I'm sorry," he said, folding the newspaper and tossing it to the floor, "I just wanted to see what they said locally." Rubbing his hands together, he settled back comfortably into the sofa. "Now, what was it you were saying?"
It was plain to see that he was being perfunctory, that he couldn't wait to be done with whatever it was she wanted to talk about so he could rush off to the office, where, having just flown in from New York, he'd squeeze in a few more hours of work. She pictured him on the plane, skipping the meal so he wouldn't have to sacrifice the workspace of his tray table. It was just the sort of image she needed to complete her anger and loathing.
She said, "I want a divorce." The words rolled off her tongue easily and she nearly smiled to herself. So simple. She tucked her fist in her robe pockets as he stood, hands open at his sides.
"Honey? What do you mean?"
"Shall I get you a dictionary?"
"Greta," he said cautiously, clasping his hands together. "I know I've been busy, but it's all been for this." He tapped the pile of newspapers with his foot.
"My oh my, the papers are right, you are smart. Yes, it has all been for that," she agreed, stamping her foot over the picture of his face.
"But honey," he said, wrongfully interpreting her sarcasm, "I've changed my mind. I sent a message to William before leaving New York calling the whole thing off! I don't want Wallaby and ICP to merge as we had originally planned. This way I - I mean, Wallaby - will have more power because now we're going to grow at a phenomenal rate, all because of yesterday's announcement." His eyes were shining. "The plan is off!" he said, and gripped her shoulders.
"And so are we!" she spat, shrugging from his touch.
"But Greta, wait. I mean, I know we've had our problems, but that doesn't mean we should just throw away our lives together."
"Together?" she said, astonished. "What lives, Matthew? What together?" She shook her head sadly at his photograph smiling up at her from the newspaper. "There's your together."
"Greta? What is it? What have I done? What can I do? Is there something you want?"
"No, Matthew, not from you." She touched her finger to her horseshoe charm, slid it from side to side. "This time, I've gotten what I want all by myself."
This seemed funny to him. "Oh?" he said grandly. "And what's that, honey?"
"Love."
That wasn't what he'd had in mind. He blinked several times rapidly. His eyes locked on a point in the ceiling. All the clowning was gone from his face. He had expected something amusing, like a new hobby or craft, but this took him by complete surprise. "An affair?" he asked, catching her eye. She looked away. He tugged the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, composed himself, all business. "An affair," he repeated. "I see."
"It's your fault."
He was thoughtful for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Yes. I suppose it is."
Matthew's first reaction was to tell her about Laurence. He cared very much for the girl, and telling his wife so would at least give him the satisfaction of equally offending the fidelity they had promised one another when they married. He wanted to tell his wife how Lauri had helped him build his confidence the way she once had, and too how the girl brought him pleasure in ways she, his wife, never had. But what would that accomplish? She was having an affair, he thought absently as he perused the room, eyes stopping here and there. He might be having an affair with Laurence, but he was not in love with her, and he certainly had no desire to marry her. He was not in love with his own wife either, but, he quickly calculated in his mind, he could not bear a divorce. It was a matter of economics. Quite simply, if he agreed, she would be entitled to at least half of his assets, over fifteen million dollars, give or take a million. His alternative: appease her, make her feel better, no matter what the investment. A weekend cottage in Monterey? A trip around the world? Whatever she wanted, he would give it to her - he would think of it as an insurance policy.
"Darling, I'm so sorry," he said with pleading eyes. "It really is my fault. What with my obsession over Wallaby all this time, letting things get this far away from me. From us. However, I don't think divorce is the right answer. We should try to work this out."
She smiled. "Do you think I don't know what you're thinking? Oh yes, half of this is mine. And that's the law. Darling."
He swallowed. She knew him too well, could read him so easily. He couldn't hide from her his fear of losing half of his wealth. He had to try a different angle.
"But you're the one having an affair. You admitted it. How do you think that will hold up?"
"It doesn't matter. California still splits the pot."
"This is bullshit."
"You should know, you're so full of it."
"Don't challenge me on this, Greta."
"Too late. I called Mitchell yesterday, and told him - "
Matthew cut her short. "You what?" His voice was a disbelieving rasp. "You called my friend and told him we wanted a divorce?"
"No. I said I wanted it. But yes," she said with a shrug, unafraid, "that's what I did."
"How dare you contact my lawyer when I knew nothing of this! Are you crazy?"
"Why, yes, darling. That's exactly what I am, crazy. Driven mad by Mr. Chips. At least that's what I'm ready to tell the court, if I decide I'd like more than half. In fact, I think I need to lie down, I'm feeling sort of suicidal again. All the stress I've been under since this happened." She stuck her four-fingered hand out at him.
He smacked it away. "I'll fight you on this, Greta."
"Try. You'll only make matters worse for yourself," she said, kicking the newspapers. "It doesn't matter what they might say about me in the papers. But you, my dear - you better think twice before you make your next move, or it's going to cost you a hell of a lot more than you can afford."
It was true. The press would turn this kind of thing into a circus. He had seen this expression on her face before, this same expression he had once found so alluring, so sure and empowering, so certain of his success, their success. When working on his behalf, this look had once charged him with excitement, confidence. Now he saw the face of his opponent from across the ring, and she looked fanatical in the way she said she was - in the way she would convince the court she was, and possibly all but wipe him out.
He needed time. This was too much to handle right now, especially in light of his change of heart with ICP. He had to make a deal with her, come to some sort of understanding, at least for a short while until he could deal with this properly.
"What about a trial period?" he said. "Just give me a little time, and we'll work out some sort of settlement between us. In the meantime, I'll leave you alone. You can have whatever you need to go away on your own if you'd like. Let's just not do anything hasty. Please, Greta. I'm asking nicely. Just give me some breathing room to sort through this."
She thought for a moment about what Jean-Pierre had told her. First, he was going to travel to France to look at properties for them. That would take some time. And once he found something, she would have to pack, and with all the logistics involved in moving, especially to another country, that too would take awhile. Either way, she would be in California for at least a few more months while she and Jean-Pierre made their plans. There was no real hurry, and, she suddenly realized, they had not even discussed marriage. Would they marry? She felt an unexpected chill along her neck. Perhaps it was best to play it cool, she told herself, while the arrangements for France were being made.
She said, "I may choose to travel, get away for while. Maybe even stay somewhere else."
What could that cost? Matthew asked himself. Compared to what she might get if they were to proceed with a divorce, setting her up in her own place amounted to a pinch of salt. For now.
"Fine. Whatever you need. Let's see what happens when things settle down in a few months."
"Ha ha, that's what you think. Please, take a good look at yourself. With you it will never settle down, Matthew. You're married to Wallaby, not me. You think you've replaced Peter Jones as some sort of hotshot smart aleck, but now you're as sickly attached to that company as he ever was. You didn't want him out of your way so you could run the business - no, you were after more. You were after his lover. And you got it." She shot him a mean laugh and turned her head in disgust. And began to cry.
If only right now he would come to her and hold her, and tell her everything would be all right, and kiss her, really kiss her, the way he once had, full of need and desire, then she would go back to him, make their marriage work again. Somehow. As happy as Jean-Pierre made her feel, she understood that she had only begun her affair with him because Matthew had rejected her. If he wanted her back, he could have her. But it was now or never.
Matthew turned away. "Fine," he said flatly, then lifted his briefcase and walked out of the house, got in his car, and drove away.
And along with him went all of her hopes of ever realizing the plan for happiness they had made before moving to California. It was really over. She was now in control of her own plan. She was scared, but she was determined. To hell with him. With her share of the money, she could live the rest of her life without a care. She hugged herself tightly inside the sleeves of her robe, and an eerie thought entered her mind. She shivered, and the hairs on her arms stood up. Glancing around the room, at their things, she understood for the very first time that everything she ever associated with Matthew - money, power, luxury - all of a sudden didn't matter anymore. She was angry with herself for thinking she should go back to him. Was she going mad? Had he really made her crazy? How could she in one instant wish to go back to him, and in the next wonder if he had ever really mattered? Had he been an instrument to her, just as she had been to him? It sure looked that way now. She had used him to acquire more and more things, but she no longer needed these tokens of power and prestige. There was only one thing she needed now, the love of her attractive Frenchman. Nothing else mattered anymore.
Feeling free for the first time of the man to whom she had felt so dependent, Greta calmly sat down on the sofa. Yes, it would be worth waiting a little longer while Jean-Pierre created their new world.
After all, she told herself, she had nothing to lose.
"Mr. Jones," Dr. Chen said, lightly shaking Peter's shoulder.
Peter snapped awake. "What time is it?" he asked as he shakily rose to his feet. Dr. Chen gently steadied him. Daylight shone through the windows at the end of the hall. He glanced at the wall clock. Half past noon. He had been asleep for little more than an hour.
"It's time for you to see Ivy," Dr. Chen said. He led Peter by the arm through swinging double doors. "And your baby girl."
Peter stopped in his tracks. He felt flushed and his throat felt swollen. "She's all right? And the baby too? They both made it though okay?"
Dr. Chen carefully guided Peter to the wall, out of the way of the busy corridor traffic. "Not entirely," he said. "There were complications. Both Ivy and the baby are very fragile. The baby weighs only two and three-quarter pounds. She's in neonatal care right now, hooked up to life-support equipment."
"But she's alive."
"Yes. She's alive," the doctor said. "The outlook is fair, but we don't know yet if there is other damage. Damage we can't see from the drugs."
Peter felt a sudden wave of revulsion. Images of strangely twisted limbs and gnarled faces flashed in his mind. He himself and asked, "Is she retarded?"
"There is no disfiguration," the doctor said. "But it's too early to judge her overall condition. She appears to be a normal, if premature baby."
Peter allowed himself a tight smile. "Thank you, doctor," he said.
They ambled down the hall. "Ivy's not doing well," the doctor added, "but she insisted on seeing you now. She's very weak, so you'll only have a few minutes."
Peter nodded. "Then can I see…?" he said and left the question unfinished, wondering what was the baby's name.
"Yes. But that must be brief too," the doctor said, bringing him up to a closed door. "Wait, Mr. Jones," Dr. Chen said, gripping Peter's wrist as he reached for the door latch. "Her condition is not very good, physically or mentally. Don't upset her. Try to encourage her. I don't know what your plans are with her, but try to reinforce her with some positive thoughts. Do you understand?"
Peter nodded, then gingerly opened the door and went into the room. The shades were drawn, and strange electronic sounds emanated from machines stationed beside the bed. He went to her.
A dim lamp spread yellow light over the bed, and through the blankets covering her Peter could see that Ivy was very thin. Her head was tilted toward the window and her closed eyelids seemed dark and bluish. She looked so different from when he had thrown her out of his home. He remembered her pure adoration, her desire to please him with her project. He braced himself against the bed rail and leaned his face closer to hers. She smelled medicinal, sterile. Her delicate bone structure, her pert nose, were masked by thin, nearly transparent skin. He felt responsible. Guilty. He must take care of her.
And Kate…? No. He couldn't let himself think about that right now. He had to let Ivy know everything would be all right, that he would take care of her.
He whispered her name and she stirred, eyelids fluttering. A thin smile touched her lips, then she blinked a few times and her eyes filled with tears. She let out a long breath through pressed lips, closed her eyes, and made an anguished face. "I told myself I wouldn't get like this when I saw you." She looked away.
"Hey," he said, touching her cheek. She pulled her hand from beneath the blankets and wrapped her thin fingers around his. His body stiffened at her chilly, tenuous touch. At once he felt pity and fear. He was afraid for her life. She looked as if she were a breath away from dying. She had all but destroyed herself. And the baby? What had she done to the baby? He wanted to hold her, tell her she was forgiven, yet he was the one who should be asking for forgiveness. It was all so twisted.
"Don't," she said, pulling her hand away. "Just don't. I don't know what I'm more disgusted about. Me, or you? I wanted you, and you took me and then you threw me away." Her words were thick and slurred. She was bombed on painkillers and tranquilizers and whatever else they were feeding her through the intravenous tube. "I threw myself away, too, after you made me go. I think I wanted to make the baby go away. I think I did what I did, the drugs and all, to hurt it. I'm sick Peter. I'm very sick now, and I have to get all this poison out of me. Including you."
"Ivy, don't talk this way. I'm sorry. You're sorry. We're both sorry for the mistake we made. But we've got to deal with it. It's my responsibility."
She winced. "Now you come to my rescue," a pause, then, "I'm sorry. I don't want to be like this. I just hate you right now. So much. Christ, that ride from LA up here."
She was making no sense at all. "What are you talking about?" Maybe, he thought, it would be better to leave and come back later, after she had rested.
"Yes. The ride. To see Kate McGreggor. She was the one I wanted to meet, more than you. She was who I wanted to be like. Her guards, or whatever they are, never let me in to see her. I tried to find out more about her, where she lived and all. That was when I found that article about you, with her in it. I didn't even know who you were. And then I read about what you'd done, and that you were why the Joey was what it was, I don't know, I wanted to do that instead. I hated her then. I didn't want to be a musician anymore. I wanted to be a techno-artist or something. It's my parent's fuckin' fault, my liberal upbringing. I don't know. Or maybe something else. They're here now. Better late than never, right? Hey, lucky me, I can call them by their first names, but I could never call them Mom and Dad. That's what I wanted. Rick and Jeannette. No. It's not their fault. What am I saying? I don't even know who I am."
She turned her head away from him and rested. She lay still for a while, and when he thought she was asleep he turned to go.