"It would mean the end of Wallaby," Hank said gravely.
"No, Hank," Matthew countered, turning to face him. "It's just the beginning. ICP would sell millions more Joeys then we ever could."
"Agreed," Hank said. "You just said it yourself. ICP would sell.No more Wallaby."
As far as Matthew was concerned, it was all the same. He would assuredly be named president of the Wallaby subsidiary, just as he and William had planned almost three years ago. And the thought of eventually taking over William's role at ICP held enormous appeal again, as it once had. He locked onto this as his new goal.
"All in favor of me contacting William Harrell and proposing the merger of ICP and Wallaby, please raise your hands." His own hand stretched so high it hurt his side.
"We'll have to get full board approval," Hank warned, one last effort to counter Matthew's proposition.
Matthew said, "When they find out that Peter has been talking to ICP, I don't see how they can object. Now, all in favor, please raise your hands."
The room teetered on the edge of absolute stillness.
Then, slowly at first, hands rose. One after another, every person in the room raised his or her hand - except Hank Towers.
Once more, all eyes were on him.
Slowly, he lifted his open palm, held it there briefly, then stood and left the room.
"Very well," Matthew said and lowered his hand. The others followed suit then silently gathered their things and left the room.
All alone now, he lowered himself to a chair with an exhausted sigh. He had done it again. First Peter. Then the strategic alliance. Now the merger. An agreeable sensation of vengeance washed through him when he thought about Peter Jones and whatever plan he had up his own sleeve. For the second time he had voted Peter out, crushing whatever his secret scheme with ICP might have been.
But then he was hit by a sudden troubling thought. What ifPeter's new project actually was superior to Joey? What ifWilliam no longer wanted Wallaby? What if the two had alreadydecided to do business together?
He bolted from his chair and raced from the board room. He had to hurry and try to reach William after he was through with Peter Jones, even if that meant intercepting him at the airport.
* * *
She had considered driving straight to Jean-Pierre's after finishing her business with the bank, but decided instead to drop the car at home first and walk to his cottage. The stroll and the fresh air would calm her.
In her tight fist she carried the receipt from the funds transferred to Jean-Pierre's Swiss account. Transaction complete. Very soon she would find herself strolling to their own stable on their own ranch, with as many horses as she wanted. She envisioned a large property with a simple, stately home, the stable not far from her own back door, nestled among the rolling hills where she and Jean-Pierre would ride.
She rounded the bend of the path that opened onto the ranch. There were a few riders tramping out to the hills, a trainer in the ring was instructing a young student. Jennifer spotted her and waved from her doorstep just before going inside. Greta returned the greeting with a wide, happy sweep of her arm.
She doesn't even know, Greta thought. For that matter, no one knew about her and Jean-Pierre. They had been discreet with the affair, seeing each other when Matthew was out of town, which had been often in the past months. She still rode almost every morning, and often Jean-Pierre joined her. Together they would hunt out a secluded spot in the hills with a beautiful view, dismount from their horses, and make love.
Yes, that was how it would be almost every day in her new life with Jean-Pierre. As she approached the rear of his cottage, she noticed the drawn curtains on his bedroom window. Was he napping? She knocked, but there was only silence.
She twisted the doorknob. It was unlocked, and she decided to let herself in - just as the door was jerked from her hand as it swung inward.
The girl from the sushi restaurant stood there, shocked.
"You!" Greta screeched.
Laurence took a terrified step backward and attempted to swing the door shut in Greta's face.
Greta charged and trapped the girl between herself and the kitchen table. "What are you doing here?" she screamed.
Laurence lifted her hands to protect herself, just as Jean-Pierre rushed in from the other room and stepped between them.
"Greta, wait," he pleaded, grabbing Greta by the shoulder."Laurence is one of my students."
"What?" Greta said, turning to him with a confused and exasperated expression, the girl temporarily forgotten.
"Yes," he said. "In fact, it was your husband who referred her to the ranch, knowing that you kept your horse here. Please, let go of her darling. Come inside. Let me get you something? He spoke as if he were entertaining guests, three old friends gathering for lunch.
Laurence had managed to extricate herself from the threesome, and was presently collecting her bag.
"She" Greta said, "is having an affair with my husband."
"I know," Jean-Pierre said indifferently.
"You knew?"
"No, I said I know. She just told me now. She was so upset that she stopped off to tell me she wasn't going to take her lesson this evening, because of what happened at the restaurant."
"And she'll be leaving, right now," Greta said.
"I was just going," Laurence said with a show of dignity.
"I've had enough of your face for one day," Greta said, edging toward her.
"The feeling is mutual, Mrs. Locke," Laurence replied with a smirk. Then, "I must say, after finally meeting you in person, I can stop feeling guilty about my relationship with Matthew." She brushed a long wayward lock of hair from her face. "You, madam, and I use the term generously, are a quintessential bitch."
Greta's mouth gaped. "You little tramp!" She lunged forLaurence's throat.
"Stop," Jean-Pierre commanded, catching Greta by the waist just in time. "Go," he said to Laurence.
"I don't ever want to see you again!" Greta shouted after the girl.
Laurence climbed into her car and slammed the door shut, started the engine, and rolled down the window. She look as though she were about to shout a retort, but then she thought the better of it. Or so it seemed, until she lifted her closed fist and ever so slowly raised her middle finger at Greta.
Greta made another lunge for the girl but Jean-Pierre's hold on her was too strong to break away.
Laurence laughed heartily at this little show of helplessness, then gunned the engine and she raced away in her BMW, kicking up a great cloud of dust in her wake.
Jean-Pierre pulled Greta inside and closed the door. Before she could say anything, his mouth was on hers. She struggled out of his grip and fixed her shoulders squarely against the door.
"What is this - what the hell is going on here, Jean-Pierre? I don't like the way this looks."
He considered her with some amusement, gave her his sexy look.
"What the hell's so funny?" she said. He touched his finger to her little horseshoe charm and her breath caught and held, and she felt at once like she wanted to hit him and kiss him.
"You are, Greta. You are overreacting," he said, leaning closer.He kissed the charm, his breath hot on her throat, then lower.
His touch was distorting whatever semblance of perspective she had - she was so confused. She shook herself from him and pressed him back with both fists. "Wait. Stop. Just what do you expect me to think? One minute that little bitch is sucking tuna fish off my husband's fingers, the next she's traipsing out your front door!"
"I don't expect you to think what you're thinking," he said calmly. Too calm, she was beginning to see, to be guilty.
"But Jean-Pierre," Greta said, still not sure, "why haven't you told me about her?"
He shrugged. "What is there to tell?" He took her wrists in his hands. "Do you really think she and I are something?"
"She's very pretty," Greta said. "And very young."
"Not as beautiful as you are to me," he said, kissing away the creases on her forehead. "Greta. I live here, and I make love to you. Ms. Maupin, who, as you are now aware, is your husband's lover, lives in San Francisco. How many times, Greta, has he told you he's working late at the office? Do you ever check on him when he goes away? Are you so certain he isn't just fifty miles from home and at her place, not where he says he's going." He touched his finger to her chin. "Need I go on?"
She met his eyes. "No," she said quietly, and he kissed her. Well, Matthew, she thought, tit for tat, and told herself to let it go. Then she remembered how this whole crazy afternoon had started.
She held up the receipt.
"When do I start packing?" she said and gave the form a little shake.
He took it and opened it and smiled and wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her chest and lifted her off the ground. "We're going home!" he hooted.
Then he grimaced and made a pained sound and nearly dropped her.
"Darling! What is it? Your shoulder?"
He nodded, closed his eyes to fight off the pain.
"Oh, you poor thing. When we go we've got to get that fixed for you, first thing. I don't care what it costs."
He shook his head. "It's very expensive," he said.
"I don't care. Now I want you to promise me you'll let me do that for you. Promise?"
"Yes," he said, "I promise."
"Good," Greta said, and began unbuttoning her blouse.
After bolting from the boardroom, Matthew called William Harrell's secretary at ICP in New York, and she confirmed what he already knew: William was out of town, and was due back into New York this evening. He asked her for the flight number and departure time from San Francisco, then took off for the airport.
He raced down the corridor of the United terminal, checked his watch as he slowed to pass through the metal detectors. He found William's flight on one of the departure screens, and to his great relief, the flight had been delayed fifteen minutes. He collected himself and walked quickly to the correct gate.
He spotted William in the gate waiting area, flipping through some notes, a leather garment bag beside him on the floor.
Matthew walked up to him, and William glanced up from his notebook. "Matthew," he said, surprised. He snapped his notebook closed and stood, shook Matthew's extended hand with a mixture of curiosity and indifference. "Are you on this flight?"
"No. I need to talk to you," Matthew said. He motioned forWilliam to sit, then sat down beside him.
"I know you met with Peter Jones today," Matthew said, glancing at the binder in William's lap.
"I did," William said.
Matthew hadn't expected William to deny that he had met with Peter, though now, hearing him admit it, he feared that they had already formed some sort of deal, and that he was possibly too late.
"Look, I'll get right to the point. Today I proposed to the executive staff that I contact you with Wallaby's proposition of merging our two companies, as you originally planned."
"Really. And why, may I ask, the sudden change of heart?"
Matthew cleared his throat and tried for an open confiding tone. "Simple. We decided that a merger would be the best thing for Wallaby because of how well the strategic alliance was received, and how well the Joey II is selling already. The orders are phenomenal."
The gate attendant announced that flight was about to begin boarding. Matthew's heart quickened, but William's expression remained cool and unchanged.
"The best thing?" William repeated, barely able to conceal his sarcasm. "I see."
"I want us to go through with the rest of our plan," Matthew said. "With my support, the merger would be smooth and friendly. I guarantee it."
"And the board of directors?"
"I've already put a call in to each, and have spoken with two members on my way here. Both approved the prospect. And with their votes, as well as mine and Hank's, we've already got a majority, in addition to the entire executive staff's full support."
"Hmm. Interesting. Let me think about this, Matthew." William rose to his feet and reached for his garment bag.
"Wait," Matthew said, gripping the other man's arm desperately. "I know the original plan wavered a little, but I fully understand now that you were right all along." Matthew had to get William's assurance, his word, that they would go back to their original plan.
Hoisting his garment bag over his shoulder, William seemed nonplused. The gate attendant announced final boarding.
"I know it's asking a lot," Matthew said, stepping between William and his path to the gate. "But I'd like your word that you'll recommend to your board that ICP reinstate its plan to acquire Wallaby."
William glanced down at the notebook tucked under his arm. Matthew fancied that he was perhaps sizing up the second of two opportunities that had been presented to him today, silently judging which of the two rivals he would choose.
William looked Matthew in the eye, nodded. "Very well," he said,"I'll make the recommendation, as we had originally planned.You've got my word."
Matthew let out a sound that was at once a great sigh of relief and a slightly hysterical chuckle. "Thank you," Matthew said, slapping William on the back. "Thank you, thank you." He ambled alongside William to the gate and quickly ran down his immediate course of action.
"Matthew, relax," William said. "I said you have my word. Now, go home. We'll talk in the morning." William handed the flight attendant his boarding pass, and she removed the ticket and handed him the receipt stub.
"Good-bye, Matthew," William said, then turned and proceeded down the jetway.
It was done.
* * *
Peter picked up the phone to call Kate at her studio, but then he remembered the message Grace had given him. He dialed the number.
"Good afternoon, Phillips and Phillips," a receptionist announced.
"Arnold Phillips, please," Peter said.
The man came on the line a moment later.
"This is Peter Jones. You called me?"
"Mr. Jones, thank you for returning my call so promptly. I'm representing Ms. Ivy Green. She has hired our firm to reclaim her rights to Isle, which I believe is currently in your possession."
The room spun. Peter dropped down onto the sofa. "Wait a minute.I thought she was still in detox? She's not fit to be a mother.Not yet."
"Oh, Mr. Jones, no, no. There seems to be a misunderstanding. I apologize for not making the purpose of my call clear from the start. My client has not retained me to reclaim her child. It's the hardware and software I'm referring to. However, I believe my partner does in fact need to talk to you also, about another case."
Peter listened to what Mr. Phillips had to say, then, a half hour later, he was transferred to another Mr. Phillips, who, for forty-five minutes, discussed the child-custody case he had been hired by Ivy to handle. A hell of a one-two punch.
By the time he hung up the phone he was numb all over. In just over an hour, his whole life, which he had managed to somehow get back on track, however shakily, had once again come undone. He felt like he was at the end of his rope, like he was cracking up. And the only person who could ever help him through the really tough times was Kate. That was who he needed to talk to right now.
But how? How could he call her, when the reason he needed her was the very reason she had left him?
So instead of calling her he sat there alone, wondering if this was it, if this was the last of his punishment for his mistakes, or was there still more to undo?
* * *
"What are you doing?" Matthew said, finding Greta in the den, crouched among a scattering of cardboard boxes.
"What does it look like I'm doing?"
"Packing."
"Bingo."
"Why?"
"Why?" she repeated, taking in his goofy expression. "Why do people usually pack, Matthew? Because I'm moving." She returned to her task of carefully settling a vase into a box.
He placed his hands on the box flaps, holding them down as she stretched a length of tape from a spool. "When?"
"Soon. And I can do this, thank you," she said curtly, holding the strip of tape over the box. He let go and dropped his hands to his sides.
"Greta, I'm sorry about today," he said, watching her work. "It's not what you think, though."
She stopped what she was doing for a moment and shot him a warning look. He had come to understand that look very well in the last few months. She went back to her business, placing the box atop a few others.
He shifted on his feet and then all at once his face brightened."Hey, guess what! We're back to our original plan!"
She settled an antique serving dish inside a new box. "Good for you."
"Didn't you hear me?"
She poured foam puffs into the box.
"Greta?" he said, gripping her wrists.
"Get your hands off me," she said calmly, wriggling from his grasp. The box between them trembled dangerously. She quickly righted it.
"Greta, please," he said. "What you saw today was just lunch."
"Horseshit," she said, getting worked up. Then she checked herself. She had no intention of getting into an argument with him after the shit she had been through today. "Matthew, listen to me. I'm only going to spell this out once. I gave you the time you asked for. Now you've pushed me too far. Besides, it doesn't matter."
"It does," he insisted. "What I'm saying is, it's all over. ICP's going to buy Wallaby after all. And I'll become president of the subsidiary, just like we planned. And we can go back to New York if that's what you want. Or we can stay here. Or whatever. Whatever you want."
"Ah, of course. You'll need a wife if you're going to be a big shot at ICP. Might as well stick with the one you've got, save yourself some money that way, and keep the young thing in an apartment." She offered a scornful chuckle. "Christ, Matthew. You still don't want to face it?" She shook her head sadly. "It's too late. We're through. Broken."
"But it's going to be easy from here on in," he pleaded, trailing her to a black lacquer display pedestal. "My job at ICP will be a cake walk."
"Cake? Darling, the only cake walk I see is the one between you and your little girlfriend." Enough of this nonsense. She had work to do. She wanted to have her most prized possessions safely packed, to give her a sense of assurance that she was getting closer to her future with her lover.
Gingerly, she raised her crystal salmon bowl off its pedestal.
"Greta," Matthew cried, gripping the bowl.
She gasped in surprise, then shrieked, "What's gotten into you - let go!" The quartz ceiling lamp accentuated the bowl's precarious plight.
"Wait. Oh, Greta. Don't you remember the day you brought this home?" he said.
Her eyes fixed on his thumbs squashed white, firm and unyielding. The piece was too valuable to risk losing. She gave in, and he carefully settled it back onto the pedestal. She stared at him with a resigned frown, catching her breath. He had nearly ruined it.
Matthew bent over, set his hands on his knees. "Look at it," he said, mesmerized by the engraved salmon fish swimming their final, predestined course.
"All right, Matthew, you've your look. Enough now. Please" She reached for the bowl.
He gripped too. "It's over," he said, his voice cracking. "Don't you understand? The struggle's over, Greta. Do you remember when you came home with this bowl, to celebrate our plans coming together? That was when it started. And now it's over. So you see? It all worked out. Everything is fine now. Fine."
She glared at him. "Let go of my bowl."
"Greta, please. It means so much to me. To us," he urged, tugging forcefully.
"No, damn you. It's mine and I'm taking it with me."
"Where?" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Just where the hell do you think you're going?" His neck was straining, and his knuckles were white around the bowl's rim.
"To France!" she cried. Her eyes glistened in the bright white light. "With Jean-Pierre."
He burst with laughter, and shot his face closer to hers, over the bowl. "The horse trainer? Oh, that's good, Greta. That's real good! The horse trainer! So I'm not the only one sleeping with the staff, am I?"
Her fingers hurt, and she could barely hold on any longer.
"Matthew, please," she begged, afraid. She was painfully close to letting go, and with this awareness came another, deeper understanding. That were it not for her missing finger, she would have possessed the strength to hold on tighter and harder and longer - No, that was not it, she realized with a cry, her understanding now complete. The truth was, was were it not for her missing finger, none of this would have ever happened. Tears streamed down her face and she begged him to please let her have her bowl.
"Oh Greta," Matthew said with disgust, "you're so pathetic."
He released his grip on the bowl…and the misfortune that directly followed his letting go lasted only seconds.
With great force the bowl crashed into Greta's chest and propelled her backward.
Instantly seeing what his letting go would cause, Matthew dove forward with outstretched hands. His fingers grazed the bowl's surface.
Flying backward, Greta let go of the bowl and thrust her hands behind her to try and break her fall. However, it was her not her bottom that crashed first, but her head, into the wall behind her.
Her body dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap, legs splayed at an awkward angle.
Matthew, in midair, felt the bowl's cool underside brush his fingertips and he squeezed his hands together. But it was too late.
The base of the object struck the hardwood floor. It shattered with a resonant ring, and shards of glass blasted in every direction.
He closed his eyes as he sailed to the ground and landed in a pile of glass between his wife's unmoving legs.
Then, perfect silence.
He lay there for a moment before opening his eyes, grateful at once that his vision had escaped the shrapnel. The first thing he saw was blood. He panicked, and glass crunched beneath his arms as he raised himself up on his elbows. He was aware of many stabs along the undersides of his arms and blood started gushing from his palms.
Then he saw her. He quickly brushed the largest broken pieces away with a folded box. He leaned close to her face, squeezed her cheeks between his bloody fingers. "Greta," he shouted. "Wake up!" He looked from her face to her chest for evidence of life, pressed her stomach, tried to make her breathe. He squeezed her lips between her fingers and put his lips on hers and blew, felt nothing in return. Had he killed her? He let out an agonized groan, how could this be happening when everything was back to the way they had planned?
He crawled up between her legs. He pulled her head to his chest, and with his other hand he searched for her pulse.
"Oh Greta," he moaned, gazing with disbelief at the fragments.
Where was her pulse?
"I'll fix it," he whispered, probing for her heartbeat with his bloody fingertips, all the while staring with bedazzled eyes at the brilliant shards twinkling in the light, searching in vain for one that might contain the etchings of the salmon fish.
But he found none, for their arduous journey had come to its fated end, lost forever in the frozen crystal bits.
* * *
Once the plane reached cruising altitude, William reclined his seat and closed his eyes, musing over an idea that had flashed in his mind the instant Matthew had asked for his promise.
Now, after dozing on and off through half the flight, half-consciously dreaming up the specifics of his new plan, he was ready to put down the particulars. He opened his notebook on the tray table and went to work. He drew various boxes and connected them together. He penciled his name in the uppermost box, and filled in the others.
A flight attendant appeared at his seat. "Sir, you slept through the meal. Can I bring you a snack or a beverage?"
He looked up from the chart. This was cause for celebration.
"How about a Sassy Screw?" he said, a little embarrassed saying the cocktail's name, but in want of one just the same. He continued drawing, completely filling the page with little squares and lines.
The flight attendant returned and placed the drink on a napkin beside his notebook. As he put the finishing touches on his work, a few bubbles fizzed from his drink and settled on the page, staining it with tiny dots.
As he stared at the little dots speckling his work, an awfully funny thought entered his mind. A short laugh burst from his lips, and a few passengers in nearby seats glanced curiously his way.
There, on the page, was the cause for William's amusement. The little orange dots, speckling the paper. Matthew's one-time soda pop success, now a mere stain on William's organization chart.
Pop, pop, fizzle, he mused, and sipped his cocktail.
* * *
Peter stood beneath Hoover Tower on the Stanford Campus, not far from the very place where he had first met Ivy. He had agreed to meet her here, to discuss the terms of her cases against him.
In the time he had to wait for her, he considered his life as it was at this moment. He had long ago gotten over the hurt and anger he had felt from being ousted from Wallaby. He missed Kate, but the work he was doing with Byron went a long way to keeping his mind off his loss of her. Not all the way, but enough to help. Isle was healthy, and Ivy's lawyers had said that she was deemed stable enough to mother her baby. But it was his baby, too. And had he not felt something for her, that night they were together? To be honest, he was not sure. That night was long past now, lost in mixed up events and complicated circumstances. All that remained of it was the unusual feeling he still carried in his heart, about everything that had been affected by his actions that evening. He knew he was not in love with Ivy. But he loved his baby, their baby, and the three of them formed a kind of family, didn't they? He had never been part of a real family, and the thought of his daughter going through life without two parents deeply disturbed him. Would Ivy consider marriage?
"No lawyers?"
He spun around…and was stunned by her transformation.
She looked as youthful and vibrant as when they had first met. Her bright white-blond hair was pulled up into a smart bun, and her delicate face was tanned. Her blue eyes sparkled with the iridescence of tropical water.
He wanted to touch her, her belly, the place where Isle had come from. She smiled, and he experienced a stirring for her that was unlike any he had felt before, a connection of some kind, between her and himself and their child. It was all light and strangely uplifting, and he let out a breath and wet his lips and formed in his head the words he would say to her, for at this instant he knew, yes, that he could love her and that they belonged together. That they were a family.
But her smile was changing, right before his eyes. It became a smile that betrayed not her happiness to see him, but her happiness to see him looking at her this way. Looking at her with real attraction. Desire. Her smile was the smile of pure self-satisfaction.
"Amazing, isn't it," she said. "What a little time can do?"
"Oh, Ivy," he said, turning his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry.About all of it."
"Ha," she said. "Please. I've been in the desert learning how to stop apologizing. Take my advice, save it."
"But we don't have to be like this. Can't we try to be, I don't know, nice?"
"Um, no. Not now, anyway. This is business, Peter. Maybe in a while, after we close our agreement."
"But I don't want you to be angry forever."
"Sit down," she said, and he did. She remained standing however, looking down at him. "Poor Peter. Just a lost little boy. Look, I'm not pissed off anymore. Well, not too angry. I'm not sorry, either. What's done is done. I am definitely not having an easy time of it, coming off the drugs and all. But I will get there. All I want is to see my Isle, and my Isle, and how they've grown in your care." She seated herself on the concrete beside him. "I thought for sure you'd have ten lawyers here with you," she said.
"Nope," he said. "Where are yours?"
"Don't need them for this. They told you what I want." She withdrew a single folded sheet document from inside her light jacket. "It's all here. Plain and simple."
He accepted her pen and the contract, spread the page down on the concrete.
But he didn't sign it.
Instead he put the pen down, looked her in the eye. "What do you feel?"
"Feel? About this? Excellent."
"No. I mean about me."
"You?" She looked away for a second. He could see her expression soften. "I'm not sure." She met his eyes. "But it's not anger anymore. Really it isn't."
"No, I don't mean that."
"Guilt? Nah, I'm done with that."
"No," he said. "No, not that." He looked at her forehead.Unwrinkled and smooth, pure. Eyes so sharp, intense, curious.Cautious. He remembered what it had been like to touch her neck,her breasts. Back to her eyes.
"Is there anything else?" he said. "I don't know. I mean - love?"
She blinked her eyes closed for a few moments, and when she opened them again they were glistening. But from what emotion he could not tell.
"Peter, just sign it."
He had not slept all night.
It was not because he missed sleeping in the same bed with Greta. That, of course, had ended. Nor was it because he missed sleeping with Laurence. At almost exactly the same time Wallaby started its merger negotiations with ICP, Laurence had taken a temporary leave of absence to, she said, care for her ill father. It was just as well, considering what had happened to Greta and everything that had followed. Besides, the majority of his speaking engagements had been postponed or canceled, and he spent his time attending meeting after meeting, and putting together piece of the business plan, which consumed most of his waking and sleeping hours. Relentlessly, he studied ICP's complex corporate structure and product line. Once more his favorite bed partner was paperwork - binders, reports, analyses, and technical documents, a courtship that all led up to today.
Today. The reason he had not been able to sleep all night. He climbed out of the bed and strolled leisurely through the dark house, crossing through the living room. A few months ago, after Greta's accident, he had moved the sofa and furniture against the wall, among the many stacked boxes that occupied the room.
Today was the most important day of his life. After more than three long and arduous years of cultivation, he was about to harvest his greatest achievement. The merger of ICP and Wallaby. Finally his monumental plan would reach its climax. And afterward he would begin his new plan - But not so fast, he warned himself. One step at a time.
The emerging dawn lit up the kitchen with a dull gray. He opened the refrigerator, considered making breakfast, then decided against it. He had no appetite. Instead he poured himself a glass of milk and gazed out the kitchen window while he sipped, pondering his new and exciting future.
His presence would be required in both New York and California. Maybe he would set up his primary residence in New York, and find something smaller in California, perhaps even in San Francisco. Such a commute would be trivial, for with ICP's takeover, the issue of highway miles would disappear and he would do his work on his rides between office and residence in the chauffeured limousine he would be entitled to.
A rush of elation coursed through him, and he decided to go for a run. Besides, it was too early to leave, and a run would pass the time until he had to get ready and meet William Harrell at the announcement.
He placed his glass in the sink and left the kitchen, changed into sweats. He needed to be at the hall by nine o'clock. He tied his sneaker and stretched through a few warm-up exercises, then collected his house keys.
Just as he was about to leave, the telephone rang.
He checked his jogging watch and picked up the handset. It wasWilliam Harrell. They exchanged greetings, and William askedMatthew if they could meet for breakfast before the announcement.
"I was just going to go out for a run, but sure."
"Go for your run," William told him. "I'll meet you at the GoodEarth restaurant at seven-fifteen."
"Will do," Matthew said, and asked William what was so pressing that they needed to meet before the event.
But William had already hung up, leaving Matthew do presume that his business partner probably wanted to go over a few last-minute details before the big show.
Although he had no way of knowing it, he had presumed correctly.There was indeed one minor detail left to go over.
* * *
When she heard him leave the second time, after his run, Greta climbed out of bed.
She too had not slept very well. She was too excited. She stretched and considered climbing onto her exercise cycle for a quick workout. Checking the clock however, she decided to skip it. She would rather use whatever spare time she had to make sure she had not forgotten to pack anything that the shipping company would later send to France.
Standing at the window, she gazed out at the dawning day. Across the lake she could see Jean-Pierre's cottage. The lights were off. She pictured him in her mind, sleeping peacefully. No more would she sleep alone, she thought to herself, letting go of the curtain.
She took eggs and ham from the refrigerator and set to making herself breakfast. Marie didn't usually arrive until eight o'clock, and besides, she thought dreamily as she cracked the eggs into a bowl, it was good practice for the big country breakfasts she would make for Jean-Pierre and herself.
While she prepared her eggs, the pictures he had shown her when he returned from France last week flashed through her mind. It had taken him a while, but he had finally found them the ranch of her dreams. How she had missed him! It had been a long and painful two months, she reflected, but today would finally signal the end of her suffering with Matthew.
After what he had done to her, nearly killing her that day they had fought over her bowl, he ended his resistance to her request for a divorce. On the contrary, because of what he had done, her case against him was even stronger, and he had no choice but to agree to her lawyer's terms. The final papers would be drawn up any day.
She seated herself at the breakfast table. While she ate she checked the list she had been keeping. Everything she wanted shipped was checked on the list. Her clothes were already packed, and their plane tickets were the only unchecked item on the list. Jean-Pierre had taken care of them. Still, she would ask him to show her the tickets when she arrived at his cottage in the limousine. Just to be safe.
She looked at the clock again and saw that it was a good thing she had gotten out of bed early. Somehow she had managed to spend nearly a half hour sitting just there dawdling, daydreaming. The car was due to arrive at eight o'clock sharp, and now she would have to hurry.
She left her dirty dishes for the housekeeper and trotted briskly to her room, noticing outside the clouds darkening the sky. It had rained all week but last night's weather report for today had promised a possible break in the showers. She prayed they wouldn't have to take off under stormy conditions, for it would be a miserable way to start off on their new life together.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please find your seats," the announcer's voice boomed through the bustling auditorium.
The seating was already jammed to nearly full capacity as thousands of Wallaby employees filled the auditorium. A few front rows remained vacant, reserved for VIPs and the press. The stage was illuminated with a bright circle of light focused on an empty podium.
Backstage, William Harrell parted the curtain an inch and peered out at the gabby crowd. Hank Towers squeezed in beside him and also surveyed the crowd.
"I've never given a speech to so many people dressed like that,"William remarked.
Beyond the first few dark rows, wave after wave of bodies clad in T-shirts and jeans stretched all the way to the back of the auditorium.
William stepped away from the curtain and rearranged his tie.
Hank patted him on the shoulder and laughed. "You look like you've gained twenty pounds," he joked privately.
"They're going to witness the world's fastest weight-loss program," William said with a cunning grin, referring to the surprise he had prepared for today's announcement.
"Get ready, William," Martin Cohn said, gesturing for everyone to move away from the curtains.
The announcer's voice filled the auditorium: "Ladies and gentlemen, vice president and general counsel, Martin Cohn."
Amid quick applause and murmurs, Martin greeted the audience. The Wallaby logo appeared, projected brightly behind him on a huge screen hanging above center stage.
"This day will mark an important juncture in Wallaby's history," Martin said. "A few months ago we announced a strategic alliance with International Computer Products, the world's largest manufacturer of computer products."
The ICP initials materialized beside the Wallaby logo.
"As a result of our announcement, sales of the Joey II computer have skyrocketed, exceeding in just two months the previous year's total sales."
The audience applauded, and the screen changed to a picture of the Joey II sitting beside an ICP desktop computer.
"Today we have an announcement that will ensure that both Wallaby and ICP continue to grow and profit together."
There was a dead silence, and a photo of William Harrell's smiling face filled the overhead screen. "Now it's my pleasure to introduce William Harrell, chairman of International Computer Products."
A murmur ensued throughout the audience. Though Martin Cohn usually started off the meetings, it was always to introduce Matthew Locke.
Martin stepped aside, and William crossed the stage. The audience applauded mildly and stopped once William arrived at the podium.
"Thank you, Martin. And thank you," William said, sweeping the audience with a heartfelt smile. "I've always been envious of you guys out here in California. I look out there and all I see are T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers."
There was some mild laughter, and William knew the crowd was probably a little thrown off by his being up here and not Matthew Locke. He went right into his presentation.
"Maybe it's this kind of environment in which you work at Wallaby that lets you create products as spectacular as the Joey computer."
On the screen an older picture of the original Joey team appeared, a younger Peter Jones kneeling in the center of the group, his arms wrapped around a Joey poised on his knee. The audience applauded with pride and appreciation.
"A few months ago, your company and ICP joined forces to work together to offer our customers powerful hybrid systems. On that day a dream came true for me. Finally, users of ICP's line of computers had an easy way to access our difficult operating systems, actually working smarter because of the Joey. Now, that's a big deal to us starched shirts at ICP," he confided, "because we've been playing catch-up with Wallaby, trying to figure out how to build portable computers and personal information assistant software as great as the Joey.
"You see, the truth is is I've always been envious of the Joey and Wallaby. Jealous that we, the biggies, hadn't been the one to invent an equally breakthrough design."
It was time for him to pull his prank, which he hoped would act as the perfect segue to the real announcement. Pulling off his tie, he stepped away from the podium and strolled to center stage.
A strip-tease song started playing on the big speakers throughout the auditorium, and the audience was mute with wonder as William began unbuttoning his shirt. Next he unzipped his pants, and dropped them to the floor. Underneath, he wore faded jeans. He pulled off his shirt and flung it aside. He raised his arms, and turned around so the audience could see the graphic on his back. It showed the joey kangaroo as always, but this time the pocket it climbed out of was embroidered with the ICP logo.
The audience applauded and cheered as he sauntered back to the podium.
"Oh, wait a minute, I forgot something," he said, then crouched behind the podium. A moment later his black wingtip shoes clunked hollowly out onto the stage, and he produced a pair of worn-out sneakers. Encouraged by cheers and laughter, he fumbled comically with the running shoes and laced them up.
"Now, dressed like this, you'd think I could probably do some of the thinking you guys do to make amazing computers, right?"
"Right!" the audience echoed, playing along with his skit.
"Wrong," he said. "To have the systems you folks have, guys like me have to leave it to you, the experts."
Here goes. He felt his heart pounding wildly, and he took a deep breath.
"What I'm about to announce may at first come as a shock to you," he warned, serious now, "but please," he said emphasizing with his hands, "before you throw your chairs, give me a moment to explain."
As he had feared, an anxious murmur started up in the crowd. He had to act fast.
"Today," he said, raising his voice, "I'm very excited and proud to announce the merger of Wallaby and International Computer Products.
Mayhem exploded throughout the audience.
"Wait, please!" William shouted with raised palms, his voice barely audible in the angry cacophony. "Wait. Please, let me explain…" he said, moving across the stage, closer to the incensed crowd.
* * *
The limousine driver collected Greta's Louis Vuitton suitcases and boxes and bags and carried them to the car. He set them at the rear for a moment then ran to open her door. She jumped in and wiped the light drizzle from her face with a scarf.
The trunk slammed shut and the driver climbed in and started the car. As they drove through the gate she looked over her shoulder at the house. She thought of her house keys, which she had left behind on the breakfast table. She would never need them again. It was really ending. With her things packed and ready to be shipped to France, there was no reason to ever come back. She chased away any leftover sentiments, and thought only of Jean-Pierre and their new ranch, their new lives.
Glancing out the window as they turned from the driveway onto the road, she spotted Matthew's approaching car. What was he doing back so soon? She turned her head away from the window and shut her eyes. She did not want his face to be her last memory of her life in California.
The driver switched on the radio, just as a news brief was being announced. "…and in Silicon Valley this morning, in a coup that has stunned the business world, International Computer Products, the world's largest computer company, and Wallaby Computer, have announced the merger of their two companies, as well as - "
"Shut it off!" Greta snapped, pressing her hands to her ears."Please!"
The looked at her in the rearview mirror and apologized. A minute later they were bouncing along the ranch's bumpy dirt driveway, and she directed the driver past the main house, to the cottages. She smoothed her lavender Chanel dress over her legs and touched the lapel of her Gucci raincoat.
Her heart stopped for an instant. Jean-Pierre's car was gone.
Of course, she rationalized, scolding herself for being so anxious. He's probably arranged to have it shipped back to France. Or did he say he was going to sell it? She couldn't remember.
The driver stopped the car.
"We'll only be a minute," Greta said, pulling on her gloves as she climbed out before the driver could reach her door. Ducking in the light drizzle, she shrouded her scarf over her head and went up the steps to his front door. She rang the bell, then glanced back to the limousine for a moment.
Silence.
She pressed the bell again, once, twice, and at the same time scanned the barn and the training ring for any sign of him. The stable doors were shut. Could he have overslept? She checked her watch then pounded the door, growing more worried with each moment that passed without his answering the door. She had planned for them to get to the airport early, and even if he was asleep they could still certainly make their flight as long as they hurried.
She turned and raised her hand at the driver, signaling for him to wait. She hurried off the small porch and ran around to the back of the house. She looked into his bedroom window. The bed was made, and rising on her toes, she could see through the bedroom door into the living room. He wasn't inside.
She climbed the small rear steps and frantically pounded her fist against the door, oblivious to the pain she was causing herself.
"Jean-Pierre!" she called. "Open up! Jean-Pierre!"
She held her breath and listened.
More of nothing.
She felt a chilling wave of nausea and told herself not to panic, that he was around here somewhere and tending to some last-minute things.
Rounding the house, she wagged her finger at the driver again and bolted for the barn, her raincoat whipping in the wind.
Maybe he was at Jennifer's house, she considered, saying good-bye to his former employer. She would check that after she searched the stable. Or was he with Mighty Boy? Yes, that was probably it. He was probably saying good-bye to Mighty Boy for her, so kind of him, because he knew that she could not face saying good-bye herself because they were unable to transfer the animal to their ranch.
She heaved the stable door open with a grunt and raced down the center of the long and dark dirt throughway, shouting out Jean-Pierre's name. As she neared the end, Mighty Boy whinnied. She pushed the horse's head to one side and went inside the stall, encountering only the animal. Did she really think he would be in here with her horse? No, he had to be outside somewhere. Her stomach tightened at the thought of missing their flight.
She turned and started to run back up the throughway, when suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks. There!
"Jean-Pierre," she cried, laughing now as she hurled herself toward the shadowy, darkly-clad figure looming just inside the stable.
She froze in her tracks when she realized her error.
"Oh!" she moaned.
Jennifer, the ranch's owner, pulled back the hood of her raincoat and approached her cautiously. A bewildered expression creased her face as she took in Greta's disheveled appearance.
"Mrs. Locke, my goodness," she said with a wary smile. "It's a bit wet for a ride today, don't you think?"
"Where is he?" Greta demanded, her chest heaving. "Where isJean-Pierre?"
"Jean-Pierre? Why, he's gone." Jennifer wiped her brow with the back of her hand. "Oh, it's getting ugly out there," she said, wincing at the sound of the building downpour rattling down on the metal roof.
Greta grabbed the older woman's raincoat sleeve and roughly spun her around, screaming: "What do you mean he's gone?"
Jennifer leaped back with astonishment. "He's gone. He left, Mrs.Locke. For France."
"No! That's wrong," Greta cried. That's not possible, I'm going with him! Do you hear me? He can't be gone!"
Jennifer was mortified and hastily tried to explain. "Mrs. Locke, I gave him a ride to the airport myself. Last night. He informed me at the very last moment, yesterday afternoon, that he was returning to France. With her."
"Her? Her who?"
"Why, his fiancee, Ms. Maupin."
Dear God, she thought, suddenly comprehending what Jennifer was saying. He was gone. Gone without her. He had lied to her. Had tricked her. It had all been a game. A scam. The girl had probably been in on it all along. A double seduction. And they had gotten away with the money. And with more than the money. They had gotten away with the only happiness she had known in a very long time. It was all coming too quickly, and she felt suddenly faint.
Jennifer caught her by the arm just before she collapsed. "Mrs. Locke, come inside with me. You're trembling. I'll make you some tea and - "
"No!" Greta cried, shaking free. She stumbled in the dirt, landing on her gloved hands. She unsteadily got to her feet and fled from the barn. The driver leaped out of the car and rushed to open her door. She had soiled her dress, and her face was wild.
She dove into the back of the car and stumbled to the floor. She managed to struggle up onto the seat and the driver closed the door and climbed in up front.
"Ma'am?" he called gently through the open partition. She did not reply, and he turned around in his seat to look at her.
She sat huddled with her knees drawn up, elbows pressed into her stomach. Her face was hidden behind muddy gloves, and she made noises like she was injured.
He started the car. "To the airport, ma'am?"
She began rocking back and forth against the door, facing away from the ranch.
"Ma'am?" the driver asked again, braking as he came to the end of the ranch driveway.
"Home," she whispered, and burst into tears.
* * *
William shouted into the microphone again, "Wait! Please! Listen, please!"
The cacophony of protest continued. A pen flew by dangerously close to his head. It was useless. There was no way he could get them to settle down so he could explain the announcement. After ducking another flying object, William turned and made for the curtains. In just a moment the thing would fix itself.
The house lights went out and then a spotlight illuminated center stage. The curtains parted.
And Peter Jones emerged.
The audience went wild.
Peter took a few steps to the edge of the stage, grinning from ear to ear. The crowd whistled and cheered and rose all at once, welcoming their champion with a standing ovation that lasted and lasted, earsplitting in its intensity.
"Thank you," Peter said fanning his hands at the audience. "And thank you, William," he said, looking offstage.
The audience returned to their seats, some still applauding, but low enough so that he could be heard.
"It's good to be back," he said. This lifted the applauding audience from their seats once more. He strolled to the podium, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and waited. When the audience settled down he continued.
"Today," he said, his voice a little shaky, "I've become ICP's newest employee, in their new subsidiary, Wallaby. I have to admit," he said with a laugh, "it's kind of weird being re-hired by the company you started!"
There was quick laughter, then rapt attention.
"When I left Wallaby, I had a lot of time to do some thinking. I found a new friend, and we started working on a new portable computer, one that stretched our imaginations to the limits. Then, a few months ago, we were contacted by William Harrell. He had heard that we were up to something really neat. We decided to let him have a look at what we had come up with, and he loved it.
"At that point ICP became a silent investor in our computer, which is called ISLE. We finalized our design and developed a prototype. Now I'd like to show you your newest computer."
Peter stepped into the middle of the stage. A large, shrouded table rolled before him, controlled remotely from backstage.
The lights intensified and the tabletop was projected on the overhead screen, for all to see.
"This," said Peter, whisking the shroud from the bumpy shapes on the table, "is ISLE." The prototype model was sleek and black, as thin as a notebook.
The audience applauded wildly, then hushed when the computer's screen came to life.
"Now I'd like to let ISLE show you what she's made of," he said.
The auditorium darkened. Two large projection screens, mirroring the ISLE's screen on stage, lowered from the ceiling. Peter picked up the prototype and gave a demonstration like the one he had given to William several months ago. When the demonstration was over the audience stood and cheered with thunderous applause.
"Thank you," Peter said. "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm very happy about this merger of Wallaby and ICP," he said. "I'll be working in the engineering and development labs, finalizing the ISLE design, and overseeing its integration with the Joey and BP systems.
"Earlier I mentioned a new friend, my partner, the man who helped design the ISLE computer. Some of you may recognize his name because he is the father of ICP's first mainframe computer. I've also made two other very important friends. One is the inventor of ISLE, and the other is its future.
"Please give a warm welcome to my friends Byron Holmes and Ivy Green." Peter stepped away from the podium, and Byron and a beaming Ivy emerged, cradling the baby Isle in her arms. Peter shook Byron's hand and kissed Ivy on the cheek.
Byron took the microphone and greeted the audience. A chart appeared on the overhead screen, and Byron explained the new organization. When he finished, William Harrell returned to the stage and conducted the remainder of the session - he also announced Matthew Locke's decision to resign, for personal reasons.
Backstage, Byron hugged his wife and Peter and Ivy and Isle all in one cluster. "We did it!"
Isle yawned.
"You can say that again," Ivy said with a chuckle and kissed her baby on the nose.
"Come on," Peter laughed. "Let's go home."
The cyanide pill.
It was all Matthew could think of as he sat at the breakfast table with his head in his hands. It was over. His work. His love. His life. All gone.
Everything had been going according to plan. Or so he had thought.
But in the final plan, Matthew had not been included. Once more he replayed the scene that had taken place just an hour before.
Pulling into the Good Earth restaurant's parking lot, Matthew was surprised to see an exact duplicate of his own car. Of course it could be anyone's, but Matthew could not help but think that it was Peter's black BMW coupe parked beside the limousine. What were the chances of Peter happening to be here at the same time? One in a thousand. And Peter Jones was the last person he needed to see today. Matthew would simply ask the host to find William's table, and ask him to come outside. They would take their breakfast meeting elsewhere.
He parked his car at the other end of the lot and walked around the back of the building. He went inside, looking around cautiously. At first he had not really noticed the two Wallaby security guards standing near the hostess station. Seeing him, guards left the station and went into the restaurant.
Positioning himself out of sight of the dining room, he motioned for the hostess
"I'd like to ask a favor, please," he said. "There's a man I'm meeting here. His name is Mr. Harrell, and he's - "
Just then William appeared, the two guards flanking him on either side.
"We can't stay here," Matthew said. "Peter Jones is in there somewhere."
"Yes, I know."
"But I'd rather not see him. Today especially. I haven't seen him since he left the company."
"Matthew," William said calmly, "please come inside."
Bewildered, Matthew followed.
"William, I'd much rather we go elsewhere," he said, then halted abruptly when he saw Peter, dressed in an oxford shirt and jeans and sitting in one of the booths. Seated beside him was an older man wearing dark slacks and a tie.
William pressed him onward, directing him right toward Peter.
Peter looked up, and for the first time since the boardroom showdown, their eyes met. His face bore no surprise, no expression whatsoever.
To Matthew's astonishment, William led him right up to the booth that Peter occupied. The older man rose and seated himself on the other side of the table.
"Matthew, sit down please," William said, indicating the vacant seat beside Byron.
Matthew looked at Peter uneasily, but Peter said nothing, he just sat there quietly and watched Matthew.
Adding yet another element to Matthew's confusion, Hank Towers materialized and joined the surprise party. Positively astonished, Matthew turned to William for an explanation. "What's going on? What the hell is the meaning of all this?"
"I'll get right to the point," William said. "Matthew, the Wallaby board and the executive staff decided to vote on whether you are suited to maintain your position at Wallaby."
Matthew struggled to keep his voice down. "What? This is absurd.How could you do this?"
"Matthew, I did it," Hank said.
Matthew stared at Hank with disbelieving eyes.
"I initiated the vote," Hank said, "after several of the executives and board members came to me with their concerns."
"Why?" Matthew said breathlessly.
"Because in your effort to make the company successful, you acted with negligence and selfishness. What's more, you have no long-term strategy for our product line. And in order for us to survive and continue innovating our company must have a plan."
Instantly, Matthew put the pieces together in his mind. He turned his blanched face to Peter and met the dark, unwavering eyes of his nemesis with hateful resignation.
"So that's it. Now, after I've turned the company around, you come back to run the show?"
Peter kept quiet.
"Not exactly," William said. "Byron Holmes here," he said, indicating the man seated beside Matthew, "will temporarily take over as Wallaby's president."
Matthew was deeply shocked.
William said, "Peter has decided to rejoin Wallaby in an at-large position, working on our future products. However he'll only come back if you leave." William produced a folded document from his coat pocket. "I'm sorry, Matthew, but I have to ask you to resign."
"I will not," Matthew protested loudly.
Several diners, most of them Wallaby employees, turned their heads in the group's direction.
"Matthew," William said, his voice empathetic now, "I'm afraid you have no choice." He unfolded the document and placed it before Matthew. "We've put together a first-rate severance package for you."
For what felt like a long time, Matthew was unable to do anything but sit there and stare down at the document that spelled out the rewards of his terrific failure. His brain sizzled as he attempted to focus on the details. He saw numbers and lots of parenthesized paragraphs. There was a long line at the bottom, with his name printed beneath it.
He raised his head and looked across the table at Peter. "Why? Why didn't you just agree with me when I suggested all this? It would have had the same outcome."
"Sorry, Matthew, but it was never that simple."
But it could be now, Matthew thought, sitting there at the breakfast table, clutching tightly in his fist the little circular thing he had been hiding in his briefcase for so many years.
He was completely spent, used up. Alone. There was no one for himnow. No one he could call on. William had informed him thatLaurence had arranged for a transfer to an ICP office in France.And, effective immediately, Eileen, his former secretary, wasByron Holmes's personal assistant.
And then there was Greta.