"Terrific," he said. He ate quickly and stood. "I've got to go."
"Hold on." She came close and picked a blonde hair from his shirt.
"Don't want you getting caught."
"No," Oliver said.
"Will you come back?" she asked softly.
"Are you kidding? As soon as I can."
She hugged him as though he were breakable. "I'll be waiting." It was
almost an apology.
He ran one hand down her hair and the compound curve of her back. "Save
that kiss for next time," he said.
"That one and a couple more."
He left with difficulty and drove home. Jennifer was on a day trip to
see her mother; she wouldn't be back with Emma until six or so. Woof
met him at the door, sniffing at his clothes with extra interest. "Just
between us," Oliver said, rubbing her ears. He changed clothes
immediately. By the time Jennifer and Emma got home, he had baked an
acorn squash, started a fire, done two loads of laundry, and split more
wood. Celtic music was playing.
"Mother says hi. Precious was very good, weren't you Precious?" Oliver
took Emma. "Doesn't it smell good in here!"
"Dinner's all ready."
"Oh, and a fire. How nice to be home. Let's turn that music down a
little."
"Da Da."
Oliver pushed Suzanne to the back of his mind, struggling for time to
understand or to outlive what was happening. Early the next morning, he
cut a Christmas tree in the woods behind the house. He bought lights
and a tree stand at K-Mart. By noon, they were hanging tinsel on the
tree, and Jennifer was telling him that she could finally get some
really nice decorations. Rupert had never wanted to bother with a tree.
At one-thirty, they walked across a graveled driveway in Falmouth and
knocked on Bogdolf Eric's door. Oliver was carrying Emma; Jennifer held
a canvas bag containing a fat beeswax candle and two bottles of wine, a
Chardonnay and a Merlot.
"Ah, Jennifer!"
"Eric," she said, handing him the bag and accepting his hug at the same
time.
"And here we have Oliver and Miss Emma," he said, disengaging.
"Merry Christmas, Bogdolf."
"Oh dear, I'm afraid--no Bogdolf today. The Lore Keeper is--in the
field." He laughed heartily. "You'll just have to put up with plain old
Eric. Come in. Come in."
"Woofy is just wonderful," Jennifer said. "She's the nicest dog I ever
had."
"Oofy," Emma said.
"Isn't she, Precious? Yes, she is."
"A great dog--Eric," Oliver said.
"Yes." Eric nodded wisely. He looked into the bag. "Now, what have we
here?"
"For immediate consumption," Oliver said.
"Good!" Eric said.
He's a jerk, Oliver thought, but he's a friendly jerk. Several of
Jennifer's friends were already there. In an hour the house was full of
people Oliver hadn't met. Jennifer moved happily from group to group.
There were many children under ten years old, and there was much
discussion of Montessori and Suzuki methods. The men talked about
business and boats. Oliver wasn't put off by boat talk; he liked boats,
had grown up around them, but he had never needed to own one, had never
wanted to pay for one. These skippers were all cruising in the same
direction: bigger is better. The business they talked was really about
people. No one seemed interested in how to _do_ anything--just in who
said what to whom during the endless reshuffling of executive ranks.
Oliver knocked down as much of the Merlot, a good bottle, as he
decently could. There was a sharp cheddar, Havarti, Brie, a salsa, an
avocado dip, baby carrots, and various kinds of chips. As he ate and
drank, the conversations around him blurred together, so that he caught
the intent but not the detail, a more relaxing state. He had a small
Dewars and refrained from asking Eric to release the Laphroiag from its
hiding place. He began to see large wind-up keys protruding from the
backs of the guests. I must have one too, he thought, but set for a
different kind of motion. These guys would march back and forth in
front of the yacht club, six steps one way and six steps the other,
until they wound down.
He stepped outside and explained his key theory to a woman who was
smoking in front of the garage. She was thin with large dark eyes and a
high-strung manner. "I'm more of an all-terrain guy. Take it slow; keep
going until your hat floats."
"I got the _other woman_ key," she said in a surprising husky voice. "I
go in a straight line and turn around and no one's there. After awhile,
I do it again in a different direction."
"Shit," Oliver said sympathetically.
"It has its moments," she said, flicking ash from the end of her
cigarette.
"What's your name?"
"Marguerite."
"I'm Oliver."
"I know."
"You do? How?"
"Everyone does. You're the short one who married Jennifer and saved her
from Rupert. Cute kid, by the way."
"Aha," Oliver said. That explained the identical looks of comprehension
he received when Jennifer introduced him to her women friends. He _is_
short, they were thinking. "Emma. Yes," he said to Marguerite. "Thanks.
What's it like--being the other woman?"
"Well, you do the heavy support work, and she gets the house."
"Damn," Oliver said. Marguerite finished her cigarette.
"Do you smoke, Oliver?"
"I try to stick to drinking," he said, finishing his whiskey.
"Guess we better go inside and reload," she said. She turned her back
to him and bent over. "Wind me up, would you?" Oliver laughed and put
his fist on her back. He rubbed five vigorous circles.
"There you go," he said. "My turn." Marguerite cranked him up, and they
went laughing back inside the house.
Oliver was getting a pretty good buzz. Lots of water, he instructed
himself as he poured another drink. Jennifer was sitting in an armchair
with Emma in her lap. Oliver drifted to one side of the room and looked
at books--Joseph Campbell, Robert Bly, biographies of lesser known New
Age gurus. A voice caught his attention and he glanced at a tall man
telling a boat story. It was Conor. A well padded blonde stood by his
elbow and patted his arm when he said, "It wasn't _my_ graveyard."
Conor scanned the horizon for approval. Oliver had just time to go
neutral and stop staring. He was startled. It was as though Francesca
might be right around the corner. He went over to Jennifer who
suggested that they think about leaving--Emma was tired. Oliver agreed
and then edged up to the group where Conor was comparing investments
with another handsome salesman type.
There was a pause in the conversation, and Oliver asked, "Do you know
Myron Marsh?"
"Marshmallow? Sure," Conor said. "I used to have resources with him.
Too conservative for me. You've got to step up to the plate--uh . . .
Have we met? I'm Conor."
"Oliver."
"Up to the plate, Oliver." He looked down, charming, sorry for Oliver
who was too short to hit it out of the park.
"Ah," Oliver said.
"Myron's a good man," Conor said, "known him for years."
"Good man," the other guy echoed.
"I like him," Oliver said. "I guess I'm conservative."
"Nothing wrong with that." Conor swept his arm expansively, making room
for conservatives.
"The next generation's asleep," Oliver said, pointing to Emma. "Got to
pull anchor, head for port. Nice talking with you."
"Standing clear," Conor said. Oliver felt a rush of relief that
Francesca had left the guy. Marguerite caught his eye. She raised her
eyebrows, amused. Complicated, Oliver thought, easier to go home.
Jennifer made an effortless series of goodbyes, impressing Oliver with
her skill once again. "Farewell, Eric," he said to the host.
"Merry Christmas, Oliver."
It was dark and much colder as they settled into the Volvo and drove
home. "What a great party," Jennifer said. "You know, I was talking to
Mary. If you're tired of bouncing around, I think you could get a good
position at Tom's bank. She said he was looking for someone to come in
and learn the ropes, take over as MIS officer."
"Do I look like the officer type?"
"If you don't, no one does. It doesn't have anything to do with height.
You were having fun with Marguerite."
"Yeah, I like her. What's her story?"
"Poor Marguerite, she's had--unfortunate affairs. I really don't know
what men see in her. She's awfully skinny."
"Well," Oliver said, "she's sympathetic."
"Too sympathetic," Jennifer said. "She ought to pick some nice guy and
get on with it." Get it on, Oliver started to say, but didn't. "It was
so nice to see all the children playing," Jennifer continued. "Wouldn't
it be wonderful for Emma to have a little brother to play with?" She
reached over and rubbed his leg.
"Get on with it, you mean?"
"Oh Sweetums! Of course not! Not like that. But it _would_ be nice,
wouldn't it?" She kept her hand on his leg.
"Yes," Oliver said. "Seems like yesterday that Emma was born."
"It does," Jennifer said enthusiastically.
Oliver took one hand from the steering wheel and rested it on top of
Jennifer's. "Merry Christmas," he said. "Merry Christmas, Emma." He
looked over his shoulder at Emma, buckled into her car seat, serene,
half asleep. "I love Emma."
"And me?"
"And you," he said. It was true, but why did his heart sink after he
said it? There were loves and there were loves. He patted her hand and
corrected a small skid.
21.
Oliver enjoyed Christmas in the new house. He talked to his mother and
his sister on the phone, took pictures of Emma in front of the tree,
and made another bookshelf for the living room. Jennifer eased up on
the little brother plan, accepting his suggestion that she might not
want to be heavily pregnant in July. "A little pregnant would be fine,"
she said. Oliver agreed--a three or four month delay. He tried not to
think of Suzanne. He decided to skip the coming Friday visit.
Tuesday, at work, he handed Dan a picture of Emma. "Pride of the
Prescott's," he said.
"Chip off the old block. Does she program yet? A cutie! She'll keep you
busy."
"She will. How was your holiday?"
"Fine. My brother came for a couple of nights. Lots of music, good
eats." Dan patted his stomach. "Have to work it off. Any luck with the
trial balance?"
"Not so far."
"Well, if you can't find it, you can't find it. Month to month, we're
doing fine; the numbers aren't getting worse. I've got to find Vi." He
raced away at Dan speed.
Oliver took a deep breath and walked down the hall to Suzanne's office.
She looked at him, glad and appealing. "Friday . . ." he started. She
blushed.
"I've got something to show you at the house," she said.
"Good," he heard himself say. He stood there, grinning, amazed at
himself. "Friday," he confirmed. He went back to the computer--happy
but frightened. He couldn't make excuses; he _had_ to see her. Don't
panic, he told himself. Just stay for a couple of hours and go to
Deweys for a Friday night drink with the boys. Go home smelling of
Guinness and cigarettes . . . He was skidding, losing control. He
plunged into the hunt for the missing money with renewed determination.
Computer programs evolve and become more complicated over time. This
accounting package had been in place for eight years. Many new versions
had been installed and much had been changed to suit this particular
hospital. It would take too long to set up a parallel test system, and
it probably wouldn't help, anyway. The best hope for fixing programming
problems is to catch them when they happen, when there are clues to
help in the search. The monthly trial balance is off--why? What changed
last month? A weird data situation? A new program? Modifications to an
old program? But in this case, the accounts had drifted out of balance
over a six-month period, nearly two years earlier. The imbalance had
remained constant since then. Either the problem had been fixed, or it
was still there and might or might not happen again.
Naturally, the previous programmer hadn't bothered to keep a log or
make comments in the programs. Typical. Oliver was used to cleaning up
after other programmers. In fact, their mistakes were the source of
half his work. Still, it annoyed him that they didn't take time to do
the job right; comments made life easier for everyone.
On Friday, he told Dan that he didn't think he could find the problem.
"Not unless it starts happening again."
"It's not worth spending any more time on it," Dan said.
"What will the auditors do?"
"I don't know. Fudge it, probably. Create some kind of miscellaneous
adjustment account. We'll see. Oh, we got a package from IBM--looks
like another operating system release."
"No sweat," Oliver said. "I'll install it after the month-end
run--midnight, the 31st."
"I'll put it in the cabinet in the computer room," Dan said.
Oliver took care of loose ends until noon and waited for Suzanne to
drive away. Half an hour later, she met him at her door. They clung to
each other silently and then stepped inside. Oliver hung up his coat.
"So, what are you going to show me?"