Chapter 6

William Harrell's meeting with his advisers had been taxing. Both

had recommended that ICP begin the accelerated development of the

prototype BPX ultra-portable computer - a product, were William

to give its development the go-ahead, that they felt could

compete directly with the advanced features of Wallaby's Joey.

And, his technology adviser stressed, the BPX wouldn't suffer

from the problem that currently plagued the Joey, of too few

available third-party software applications. ICP's magnitude

could garner pre-announcement commitment from software

developers, said the adviser, to begin creating BPX programs for

the computer immediately.

If he hadn't had his secret plan in place, William would have

been mad not to heed his advisers' advice and implement exactly

what they had presented. But he'd had it all figured out for a

long time. What he wanted now, more than anything, was for them

to leave his office so that he could go home and check his

e-mail.

When he uttered his response, "We'll continue evolving the

current BP design," he could see in their expressions that they

thought he was crazy. Both stared at him with incredulity. His

business adviser flapped pages of figures and charts that

projected the market penetration Wallaby could achieve if it were

successful in getting the rumored Joey Plus computer to market

within three months. According to one chart, Wallaby could begin

by tapping some of ICP's largest customer accounts, which could

lead to sizable market penetration over the next three years.

Within five years, another chart predicted, the Joey Plus's

superior design could earn half of ICP's portable computer market

share for Wallaby.

William held firmly to his decision. What they were telling him

was precisely what he and his secret partner, Matthew Locke,

already knew. What his advisers didn't know was that their fears

of Wallaby gaining monumental market share would hardly be a

worry to ICP in the not-too-distant future. On the contrary, it

would be cause for celebration.

Returning to his palatial home, he proceeded straight to his

impressive office. He exhaled an appreciative sigh as he powered

on his Wallaby Joey and sat before it, quite literally on the

edge of his seat. Matthew had sent William the computer when it

was introduced last year. They had made arrangements before

Matthew had moved to California as to how they would communicate

the progress of their secret merger plan, which the men had

originally formulated here in William's home. It would stun the

business world, William reflected for the hundredth time. He'd

experienced so many moments of pleasant anticipation since the

course had been set two years ago.

After the jolting squash match with Rolland Worthy, William had

returned to his office and had his secretary cancel his remaining

meetings. He asked his driver to take him to Central Park. He

intended to force himself to relax and think through the possible

effects that Worthy's news could have on ICP's future portable

computer strategy. During the short trip, William watched the

miniature television in the passenger compartment, hopeful that

the commercials and nonsense soap opera dialogue would lighten

his frame of mind. Just before getting out of the car, he caught

a commercial that froze him in his seat for its duration. A

notion flashed in his mind. An instant later, the breadth of it

nearly bowled him over in its force and irony, and he was

thankful to be sitting down. The spark that ignited the idea was

the infamous Remington electric shaver commercial, in which

Victor Kiam says, "I liked the product so much, I bought the

company." William's heart doubled its cadence, and wave after

wave of adrenaline coursed through his system like gasoline

spurting onto an open flame. His brain was a bonfire. Of course!

That was it! He would buy Wallaby, for the very same reason Kiam

had wanted Remington, because he really did like Wallaby's

product so much. From his car phone he placed a call to Matthew

Locke's office at International Foods. Matthew's secretary

informed him that Matthew was out of the office for two days, but

said that she would have him call when he returned.

In his excitement he had forgotten what Rolland Worthy told him,

that Matthew was in California right now, visiting Wallaby.

William spent the next two days devising a plan. Rarely was there

an occasion in which he had the pleasure of acting on impulse.

Everything at ICP was planned several years in advance. The

jubilation he felt over the merger idea was no less than a gift

from above - the first diversion to come along that was powerful

enough to ease his grieving over the loss of his wife Martha, who

had passed away eight months ago, after a blessedly short battle

with pancreatic cancer.

After losing Martha, William had secluded himself, inviting no

one into his home. His new idea would change all that. He sank

into his idea with pure obsession.

Matthew Locke accepted William's dinner invitation after

returning from California. The two businessmen sat with drinks in

the library. Perfunctory conversation planted the seeds that they

carried to the dinner table. Once the first two courses were

completed, William got the real discussion underway.

"As I told you on the phone, Rolland mentioned to me that you

were visiting Wallaby in California as a candidate for

president."

Matthew had his own preface: "Rolland has been my mentor at

International Foods for more than ten years. I don't feel any ill

will toward him for telling you, as long as you respect the fact

that my trip was confidential."

"Of course," William said, and took a drink of water. Then he

began. "Matthew, an unusual feeling swept over me when I heard

this." Already his enthusiasm was quickening. "I realized that

Wallaby must be up to something really big if they were calling

on someone of your caliber. It's been a long time since Peter

Jones has made any brash statements about us, the industry, or

anything. Too long.

"I thought it would be interesting to meet you when you returned.

You see, a plan began to unfold in my mind, one that you may find

interesting." A smile lighted William's face, and he leaned

forward a little. In a lowered voice he revealed the heart of the

matter: "I've always had a strong admiration for Wallaby. But of

course it's the sort of thing one must keep in check at ICP.

"Sure, we currently have a great portable computer. But we're not

innovative the way Wallaby is. And I suspect that they're up to

something new. Something exciting."

Matthew saw the purity of William's candor and honesty. His

intuition was waking, and he was beginning to understand where

this conversation would take them. With this sureness, he offered

a teaser.

"I don't think I'm giving away any secrets by saying yes, you're

correct. They're up to something. And yes, it is something very

exciting."

William pushed his untouched plate aside. The two men shared a

moment of heavy silence, each considering his own tactics.

Maintaining a hint of a smile, William was the first to make a

move. "Matthew, I would like to suggest a possible business

arrangement."

Matthew gave an agreeable nod.

"ICP is gigantic. Everything we do is planned many years into the

future. Although our personal computers are outselling Wallaby's

Mate system, I suspect that whatever they have coming down the

pipeline will be completely unexpected and radical."

"Correct."

"Yes," William said. "That's what I figured." He paused

thoughtfully. When he spoke, his voice was casual and revealing,

the way a man's voice becomes when he is dead certain of the

object of his desire.

"I've always envied Peter Jones and his company. But of course

I've got my own company to worry about. For my own entertainment,

I've been looking for some time at Wallaby as a case study. I've

toyed with the idea of spinning out a rebellious group of

engineers and forming a new subsidiary with the charter to build

radical new portable computers. However, members of the board to

whom I've casually mentioned this have not responded positively.

They're focused on bigger systems and desktops, which, along with

service, account for most of our business. I must concede that I

understand their lack of enthusiasm. We are an East Coast

company. We're buttoned-down numbers people. Out west, they do

things differently. Profits follow passions."

Matthew's eyes narrowed. "I think I'm beginning to catch your

drift."

"I'll get to the point, then. Wallaby's products are not

compatible with our systems. Ours take a lot of time to learn how

to use. Granted, Wallaby's Mate isn't a whole lot better, but

there's something about it that makes it friendlier, and it's

certainly easier to lug around."

"You ain't seen nothing yet," Matthew quipped.

"Right. So I'm not going to beat around the bush. I've got

nothing to lose by sharing my fantasy with you." He took another

gulp of water, then went for it. "Matthew, I really like Wallaby.

I think it has created, and will keep creating, exciting

technologies. Peter Jones has an absolute vision of what small

computers should be. We at ICP can't do that. We are a big

company, with big computers." William's hands unfolded before

him. It was a gesture of offering. "So what if Peter Jones and

Wallaby became a part of ICP, but were left alone in California

to do their thing?"

Matthew was speechless.

"Say you, Matthew, were to go into Wallaby, the strong leader

that you are, and begin bending Jones and the company toward

becoming compatible with ICP's systems? Then, when the company is

oriented in a compatible direction, so that Wallaby's computers

can work with our big systems, ICP and Wallaby merge, but let

Wallaby maintain its freedom as an independently operated

subsidiary."

Matthew's mind raced at the prospect of this outrageous coup. If

it were successful, it could be bigger than anything he ever

dreamed could happen at International Foods. He had a million

questions to ask, and his eagerness was written all over his

face. But before he could utter a word, William raised his hands.

"Wait. Just one more thing to think about. For you it would

eventually mean the opportunity to move into the highest ranks of

ICP." In earnest, he said, "My expiration date isn't too far off

into the future." There, William thought, he'd said his piece. He

felt himself relax a little. There was nothing more he could say.

While respecting Matthew's silent deliberation, he stole a woeful

glance at a portrait of his beloved Martha, smiling from where

she sat framed in silver on the antique china closet. I need

this, my dear, he said to her silently, I need to have this.

Her sanction came out when Matthew spoke: "It's brilliant."

William breathed a silent sigh.

Matthew advanced his own view of the overall premise, and when he

finished he sat back and clasped his hands in his lap, his face

glowing with certainty.

Any concerns William might have had for Matthew's strategic

ability and comprehension now departed. "Bravo," William said.

"Of course, there's much we'd have to discuss." Then, cautiously:

"And this plan must remain a secret between us. You and I will

guide it along privately through its early stages, until we reach

the point where a merger makes perfect sense." He studied

Matthew's expression for any sign of consternation, and was

pleased to find none.

"You know, its funny," Matthew said, with no hint of humor in his

voice, "The big concern I've had about considering this job at

Wallaby was ICP. Now your big concern and my big concern may very

well wind up becoming the computer industry's single biggest

concern ever."

"Quite," said William, raising his glass to toast his new secret

partner.

The touch-tone sound of the computer's modem brought William back

to the present.

As planned, Matthew had sent him an e-mail message that validated

the decision he had voiced earlier to his advisers.

However, when he read the last part of the message, about Peter

Jones's possible departure from the company, he felt a shiver.

Granted, he was relieved now that Matthew had won support, and

that the secret merger plan could proceed. He favored a scenario

whereby Jones stayed with Wallaby and continued to lead the

development of the company's future products.

Pondering this, he studied his finger on the Joey's trackpad.

Sliding his fingertip across the smooth surface felt natural and

intuitive, a genius design. Peter Jones's genius design. Without

the trackpad, the Joey would not function as it did. Elegant.

Silky. Smooth. Right.

Staring at the small flat black space beneath his finger, a dark

thought prodded his sense of certainty. Without Peter Jones,

could Wallaby operate as smoothly and naturally as a peripheral

of ICP?

* * *

Peter blinked awake in the room's gauzy afternoon brightness.

Whiffing a good, familiar smell, he shut his eyes for a little

while, listened to her moving around, moving things around.

"Hi."

He opened his eyes. Kate was crouched before him. He propped

himself up on one elbow.

"Oh," he moaned, touching his fingers to his temple.

"How you doing?"

He shrugged and his eyes met hers, then shifted past her

shoulder. Several pieces of luggage sat by the doorway. "What's

all that for?"

"We're going away for a bit."

He yawned. "We are?"

"Yep. I'm taking you to the Maine house for a little while."

"Okay," he said, offering no argument.

"First, we're going to treat you to a nice hot shower. Come on."

She gently helped him up and out of the room.

In the bathroom she went about undressing him.

He stood before her naked, watching her dip her hand in and out

of the shower, adjusting its temperature.

"Kate," he said, his voice rubbery.

"Hmm?"

"You're an artist."

"Mm-hmm."

"Well, I was wondering. About when you've created something.

When it's something really good. You know, like a new CD. And

when it's all done, you have it and hold it in your hands. And

there it is. All said and done. You can keep going back to it,

but no matter how great it is, it's past. History. So. What I

want to know is, do you ever feel like you'll never be able to do

it again? Do anything again?"

"All the time, love." She took his chin in her hand and kissed

his forehead. "But no matter how hard it seems at the time, if

you did it once, you can do it again."

"Promise?"

"You know it."

"Good. Will you come in here with me?"

"Yes."

PART II

Chapter 7

Eating breakfast in the cafe had become part of Peter's daily

routine. The waitress greeted him as he sat with his usual pile

of newspapers. She returned with a cup of coffee, a scone, and a

glass of orange juice.

He was grateful for the privacy his vacation home offered. It was

Matthew who had introduced him to the quaint town of Camden,

Maine, a place popular in the summer with executives and their

families from Boston, Philadelphia, and New York, and over the

last three months he had been recognized by only a few executives

around town. Today, however, anyone reading the "Wall Street

Journal" would see on the front page of the business section a

small picture of Peter's face, positioned three paragraphs below

one of Matthew Locke's face. Perhaps, after giving it a little

thought, the reader would realize that he or she had seen him

there in the cafe or in one of the town's small shops, or walking

along the inlet. And after reading the story, the next time they

spotted him they might even feel a pang of sympathy.

It read:

- - - - - - - - - -

WALLABY ANNOUNCES IMPROVED PORTABLE COMPUTER

SUNNYVALE, CA - Wallaby, Inc., creators of the first all-in-one

portable computer, announced today an improved and more powerful

version of its Joey computer, introduced just one year ago.

Wallaby's founder, the young and mercurial Peter Jones, was the

inventor of the company's first computer, the Mate, nine years

ago and was the driving force behind both the Joey and the

enhanced version unveiled today, the Joey Plus. The new version

is easier to program, offers a faster processor, and boasts more

built-in memory configuration for running more powerful software

programs, which are now becoming available. It also features a

slim, built-in CD-ROM drive for accessing multimedia titles and

reference works, a faster 14.4K data/fax modem, and a brighter

backlit active-matrix display, all for the same price as the

original Joey, which the new model replaces.

Analysts view the introduction of the Joey Plus as a feather in

the cap of Wallaby Chairman and CEO Matthew Locke, who took the

company reins from Jones after a boardroom showdown three months

ago.

"This demonstrates Locke's ability to manage a new products

company," said Michael Kolohan of Quest Market Research, Inc.

"We're very excited about the Joey Plus computer," Locke said in

a telephone interview. "Now there are no hurdles between

developers and users in offering powerful applications that

compare to those available for ICP computer users, our

value-added being the easier to use design of the Joey Plus, and

its more attractive, more convenient form factor."

In his new role as leader of Wallaby, Locke reorganized the

formerly separate engineering groups, consolidating resources on

the Joey Plus project, which accelerated the device's

introduction to market by three months. To enlist the support of

software developers, Locke took to the road, evangelizing with

prototypes of the powerful new Joey Plus to stimulate new

software development prior to today's announcement.

One developer, PowerBase, Inc. of Cupertino, California, will

soon introduce an program for compound document and forms

processing, and advanced communications abilities. Said Paul

Kupiec, president of PowerBase, "Wallaby really delivered with

the new Joey Plus. We're ecstatic, now that it's got so much room

for bigger applications, which means corporate clients we could

not previously appeal to are now more apt to consider Wallaby

over ICP.

"We were all worried when Jones left the company," Kupiec

continued, "but Locke came to our offices in person with his

engineering managers and offered us an early prototype unit of

the new Plus. We dropped everything and already have ninety-eight

percent of our program completed, which we ported from our ICP BP

version. I think he [Locke] may fare well in his new role."

Jones, on sabbatical in New England, was offered a "visionary at

large" role after being ousted by Locke and the company's board

of directors, according to one source. However, Wallaby officials

declined to comment on Jones's plans for returning in his new

non-management role. "Matthew Locke hopes that Peter will return

to Wallaby soon," said Wallaby spokesperson Laurence Maupin. "We

all miss him and look forward to having him back at work soon."

Jones could not be reached for comment.

- - - - - - - - - -

Peter folded the newspaper and sipped his orange juice. The sun

was hot and the air smelled fresh and clean. All around him,

people in summer dress clothes walked leisurely about the

village, and the news of Silicon Valley felt very, very far away.

He closed his eyes...and a moment later he sensed a shadow

blocking the direct sunlight.

"Think you'll go back?" asked the elderly man standing before

him. Beneath his arm was a folded copy of the "Journal."

Peter eyed the stranger. "I don't know."

The man placed his large, tanned and weathered hand on the back

of the vacant chair beside Peter. "Okay if I join you?"

"Sure," Peter said, leaning back in his own chair.

The man removed his cap and signaled the waitress. He fixed his

gaze on Peter for an instant. "Congratulations on the new

product," he said with a wink. He unfolded his own newspaper and

laid it over Peter's copy. "Your whiskers threw me for a second

or two, but I used to slack off now and then on the shave -

though not because I was masquerading."

"It wasn't my product introduction," Peter said, stroking his

light beard unconsciously.

The man pulled a pen from his pocket, then lifted his thumb and

winked one eye shut like an artist gauging his subject. "Hold

still. I want to get this right." He proceeded to draw a mustache

and beard on Peter's picture in the newspaper.

Peter was beginning to feel amused.

"Well," said the old man, taking up their conversation without

looking up from his artwork, "you weren't there for the show, but

it is your product just the same. Good work, son."

"Thanks."

The waitress arrived. His portrait completed, the man shoved the

paper across the table for the waitress to see. "What do you

think? Look like him?"

She looked at the photo and smiled politely, unaware that it was

really Peter in person and in the newspaper. "A mineral water?"

she said.

"Thank you, my dear. Anything for you, Mr. Jones?"

"No thanks."

The man closed his eyes and turned his smiling face into the sun.

As Peter studied him, he felt a dim glow of recognition. Had he

met him before, perhaps seen a photo of him somewhere? There was

something about the cynicism in the man's eye. No doubt he was a

former businessman well into his retirement, for with his eyes

closed, he looked maybe seventy-five.

"Here you are, Mr. Holmes," the waitress said.

With his eyes open, however, the man suddenly looked ten years

younger. Pouring the mineral water over the ice cubes in the

glass, he fixed his gaze on Peter. "It isn't easy walking away

from something you've given birth to, is it?" He squeezed some

juice from the lime slice floating in the glass.

"No. It sure isn't," Peter said. Except for Kate's weekend trips

away from Los Angeles, Peter had been completely alone for the

past three months in Maine. During this period he had spoken with

hardly anyone, except when necessary - ordering food in

restaurants, paying for goods at the general store, or collecting

his bundles of forwarded mail at the post office. He had

forgotten how good it could feel to talk to someone, even a

stranger. Especially a stranger. But Peter sensed that this

wasn't just any stranger.

"Yep. Same thing happened to me. Gave them fifty years. Started

when I was twenty, not that different from you. Yes sir, I

remember how it felt."

"How?"

"Like someone ripped my heart out and chopped a chunk off it."

For a few moments the man's gaze turned introspective as he poked

at the lime in his drink. "Sound about right?" His lively blue

eyes revealed sympathy, understanding.

This man knows, Peter thought. He managed a small smile and a

nod.

"Son, you're a bright boy. I know all about you. How old can you

be, thirty?"

"Thirty-two."

"Hell," the man said with a guffaw, "when I was that age I'd just

got going."

Crossing his arms over his chest, Peter considered the man with

curiosity and puzzlement. What had the waitress called him?

"Yes sir. That's how old I was when I invented a new system

design that went on to become our standard for the next many,

many years." He took another sip from his glass. "Still is," he

said, jutting his lower lip out proudly.

"What design was that?" Peter asked. But before the man answered,

Peter deduced that there was only one computer standard that had

been in existence that long, and that was -

"The 990."

Peter tossed his head back, and for the first time in months he

let go a huge, cleansing laugh. Of course! Byron Holmes, inventor

of ICP's 990 series, which had become, and still formed the

foundation of, the architecture upon which all of ICP's mainframe

computers were built. Byron Holmes, son of Jonathan Holmes,

founder of ICP.

"What's so damn funny?"

Peter touched the man's arm in apology. "I was just thinking how

funny it is for us to meet. Go on, please. What did you do after

the 990?"

"Revise, revise, revise."

"Things moved more slowly back then, didn't they?"

"Back then? You make it sound like I figured out how to add three

wheels to one, so that families could take kids to the dinosaur

races."

Peter could see that the man was enjoying this as much as he was.

He became wholly attentive and invigorated.

"You kids from the Valley think your teensy computers are going

to replace our Goliath machines someday, don't you?"

"I wouldn't know anymore. I'm out of the business."

"Poppyshit!" Holmes said, rapping his hand down on the table.

"Don't give me that sour-faced hurt-boy story. Doesn't fly with

me."

"I made that company what it is," Peter said, instantly somber.

"And then it was taken away from me."

"That's craziness," Byron said, moving his chair closer. "Boy,

I'll tell you something. After I made the 990 what it is, they

moved me into big management. Sure, it was my dad's company. But

I had the right education for it, so I could have done it anyway

if my heart had been in it. But it wasn't. All I wanted to do was

make those big, beautiful machines. After a short while I stepped

down, moved in another fella, a guy that managed the schedule and

all that stuff. Kept our friendship golden after all these years.

Now he's the big cheese there.

"I stuck around for a long time. I was vice chairman, and spent

years evolving the 990 design into what it is now, which'll

probably see them through to the year 2000. As I was nearing the

age everyone says is the time to leave, I had a heart attack.

Guess I thought I was still a youngster. I retired, and me and my

wife have been enjoying ourselves and playing around like kids

ever since. Not bad for seventy-four years young, eh?"

"But it's not the same. I could have run the company. With all

due respect, you inherited yours. I started mine from scratch.

They just didn't give me a chance," Peter said.

The older man discounted the younger with a wave of his arm.

"Nah. You'll come around eventually. Can't have both, you know."

"I could."

The older man's tone turned serious. "That's just pure,

one-hundred percent poppyshit, is all." He pointed his finger at

Peter with rigid authority. "You need to squeegee all that anger

out of your system so you can get back out there and do

something. Again."

Just then a handsome smiling woman appeared at the table, dressed

in a light, summery outfit. In one hand she held her wide-brimmed

hat, in the other a bag of vegetables and groceries. Byron's face

brightened at her arrival.

"Is this man filling your ear with World War II stories?" She

handed the bag to Byron.

"I haven't even gotten to those yet," Byron said as he stood.

"Another day."

He made introductions. "Gracie, this boy is the one who invented

all those pesky little computers littering everyone's desks out

there," Byron said. "He's also been the best conversation I've

had here in awhile. Mr. Jones, it's been nice talking to you."

"Likewise," said Peter. The two men shook hands.

"Why don't you come by our house for dinner. Saturday night."

Byron said, tapping his shirt pocket for his pen.

"Thank you, that's very kind. But I've been sticking pretty much

to myself, and I'm not much company - "

"Nonsense! Eight o'clock," Byron said, scribbling his address on

a paper napkin.

"All right then, I'll be there. But I have a friend coming. Would

it be okay if I brought her?"

"Can she dance?"

"No, but she can sing."

"Of course," Grace said. "Please bring her along." The couple

said good-bye and then strolled off holding hands.

With some amusement, Peter settled into his chair and thought

about the irony of meeting Byron Holmes here. It wasn't all that

unusual, since Camden was where so many men like Byron spent

their summers. Yet, of all the people in the world, he'd never

guessed he'd shake hands with the man whose surname was

synonymous with the world's first tabulating machines. Small

world, Peter thought. No, he corrected himself, I'm from the

small world, and he's from the big world. But, as he'd just

learned, it didn't seem to matter how big or small your baby.

When it's yours, it's yours. And this man understood that.

* * *

The horses walked side by side, each carrying a rider through the

secluded wooded path.

"I don't believe you, that the only love you have ever felt has

been for horses. Nonsense," Greta said.

"It is true," said Jean-Pierre, crossing his heart with his

finger.

"Ridiculous."

"Greta, I tell no lie when I say that I have been in love only

with horses. Nothing has ever come between us," he said, patting

his beast's neck affectionately.

"Frenchmen," she said with a dismissing wave of her gloved hand.

"Such talkers." Had he noticed? She took a breath, reminding

herself to keep her left hand on the saddle.

And, she wondered, had he noticed her color when he'd crossed his

heart? Unless he was psychic, she knew that he could not see what

was going on inside her when he spoke of things such as his

country and horses.

"Your husband, he is doing something very important today, no?"

"Yes. It's important. To him. Some new computer."

"Indeed. I read about it in the paper. You must be very proud,

Greta. Yes?"

"Yes, of course. He's done very well since he's been in control.

Very busy," she said. She wished this topic to go no further. She

let herself look at him, into his eyes.

"Yes," Jean-Pierre replied with a nod that said, without words,

that he understood. It was the same look he had given her when

they'd first met after they had shaken hands, when his arm had

been in a sling.

They continued along in silence at a trot, and Greta renewed

their conversation with enthusiasm. "Jean-Pierre, tell me more

about your country. Is the French countryside similar to Northern

California, as everyone here seems to think?"

"Ah, it is beautiful," Jean-Pierre said. "All year is green out

in the countryside where I was born. And clean when you inhale,

and pretty, all fresh and tingling in your nose, in your heart.

You ride on and on and see no one for very long stretches of

time. Here and there, children are playing or doing chores, you

see a woman carrying a basket, a man with an ax. They wave when

they see you." Smiling, he waved to her as if to illustrate, but

all at once his expression changed into a grimace, as though he

were suddenly in great pain.

"What is it?" Greta asked.

"This damned shoulder. If I cannot even lift it to wave, how will

I ever hold a mallet again?"

"Isn't there anything you can do about it?"

"Oh, sure. There are procedures. Surgery."

"Then why don't you get it fixed?"

"It is complicated."

"Yes, but it's worth a try, isn't it? Wouldn't it be better to

try to save it, so you could play again, rather than give up your

livelihood?"

"It's not that simple."

"Why? People get things like that fixed all the time, don't they?

You're a champion. How can you just stop playing?"

"That's not what I mean. I don't want it to be like this."

She persisted. "I still don't understand. What's so complicated

about your case?"

Abruptly he reined his horse to a halt and she brought her horse

around. He was looking off into the hills. For all of his

broadness and strength, his maleness, she saw that she had

unknowingly struck a sensitive chord in him. "Jean-Pierre," she

said, trying to catch his eye, "I didn't mean to upset you. If I

have, I'm sorry."

"No. That's not it. You see," he said with a faint smile, "I am

an independent."

"I'm sorry, really. You don't have to go on if you don't want

to."

"But I do. I do want to go on. Right now, in Deauville, where I

have lived most of my life as a polo player, the tournament is

underway. Eight teams converge to compete for fifteen cups. The

most coveted is the Coupe d'Or. There is money as well. I, of

course, was on the French team. I had a sponsor for the

tournament, but because of this damned thing, I had to drop out."

"But if you get it taken care of, can't you play again, and make

next year's competition?"

"That is the problem, getting it taken care of. It costs money.

And because I am an independent and I had to drop out, I lost my

sponsorship. What I am saying, Greta, is that I cannot afford the

surgery and therapy. That is why I agreed to come here as a

consultant to look into developing a polo club. I need the

money."

"Jean-Pierre," Greta said, "I understand how you feel." She felt

compelled to tell him about her own suffering. However, glancing

down at her gloved left hand, she couldn't bring herself to go

on. Hers was no common ailment. Granted, he was suffering, losing

the use of his shoulder, but her loss, she could not help

feeling, was greater. It was not the same. It was worse. And, she

feared, it might repulse him, and end the acquaintance they had

begun.

They continued along the trails leading back to the stable, back

from her escape.

For the past three months she had gone riding every couple of

days with Jean-Pierre. It had started with his insisting that she

try some jumping, but she dashed that idea at once. However, she

did agree to go riding with him once, and had continued ever

since. The early mornings frequently found her on these paths

with Jean-Pierre, before he began his day. In addition to his

polo club project, he trained a number of students. With each day

they spent together, riding along the lush trails, she acquired

more knowledge of horses and Europe, and of things she had never

imagined before - most of all attraction, for the first time

since her marriage to Matthew, for another man. While she knew he

was here to research the potential for a polo club, he was not

specific about the details of his private life. Whenever she

pressed him for more information, he turned the conversation back

to her, or went into one story or another that was full of

adventure and intrigue. He told her that, like most polo players,

he was a thrill-seeker; his attitude was that all of life was a

game, one big gamble, there for the playing. When she asked him

how long he thought he would stay, he told her he was not really

sure. All she wanted, she reminded herself continually, was to be

able to keep spending a precious hour or two with him each day

riding. But lately, when she left him after their ride, she had

begun to allow herself a little more; she had now and then found

herself thinking about him during her midmorning bath, or just

staring out the bedroom window, across the treetops and off into

the near distance, at the ranch's gable rooftop. And sometimes,

after a morning ride, she would awaken on her bed, not

remembering having lain down, his face the first image to appear

to her, her mind studying and touching him before opening her

eyes and getting on with the day. Although she relished these

moments in his company, she could hardly wait to be away from him

today, to be alone with him in her secret way.

"I have thought how good it would be to go back to France after

my project is through here, taking my meager savings, and my

meager arm, and finding a small ranch in the country."

She tightened her grip on the reins. "Well, if you want it badly

enough, you'll find a way to get back into the game."

"Yes, maybe. But for now I am a slave to this project. It's

paying the bills, as Americans are fond to say."

With mild dread, she knew he would be gone sooner than she wanted

to admit. Of course it would be better if he were gone, she told

herself. She was married to a very successful man, and that meant

security and stability.

Yet as if to discourage her rational thinking, a burst of

enthusiasm whipped through her. "Let's race," she shouted, then

pressed her heels into Mighty Boy's sides. Before Jean-Pierre

could answer, her horse bolted forward.

"Cheater!" he hollered, and gained on her quickly. They rounded a

turn in the path and flew past wild calla lily flowers, the tall

stems batting their horses' legs. She looked over her shoulder,

excited, and pressed Might Boy harder. Jean-Pierre narrowed the

distance between them and his horse fell into a synchronized

gallop with Mighty Boy. She laughed at him and saw that he was

hiding something behind his back. He saw that she saw.

"Not until you slow," he said, reining his horse to a trot.

She obeyed, dropping beside him. He leaned from his saddle and

handed her a single calla lily. She felt touched and overwhelmed,

and closed her eyes for a moment, forgetting he was there riding

right beside her. Then, suddenly aware of her obvious pleasure,

she felt embarrassed. Carefully she tucked the flower between her

leg and the saddle, then raced off for the final stretch, hoping

the distance would allow her a moment to regain her composure.

He called after her, yet, when she turned once, she saw that he

was letting the stretch widen between them, as if he had seen her

flustered condition and had, once again, understood what she was

feeling.

The soft black path turned dusty as she neared the barn. Her car

was parked in the lot. Jennifer's truck, parked in front of her

house, was the only other vehicle there.

She brought Mighty Boy to a halt before the stable entrance and

wiped her brow with the sleeve of her chambray shirt. Carefully

holding the flower, she lowered herself from the horse.

Jean-Pierre had dismounted by the far ring and was walking toward

the barn. Normally, the horses would be hosed down, to both clean

and cool them, but the groom had not yet arrived, so they allowed

some time for the horses to cool down a little in the chilly

morning air.

"I'd better be going," Greta said after some time had passed,

taking Might Boy's bridle in her hand.

In silence, they led the horses into the barn. The animal bodies

were lathered with sweat, and the fine layer of dust that covered

their muscles was beginning to dry and crinkle in the shadowed

coolness. She reached behind her head and unclipped her barrette,

allowing her hair to fall loosely over her shoulders. It was as

if everything had changed as they walked through a near-dark

silence, like day into night. Her senses sharpened, like those of

a nocturnal creature. She knew he was looking at her, and she

felt awkwardly exposed. She glanced quickly at him. His eyes

gazed at her with peaceful, deliberate regard. She maintained her

lead into the barn with Mighty Boy, then Jean-Pierre stopped at

his own horse's stall, and she hastened her task at hand, in an

attempt to be done and out of the stall before he had a chance to

come to hers. But as she worked with Mighty Boy's halter, she

felt his presence at the entrance of the stall. He pulled the

double door shut behind him as he entered, closing them in

together in nearly complete darkness.

Her insides tightened as he slowly approached, the very act of

breathing becoming more difficult the closer he came. She blinked

to adjust her vision, and busied herself with releasing the girth

of Mighty Boy's saddle, but she was clearly having problems; she

had not thought to simply put down the flower for a moment while

she worked with the snaps. And, as always, there was her hand,

which forever burdened even the simplest tasks.

He came to her rescue, and she froze at the touch of his large

strong hands on hers. And before she had to even consider

retracting her flawed hand, he moved her aside and set about

unfastening the girth and removing the saddle, leaving her to

just stand there and watch, holding the flower.

Time stopped. Even Mighty Boy was still. His stare was on her

again, but she willed her gaze to remain fixed on the hay-strewn

floor. If she looked up into his eyes, there was no telling what

would happen. Yet she made no effort to alter what was happening.

Instead she shut her eyes, and tried not to think about how much

time was passing between them without words. What were his

thoughts? Were they the same as her own? What were hers? She

could not focus on any of these blind musings. Unaware of her own

action she had raised her head, as though all of him would become

clearer if she trained her closed lids in his direction. She

opened her eyes. Nothing in her mind could prepare her for what

she faced. The emerald intensity of his eyes pierced through her,

instantly warming her neck, her nipples, her loins.

"Come," he said, motioning to her with one hand, the other flat

against the horse's side. "Feel this."

She allowed him to lift her right hand and pull her closer. He

made her feel the animal's hot, damp flank, flattening his own

hard hand over hers. She focused on his dusty manicured nails,

his long fingers, weathered knuckles, and tanned skin. This was

the hand she had fantasized about, touching her as it was now,

and more.

"The strength of this animal, it can all be felt through his

heartbeat. So strong," he whispered. She felt his breath on her

forehead, and inhaled to try to bring it inside of her.

Mighty Boy stood steady as she experienced the bold breathing and

strong heartbeat drumming beneath her hand. "Yes," she managed,

barely, willing her hand to stop trembling beneath his.

He slowly lifted her hand from the horse and turned her so that

they were facing each other. The flower fell from her free hand.

He removed the glove from the hand he was holding, then he

reached for her other hand.

"No," she said, a little panicked. "Not that one."

He nodded to let her know that he understood, then guided the

ungloved hand beneath his shirt. He pressed her palm to his

chest, over his heart. "It is no different," he said. Then she

had the other, gloved hand in his shirt. She felt his insistent

heartbeat, so powerful in its pounding, the pulse of his life

beneath her hands. She raked her fingers over his muscles. The

wild scent of horses mingled sharply with his spiciness. She

closed her eyes and took a deep, heady breath, and experienced a

wave of pleasant dizziness.

He gripped her wrists and pressed her against Mighty Boy, touched

his lips to her ear. "Perhaps this attraction I feel for you is

the first to come between me and my love for horses," he said

with a little laugh.

She shifted her head back. A bead of sweat jiggled on his chin,

beside a tiny flake of hay. She dabbed the droplet with the back

of her bare hand, touched the hay flake away and pulled it past

his lips, yet did not let herself touch them. He took her hand

from his cheek, then curled her fingers into his own. He inhaled

the fragrance on her wrist, kissed it.

She began trembling as he lowered his arm around her waist and

pressed her harder into Mighty Boy, layering her between the heat

of two powerful bodies. She pulled her fingers free of his grip

and plunged her hands into his long hair and down his neck,

across the hard muscles of his shoulders.

Then, just as their lips drew near, Greta reeled her head away

with a shake, as if snapping awake from frightening dream - he

had taken her gloved hand in his own.

"No," she said, struggling.

He tightened his hold on her. "What are you hiding, Greta? What

is it you are so afraid to show me?" Then suddenly, Matthew's

image appeared in her mind's eye.

An agonized moan escaped her, and she let out a small, frustrated

cry. She had to leave, at once. "I can't," she said, bringing her

lips closer to his. "Do you hear me, I can't."

Or could she? Could she just once, to have him completely in her

memory forever? Yes, just this one time. Quickly, she thought,

before Matthew returns and makes it impossible for her to go any

further.

Lips parting ardently, she hungrily drew in his breath as their

mouths joined.

Chapter 8

"Matthew, this is everything." Eileen said, placing a manila

folder before him on his desk. "You've got about ten minutes

before the meeting begins," she said, then closed his office

door. He opened the folder. Before him was an assortment of

transparencies, his presentation to the board of directors and

executive staff.

Yesterday's introduction of the new Joey Plus, which was warmly

received by the press and the user community, would certainly

work in his favor this morning when he detailed his plan for ICP

connectivity.

He flipped through the films. They were perfect. He felt armed

and ready to face for the first time all of Wallaby's power

players in the very room from which three months earlier he had

ejected Peter Jones.

His intercom beeped softly, and he looked out of his glass office

at Eileen. She tapped her wristwatch. It was time to start the

meeting.

He nodded and shuffled the films and his notes together into the

folder and headed for the meeting. Just as he reached for the

boardroom door, it opened. Hank Towers appeared carrying a small

plate.

"Good morning, Matthew," Hank said brightly. "Give me just a

second for seconds," he said, gesturing at the remaining treats

arranged on the long table outside the conference room.

Matthew laughed good-naturedly and went inside. "Good morning,"

he said, addressing everyone seated around the table. He set down

his materials beside the overhead projector. Finishing sentences

or the last bite of a muffin or looking up from their agendas,

the board members and executive staff voiced their good mornings.

"We're just waiting for Hank," Matthew said. Just then Hank

entered the room smiling sheepishly over a plate of fresh fruit

salad.

"Matthew, congratulations on the Joey Plus," Hank said. The

others followed with congratulations, and someone clapped.

Another pair of hands joined in, and then another, until the

entire room was applauding his success.

"Thank you," Matthew said. "But the congratulations should go to

all of your people who made the development of the Joey Plus

successful." His smile swept each face at the table.

Martin Cohn stood and announced the agenda, a copy of which

rested before each person. Four items down the list was "The

Whole World In Your Hand: Wallaby's Future - Matthew."

After ninety minutes of standard status reports, discussion, and

voting, it was time for Matthew's presentation, and he stood.

"Should we break for a few minutes before I begin?"

He knew his agenda title had them all intrigued - this would be

the first time anyone but Peter had revealed a major future

strategy for Wallaby. No one stood or motioned departure.

He dimmed the room lights, then switched on the overhead

projector and advanced to the first slide, a modified Wallaby

logo. Normally the logo depicted the baby kangaroo poking its

head out of a pocket, but Matthew's slide showed only the joey

and no pocket.

"At Wallaby," he began, "we've always been intensely focused on

the idea of people using a portable computer for their personal

tasks and needs. This had been a successful strategy, inherent in

our culture because we got our start by giving people the power

to use our portable personal computers for exactly that: very

personal computing.

"But to some degree, we've been in the dark. In the early days we

succeeded because we were the only players. But we lost our

number-one status to our largest competitor, ICP."

He changed to the next slide and paused for a moment, allowing

the visual analogy depicted to sink in. The slide showed the same

lone joey, offset to the bottom left corner of the frame, and a

sketch of the earth with the initials ICP stretching around it.

"International Computer Products is everywhere. They own the

world of mainstream computing. There's hardly any big business,

organization, or function in the world that doesn't in some way

use ICP's products for its information processing."

The next slide showed the Joey Plus screen with little filing

cabinets and documents positioned here and there. "By design,

Wallaby's Joey Plus is the choice method of computing. The user

community has stated that, and we all know that.

"But competition from ICP with its BP system, regardless of its

inferior technology, continues to grow at a steady rate. The ICP

logo on the front of its desktop and portable computers makes

them mentally compatible with its mainframe computers. And for

the past decade at Wallaby, we've all held a resentful attitude

toward ICP. This is due, in part, to the premise upon which the

company was founded. We're a small, free-spirited company,

providing people with personal mobile computing tools contrary to

what ICP has represented throughout its history - people acting

as slaves to headquarters and mainframes."

He then showed a slide bearing an ICP BP computer graphic with a

circle around it and a slash through it, like the "No Smoking"

signs found in public areas. A few chuckles emerged from the

darkness.

"Consequently - by design, if you will - few of us at Wallaby are

apt to perceive an opportunity that could take advantage of ICP's

Goliath size. Locked into our rivalry with ICP, we're too busy

reacting, competing with our portable computer technology as if

we had a chance to displace its impersonal, worldwide

installed-base of systems."

He let them absorb this truth for a few moments, then removed the

slide, allowing a pause before asking his next question.

"But what if the Joey Plus were equipped to make a huge leap into

the big game?"

Chairs creaked, and elbows settled on the table as those seated

around the table moved forward to more attentive positions. The

next slide showed the Wallaby Joey Plus computer screen again.

But in this one, the ICP globe logo was orbiting within it, with

the baby kangaroo hopping from the U.S., across the Atlantic, to

Europe.

Matthew heard whispers and low voices. In an instant he

understood his position with profound clarity. Here he stood, in

the place that for the last decade had been occupied by Peter

Jones, with his hand on the lever that, once thrown, would

forever alter the focus of Wallaby. He threw it.

"I believe that Wallaby has the potential to penetrate the

worldwide installed-base of ICP computer users by becoming more

compatible with ICP systems."

Not surprisingly, Hank was the first to protest. Incredulous, he

rose from his seat. "Matthew, are you proposing we build an ICP

clone computer?" His alarm was amplified by the others, and the

room suddenly erupted into a rumble of questioning voices.

"Wait. Listen," Matthew pleaded. "Please."

Hank dropped back in his chair, turning his attention to Matthew.

The others followed his lead and quieted.

"No. Hank. We would not, not ever, develop systems that operated

ICP's system software. First of all, we would continue with our

design to evolve the Joey hardware, adding a simple, inexpensive

port that would provide an easy connection to ICP mainframes and

workgroup networks. Second, we would implement system software

communication hooks in our operating system, which would read and

understand file formats and information from ICP systems. These

hooks are what would enable the user to easily manage the massive

ICP mainframe databases from within Joey software applications,

as well as share data between personal programs like word

processing documents, spreadsheets, and graphics, to name a few."

Hank was slowly nodding. "We're following you, go on."

The room fell silent, and Matthew placed his next graphic on the

overhead.

"We've got a window of opportunity, and if we can act quickly and

bring compatibility products to market in the next quarter,

Wallaby would enjoy the rewards of major penetration within a

year."

The attendees were leaning to one side or the other, whispering

back and forth. What Matthew was able to discern sounded

positive, and, sensing no opposition, he placed the next slide, a

proposed schedule. Midway through the his timeline breakdown,

Graham Stevens, vice president of personnel, spoke up.

"Pardon me for the interruption, Matthew." Stevens removed his

glasses and folded his hands on the table. His face bore the

troubled look of a professor deliberating a complex formula.

"There's one thing that concerns me. Something that does not

appear on the schedule."

Matthew took a step away from the projector. "Please, go on."

"This company, as you pointed out when you started, was trained

to think of ICP as the enemy. Do you really believe we can get

the employees to support a strategy that slants us toward our

biggest competitor?" His question was supported by contemplative

murmuring throughout the room.

"That's a very important question," Matthew said. He tucked his

hands into his pockets. "Perhaps the most important of all."

In fact, it was. He had asked himself the same question a

thousand times. And he knew he had to be very careful with his

response. Both the reason and the solution had come to him when

he had asked himself why, all along, ICP had never simply

threatened Wallaby with a hostile takeover. The reason was simple

- ICP could not acquire Wallaby and hope for the company to

succeed without support from Wallaby's highest-level executives

and employees. This was precisely where Matthew fit into the

whole plan. He was the horticulturist who would graft the sapling

Wallaby onto the deeply rooted, sky-high tree that was ICP. He

would nurture the company into accepting that this was the right

thing to do, this second phase of providing compatibility with

ICP's systems. He would convince them that while maintaining its

personality, Wallaby would also grow vigorously in size and

sales. Later, in the final phase - the plan's ultimate goal -

after Matthew's compatibility strategy had proven successful and

thereby gained the employees' trust, the process for merging the

two companies would begin.

He seated himself casually on the edge of the table. "When Peter

and Hank started Wallaby," he said, dropping a nod to the

cofounder, "they had a vision of placing into people's hands

their own computing power. Naturally this was perceived as

competition to ICP because it is also a computer company, which

quickly brought to market its own all-in-one computer. But what

I've come to understand is that we have a valuable product that

can make greater headway by coexisting with ICP's computers

rather than try to overtake it directly. And if we carefully

educate our employees that it's our vision to keep building great

portable computers for individuals, which can also connect to

other systems, then yes, we can pull it off." His voice was

piping with conviction and enthusiasm. "Joey, with its innovative

mobile and expandable design, becomes the dynamic key that opens

doors to other systems and other markets around the world."

"It would be tough, Matthew," Graham said, curling his index

finger against his chin, "but if we were to get you out there,

talking to our people about this strategy, I think you're right.

We could pull it off."

Did this first agreement, from the man who raised the most

difficult question of all, presage the entire team's vote? Had he

just persuaded them to place in him their faith to change the

lifeblood vision of the entire company?

He switched off the projector and brightened the room's lights.

"Before I go on, it may be good to get an idea of how many of us

agree on this strategy."

"Right," Hank said, helping him along. "I think it's smart,

mature. Clearly a direction in which we should consider moving.

However," he cautioned, sweeping the group with his serious eyes,

"only if we can handle the perception aspect of it with the

employees. Only as long as we make them understand that we're not

selling out and building a clone, that we are actually making our

Joey the best choice of portable computer on its own, and in

tandem with ICP's computers. If we can accomplish that, then I

think we could eventually come out ahead of the game."

Matthew experienced an epiphany. Hank had just explained

Matthew's strategy exactly as he wanted them to see it.

Furthermore, Hank's approval signified a point that was

especially penetrating to the people seated there - higher stock

prices. For each of them, this translated to even greater

personal wealth.

Matthew quickly took advantage of Hank's definition, while the

carrot still hung in the air. "Does anyone disagree with the

concept?"

Heads turned, searching for dissent.

None.

He felt a powerful thrill wash though him like the one he had

experienced at the last quarterly board meeting, when his

organizational design had flexed Peter Jones out of his way. In

the last meeting he had been given the opportunity to prove

himself. Now, with the new strategy revealed, they had become his

followers. They believed in him. That was what it all came down

to. They trusted him with their future.

"Very well," Matthew said. He switched off the overhead lights

again and returned to the projector. With his finger on the

switch, he bade farewell to the old Wallaby, farewell to Peter

Jones. He flicked the machine on, and alighted the screen with

his next slide: "The Whole World In Your Hand: Wallaby's Future."

* * *

"Thanks, Hank," Matthew said, gripping Hank's arm with one hand,

the other locked in a firm handshake.

The board room door silently swung shut, and Matthew dropped

himself heavily into one of the chairs and let out a long

satisfied sigh.

He'd done it. From here on, it would be smooth sailing. With the

executive's support in the bag, he was now free to turn his

secret plan into reality. And what did it translate to for him

personally? The power and the rewards would be astronomical.

"How'd it go?"

He had not heard anyone enter the room and, startled, he turned

to find Laurence Maupin. For the briefest moment he just sat

there and admired her in her finely tailored light linen suit.

Her soft and flowing honey-colored hair framed her fresh

intelligent face, and in her delicate hands she clutched a small

bundle of budding branches, held together by a blue ribbon.

"It went great," Matthew said, blinking with exultation at the

sound of his own pleased voice. Then, unable to contain his

satisfaction, his smile broke into a broad grin. "Really great,"

he spilled, feeling remarkably comfortable in revealing his joy

in front of her.

"That's wonderful, Matthew. Wonderful!" she said, closing the

space between them. "These are for you," she said, holding out

the bundle.

"Pussy willow," he remarked. He felt a tingling sensation in his

finger, where it had brushed hers. "Where did you get them?"

"Believe it or not, I found a bush of them in Woodside. I stole

some for you," she said with a mischievous chuckle.

"Thank you," he said, able to meet her eyes only for a second.

Her unanticipated arrival and the gift she had brought made him

suddenly feel awkward and boyish. It was as if the room, his

heart, had all at once changed seasons, going from the promise of

spring to the all-out heat of summer. He watched her flip through

his collection of slides, and he felt the light tingle return,

this time in another place, as she keenly examined his

illustrations.

She beamed at him and tapped the topmost slide. "Matthew, it's

brilliant. Just three months, and you're already making important

changes."

"Thank you. But you deserve some of the credit. Your coaching has

been a great help."

"That's my job," she said. "Eileen said you have no other

meetings this afternoon."

"None. I didn't know how long this would take."

She returned the slides to the manila folder, then circled her

hands around the neck of the overhead projector. "Then how about

lunch?"

"Good idea."

"Great. What do you say to San Francisco? I've got to run a few

errands, and you can drop me off at home later in the afternoon

since I don't have my car. It's being serviced."

He hesitated, then shrugged. "Why not. I think I deserve the rest

of the day off. And I haven't been to the city for lunch in a

long time." He had forgotten that she lived in San Francisco.

Lunch, then a ride home.

They gathered his materials and in a few minutes were on the

highway and heading for the city.

He felt relaxed in the car with her. With absurd clarity it

occurred to him that while they had worked together almost

constantly for several months, everything they had discussed

pertained to business. How could he have been so focused on his

work and not gotten to know her better? Now, he decided, was as

good a time as any.

"How are you adjusting? This being your first full-time job and

everything?"

"Excellent. Of course, working with you has made it all worth

it."

He had hired her fresh out of school, graduating with a

communications degree from Villanova. The previous summer she had

been an intern, working in the public relations department as an

apprentice speech writer. On two occasions she had assisted

Matthew in preparing his speeches. The impression she had left

him with was so positive that he had had his secretary contact

Laurence as she neared graduation, to ask if she would be

interested in working for him as his personal press assistant.

Although she was inexperienced, she really had helped him.

Enormously. Not only where his public image was concerned, as

when she had smoothly handled the press for him after Peter

Jones's departure, but also with his self-image, the hours they

spent together in coaching sessions, counseling him on his manner

and style, reinforcing his self-confidence. He felt as though

some transformation was about to happen between them, some new

level of communication.

"...right there," she said, pointing to the high hills and valley

a half-mile in the distance, to the east.

He had been daydreaming. "I'm sorry?" he said.

"My horse. That's where I keep my horse."

"At Woodside Ranch?"

"Yes."

"That's where my wife keeps hers, too." He remembered Greta for

the first time since leaving the house that morning.

"They have a new trainer who recently came to the States to start

a new polo club. He's fabulous."

"Maybe that's Greta's trainer."

"It is," Laurence said, then, quickly: "I mean, he knows her,

mentions her horse. He said Mighty Boy is the most beautiful

horse he's ever seen."

"He's something, all right," Matthew said, changing lanes.

"I'm happy to be riding again. I've missed it so. In school I

rarely got home to see my parents in Los Angeles. My father

sponsors polo players, did I already mention that? I'm sorry, I'm

rambling."

"Not at all. I want to know more."

"Well, a couple of years ago my father spent a year in North

Carolina, opening a new company. While he was there he got hooked

on polo. That was just when I had gone east for school. I felt

like I needed a break from La-La Land, and Philadelphia seemed

like as good a place as any, and the school was one of the best

for liberal arts. Anyway, I'd fly down to see dad every now and

then while he was in the South. We went to a couple polo

tournaments together. By the time he went back home he was a

member of the Equestrian Center in Griffith Park, in LA. I was

quite taken with the game myself, the valiance."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Matthew was enjoying himself

immensely. In the distance the city came into sight. Seeing the

tall buildings, the two magnificent bridges, the bay, he

experienced a sense of newfound being. He thought of Greta, and

how, in all the time they had lived here and she had had her

horse, Matthew had never been the least bit interested in her

hobby. Yet when Laurence spoke of it, he was intrigued. The

Valley felt well behind him now. Before him lay a completely

different world, and his insides stirred with the same excited

nervousness a schoolboy feels on a class trip. "I don't come to

the city often," he said, "so I'm at your mercy."

"Don't worry, you're in good hands. How about Union Square for

lunch? It's near the shop where I have to pick up something."

"Sounds fine," Matthew said.

They pulled off the highway and wound their way through the busy

city streets to Union Square. He pulled up in front of the

Campton Hotel, and the attendant took the car.

"Can we shop first?" Laurence said. "I'll just run in and tell

them we'll have lunch around two o'clock."

With an appraising eye, the formally dressed door attendant held

the door for her. After she vanished into the lobby he stole a

cursory glance at Matthew, the man so lucky to be with such an

exquisite woman. The other man's envy brought a smile to

Matthew's face. A minute later she was back.

"All set," she said, then frowned. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he said, overshooting his innocence. "I'm just happy.

I feel like I'm playing hooky," he said honestly.

"Come one," she said, tugging playfully on his arm. She led them

into oncoming traffic and, with city-smart agility, navigated

them to the other side of the street. They strolled past the

Hyatt and turned onto Post Street. The sun shone brightly on

Union Square, and a cable car bell rang out on Powell Street. He

fell back a step behind her when they crossed the street to

admire the way her wavy hair bounced on her shoulders with each

determined step. His eyes trailed to her waist, so perfect and

slender, then lower, to the lovely curves of her bottom. She

stopped so suddenly he almost crashed into her.

"This is it," she said, standing before an old shop. "It's like a

toy store for me," she added, pressing through the doors. For an

instant he had the pleasure of seeing the flat of her hand

pressed against the glass. Even after they were inside, this

image lingered bright in his mind's eye like sunspots on the

eyelids.

"Come on," she said, tugging his arm again. She led him to an

open stairway that rose to the second floor. He saw various

equestrian products as they climbed the stairs. Saddles hung over

the rail encircling the upper level, and rows of boots lined the

wall, with riding crops, helmets, and assorted garments displayed

throughout. He trailed after her as she strode to the rear wall

and stopped before a case of leather riding gloves. She spun,

hands at rest behind her on either side of the display case. "Do

you know about Swaine Adeney?" she said, playfully affecting a

British accent. "It was founded in London in 1750. They are the

exclusive suppliers of fine equestrian products to the royal

family."

"May I help you?" asked a young, dark-haired woman wrapped

tightly in a tweed outfit.

Laurence turned serious. "I'd like a pair of these gloves." She

tapped her finger on the glass in front of a simple brown pair.

Matthew swallowed. Gloves. The thought of Laurence hiding her

beautiful hands inside a pair of gloves prickled his skin with a

sensation that was very close to terror. He thought of Greta. Her

gloves, so many gloves. Leather, wool, and cotton. Suede,

cashmere, and silk. Oh, he thought with dread, those especially,

which she had worn to bed every night since the accident...

"Do you like them, Matthew?" Laurence said, flexing ten

delicately gloved fingers before him.

"Yes," he said, forcing a smile. "Very much."

"These are our finest pigskin gloves," the sales clerk informed

them.

"I'll take them."

"Very good," said the woman, accepting the gloves from Laurence.

She closed the cabinet and locked it, and they followed her back

down to the lower level. Before Laurence could withdraw her

charge card from her wallet, Matthew reached for his own.

"Wait, Lauri. I want to buy those for you."

"Don't be silly."

"Please. A small token of my appreciation," he said. "Please?"

The clerk accepted his credit card.

"I'll treasure them," Laurence said with a pleasant smile. "Thank

you."

They strolled back to the hotel, where they were immediately

seated in a booth in the rear of the Campton Place. There were

few other diners; it was late in the afternoon, and most of the

see-and-be-seen crowd was already gone.

"How about Champagne?" Laurence asked. "A toast your success."

The wine steward uncorked a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and they

toasted, and while they enjoyed an excellent lunch, she spoke

again about horses and polo.

"I would love to go to France. I've never been there. I would

give anything to see the championship tournament that's held

every summer in Deauville."

Hearing her talk about it, he thought that it might be exciting

to go there. With her? Was that why it would be exciting? What

had happened in the last couple of hours? What was it she had

said or done to break down the restraint he had exercised for the

past couple of months, which he now fully acknowledged?

With this thought, and all their talk about horses, he thought

again of his wife, and the realization that this pleasant

afternoon with Laurence would soon be over.

Back outside, the attendant brought him his car.

"Where exactly do you live?" Asking this question, it occurred to

him that he had learned more about her this afternoon than in all

their of previous times together.

"In Pacific Heights. Well, lower Pacific Heights. I can't afford

real Pac Heights yet."

"Is that where you would like to live eventually?"

"Not really. I don't think I'm really a city person at heart."

She directed him up Pine Street to Fillmore, then to a narrow

street called Wilmot. Hidden in the middle of the busy Fillmore

shopping district, it looked more like an alley than a proper

street. He found its concealment unusually exciting.

"There, the second house."

He braked before one of three houses tucked into he middle of the

block, sandwiched between business establishments.

"Well," he said. "I had a wonderful time."

"Me too," she said, folding over the top of the bag in her lap.

He paused, unsure what to do next. The air in the car felt

charged with possibility, promise. He acknowledged his attraction

to her. She stirred in him feelings he had not felt in years,

which now suddenly gushed free inside him after today's victory.

When she had entered the boardroom, he had felt a potent sense of

longing. How long had it been since he had been satisfied, really

satisfied? Again his thoughts turned to Greta. He gave his senses

a shake. He resolved that after all he had accomplished, which

Lauri had helped him attain, he wanted to experience with her

their own, intimate celebration. He wanted to take her hand, hold

it, and kiss her, to feel her fingers respond in his own hand as

their lips met.

From behind he heard the sound of cars passing on Fillmore

Street, and ahead of them, a group of young boys were playing

basketball in a fenced school-yard. With a sidelong glance he

studied her delicate, childlike hands, the impossible softness of

her skin. She was so much younger than he. She had been silent

all this time, and finally she spoke.

"Do you have any children?"

This startled him a little. Was she too unsure of what to do

next? Stalling, as it were? "No," he said, "no children." He and

Greta had planned to start a family after the successful launch

of Orange Fresh. But after the accident, which happened on the

very day that they planned to begin their journey into

parenthood, the act by which a child is conceived never again

occurred between them.

So that was how long it had been since they had made love, he

thought. How long it had been since he had been with anyone that

way.

Again Laurence broke the silence. "Why don't you come inside for

a moment and see my place?"

He accepted without hesitation, and a moment later they were

inside. "I've made do with my limited decorating skills," she

said with a wave of her hand. "I'd love your opinion." She

excused herself to the kitchen for a moment while Matthew

wandered from room to room.

Her apartment was a recently restored Victorian with black and

white tile at the entrance and hardwood floors throughout.

Dhurrie rugs in light colors covered the floors in the living and

dining rooms, and her furniture was a tasteful mixture of

contemporary and antique. The bedroom was tantalizing. Her bed

was an unusual steel frame design with a dreamy, sheer canopy

draped lightly over the top. Its message was at once powerful and

delicate. So were his feelings for her. He finished his tour and

circled back to the living room, where he found her standing and

holding two glasses filled with dessert wine. "Just a little sip,

before you drive back," she said, handing him a glass.

He inhaled the bright sweet aroma, his eyes lingering on her hand

encircling her own glass. She raised it to his, and he met her

sharp, gray eyes.

"Here's to you." Her voice was quiet.

He touched his glass to hers. They each took a sip and, with his

head still lowered, he let his eyes stray once more to her hand.

"You like my hands, don't you?" she asked simply, revealing her

mindfulness of his regard all along, confirming it.

"Yes," he said, his voice barely a whisper. He swallowed.

"Go on, then," she said.

He knew what she meant. He slowly reached out and traced lightly

along her index finger to her wrist, her thumb, to her glass,

which he took. He had to have her hands.

He settled their glasses on the table in front of the sofa and

folded both of his hands around hers. Never before had he held

hands so supple. But these hands belonged to a whole visage of

uniform loveliness. There was the difference, he understood at

once. He had loved Greta's hands, yes, the power they had had

over him, his pleasure, yet that was all. Just her hands. That

was why, he now understood, that they had had such an unusual sex

life. But Laurence was different. When he looked up from her

hands, his heart quickened at his appreciation for all of her.

That was it, and he let himself go.

He pulled her hard against him, as if it were the first time he

had felt a woman's body against his own. In fact, it was. It was

the first time he was really feeling a woman with all of his

mind. The sensation was overwhelming, this feeling of taking in

her whole image. His mouth came down firmly on hers. He felt a

moan come from her throat as their tongues mingled with the

wine's sweet aftertaste. He tasted her, felt the material of her

dress, smelled her hair, understood that in her shoes were feet

that were no doubt as lovely to look as her hands, as rousing to

touch and kiss. From head to toe, he wanted to feel all of her at

once. Their hips pressed together and she pulled him closer,

kissed him hungrily.

"Matthew, you've done wonderful things for Wallaby and for me. I

want it to keep going this way for you. Is this wrong, what we're

doing?" she said, fingertips touching along the edge of his belt.

"No," he said, and closed his eyes with anticipation. Her

fingertips slipped down an inch into his slacks. "I mean yes. Oh,

yes."

"It's yours for the taking, Matthew. All of it. There's no

stopping you now."

Her words drove him into a frenzy. He gripped the back of her

head and pulled her in close, his tongue darting in her mouth,

over her eyes and around her ears. He coursed his fingers through

her hair, everything coming to him in rushing waves of passion.

Yes, she was correct. There was no stopping him, them. He thought

now only of the bed. He pulled back from her. His trousers were

undone and her blouse was open. He gripped her wrist and led her,

walking backward as he did so, to the bedroom. She grabbed the

bottle of sauterne and raised it to her lips, following with no

resistance. At bedside, she passed the bottle to him. He took a

large swallow of wine, then set the bottle on the night table. He

held the liquid in his mouth and kissed her, then reached for

more, but she beat him to it.

"Wait," she said. She lifted the bottle, and with her free hand,

pulled down her bra and brought the bottle close. Staring into

his eyes, she poured some of the sweet wine over her erect

nipples.

Never before had he felt so avid. In his urgency, he pushed her

back on the bed and crossed his leg over her smooth firm belly.

He hungrily licked her breasts, sucking wine from one, then the

other, struggling to work off her bra and blouse.

He raised her farther up on the bed, her head settling into the

soft, feather pillows. This was the part he had envisioned from

the moment he had laid eyes on the striking bed.

He led her hands to the steel head bar, and she understood at

once how he wanted her. She gripped tightly, her knuckles turning

pale. She lunged for his lips with her own. He met them and

forced her down with his head, urgently reaching between her

legs.

He worked his erect penis out of his pants. Gripping his hands

beside hers on the bar, he entered her. He tuned into her every

response, licking her eyelids, feeling the movement of her eyes

beneath. He felt her teeth with his tongue, at the same moment

aware of her ankles against his calves, and he wasn't sure he

would be able to hold back very long. The feeling of the cold

steel in his hands welded in his mind the image of their

position, both gripping tightly to this linen-draped frame. He

drove into her forcefully, with unfamiliar awkwardness. It was

better than he remembered, he thought, gnawing at her neck

ravenously as he quickened.

He climaxed almost immediately, shouting hoarsely with each

burst. Once his tremors stopped he felt drained of all energy. He

was so, so tired. Barely pressing off the bed with his arms as

her hips thrust upward, he tried to help her finish. She managed

to lift much of his weight, but not without effort. Her moans

were coming in quick, strained gasps. For one trembling instant,

before succumbing to his weight, she moaned. He collapsed on her,

forcing her breath away.

He rolled away, onto his back, his legs twisted around hers, too

tired to move them. Almost instantly, his breathing slackened and

he lay there depleted. He became oblivious to her, to them, to

where they were, and to what they had done. He felt pleasantly

used up, yet at the same time, in another part of his being, he

felt very full, larger than life.

Far away now, a dreamy smile alighting his face, he heard

Laurence's words once more in his mind as he dozed off.

No stopping you now...

Chapter 9

"Hey, you ready yet?" Kate said, appearing in the bathroom

doorway.

Peter stood leaning over the sink, cautiously dragging a razor

across his face.

"Hallelujah!" Kate shouted, watching as the beard that had grown

long and scraggy over the past few months disappear into the

sink. Peter paused for a moment and winked at her in the mirror,

his face white and foamy, then returned his concentration to the

razor.

She leaned a shoulder against the edge of the door frame and

stood watching him. "I like your face smooth, it feels better on

me."

"Ouch!" Peter said, jerking the razor from his face. A dot of red

instantly formed on his chin.

"So, Lancelot," Kate said, hanging her robe on the door hook,

"what do I wear?"

"Whatever you want , it's just a neighborly thing." Peter rinsed

his face, then pulled the skin on his neck taut and inspected his

work. He saw that she was still watching him, and he took in her

full naked reflection before turning to face her.

"I think it's more than that," she said.

"What's more?"

"The dinner. I think this Mr. Holmes is probably excited that

he's met you, and wants to get to know your better."

"Well, me too. I could use a friend here. I only see you for two

or three days at a time." He crossed his arms, resting his rear

against the sink, and studied her up and down with a playful,

approving grin. "You know, for a forty-year-old lady, you're

still quite a knockout."

"Oh yeah? Well for a thirty-something boy, you're not so bad

yourself." She came over to him and slid her fingertips beneath

the waistband of his jockey shorts at the small of his back,

rubbed her cheek softly against his. "Mmm, this does feel

better." They stood there for a while, holding one another.

He pulled away from her a little so he could look into her eyes.

"What is it about us?" he said. "What makes it work?"

She considered for a moment. "Well, we're a lot alike," she said,

lightly kissing his nose. "And a lot unalike."

He nodded and bowed his head, focusing on their touching hips.

"Do you think maybe we should be together more?"

"Maybe."

"More permanently?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" His eyes widened a little as they sought hers.

"Petey, we work because we both have things in our lives that we

believe in."

"Had," he mumbled.

"Have," she said, lifting his chin with her hand. "You're just a

little dry right now. You have to give yourself some time to let

things happen inside here." She knocked his head lightly with her

knuckles. "It doesn't all just suddenly change overnight, Petey."

"I know. But I've been thinking." He hesitated for an instant.

"What about maybe if I were to settle down a little, split some

time between here and California, take it easy."

Her expression was full of attention and love, but not without a

small and knowing frown. They had had the conversation before,

usually when he was feeling depressed, and they both knew that

neither was fully ready to settle down.

"And what if you and I, you know..." he said, his voice trailing

off, his hands brushing her shoulders.

"No."

"But - "

"Petey," she said, pressing her fingertips to his lips. "You know

that once you get something zipping around in that carnival-quick

head of yours, you're going to be flying at a million miles an

hour."

He smirked. "Okay, maybe not marriage, but how about...I don't

know. I've been thinking more and more about the feeling I get

when I remember back to the first time I saw a kid use a Mate

computer." His voice became a whisper. "Maybe a child in my life,

a baby, our baby." He stressed his grip on her waist and pulled

her closer.

"You know I can't have a baby," she said. Her eyes were

glistening. "I'm too old, and I told you I tried long before we

met," she said. "You know that. And yet you suggest it." Taking

his index finger, she lightly poked her taut belly in an attempt

to make light of the situation. "Closed for business. Sorry." She

trembled.

He pressed her head against his chest and rubbed the back of her

neck. "Hey, I'm sorry." He kissed her eyelids. "That wasn't nice

of me to bring up again. I'm really sorry. Okay?"

She nodded and he wiped his thumb under her eyes.

"Petey, trust me. You just need a little time to think. You're

thinking right now about what is today, and you're not giving

yourself a chance to just take it easy."

Now it was he who nodded and lowered his head to hers, and she

hugged him. "It'll come, Petey, I know it will. It will come

again."

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart. Now put some clothes on," she said, slapping his

rear. "I'm getting cold and hungry, and we don't want to be late

for your new friend." She turned and strolled to the bedroom.

Suddenly his underwear whizzed past her head, grazing her hair

before landing on the bed. She stopped in place and set her hands

on her hips and turned around with a playful grin on her face.

"Isn't it fashionable to be late?"

* * *

"Dinner is ready," Greta said from Matthew's office door, just

off the library.

"I'll just be a minute," he said, turning to acknowledge her, but

she was already gone.

He finished typing his e-mail message to William Harrell, then

clicked the send button. Piled on his desk were notes, charts,

and schedules, each a vital facet of the overall ICP Strategic

Alliance report he had been working on all day. Another Saturday

devoted to work, but that was nothing new. Glancing at his watch

he figured he could probably finish most of the outline by

morning, so long as he hurried through dinner.

Leaving the light of his library office, he strolled through the

uncharacteristically dark house. He padded down the long hallway

and passed the closed dining room door, crossed the foyer, and

rounded the corner to the family room and kitchen area. The room

was dark and there were no plates, glasses or utensils on the

table where they usually ate, just outside the kitchen and facing

the family room with its big-screen television. Only the day's

mail rested on the table, where he had left it several hours

earlier.

"Greta?" he called, turning toward the kitchen. In the minimal

illumination of the dimmed track lights he saw pots and pans

resting with their lids ajar, a few gooey spoons. Having had a

moment to adjust to the darkness, he caught the flickering glow

coming from the dining room, which was accessed either by the

foyer or through the doorway in the kitchen.

"In here," came his wife's voice softly.

He rounded the turn and was a little surprised to see Greta

seated at the formal dining table, facing him. The room was dark

except for the gentle radiance from two candles. Silverware

shimmered and crystal glasses sparkled in the soft light. Poached

vegetables and steaming new red potatoes in delicate china bowls

sat beside a covered serving dish. Between the candles, in a

large vase in the center of the table, were pussy willow

branches, fuzzy and in full bloom. When he had walked in the door

with them yesterday, she had thought for a moment that he had

remembered. But then he explained that someone from the office

had brought in bunches for everyone.

"Oh," was all he managed to say before he seated himself.

"I gave Marie the rest of the afternoon off," Greta said. "I

fixed it myself."

"It smells wonderful," Matthew said, smiling but puzzled. They

only ate in the dining room when entertaining guests. Why so

formal all of the sudden?

She poured him a glass of wine and handed it to him, then lifted

her own glass and held it out to him. But he had already taken a

sip and was lifting the lid off of the covered dish. She

hesitated, almost said something, and sighed instead. She tasted

her wine and watched him for any sign of recollection, any hint

of awareness.

Matthew placed the covered lid aside. "Wow, my favorite dinner,"

he said.

"I know," she said, clearing her throat.

He gestured for her plate and selected one delicate hen for her,

two for himself. He ladled sauce over his birds and vegetables,

took another sip of his wine, and dug in. Barely ten seconds into

his meal, and Greta could see that his mind was already somewhere

else.

No, she admitted to herself, he had not remembered. And with this

knowledge came a strange aching feeling, a throbbing, in her left

hand, where what had once symbolized their marriage used to be.

The doctors had told her that that would sometimes happen. That

at odd times it would feel as though everything were in its right

place, like normal. The same was true, she thought in silent

agony, of her marriage. At odd times it had felt as though it was

all still there. But not now. Plain and painfully simple, he had

forgotten.

After a minute or two, as if remembering that she was there,

Matthew looked up from his dinner.

She sat staring at him with shimmering eyes, her utensils still

resting untouched beside her plate. Before he could say anything,

she spoke.

"Happy anniversary, Matthew," she said. A weighty tear dropped

down her face.

His body slackened. He set down his utensils. All at once he saw

the brightness of her lips, the accents around her eyes, the

fine, glimmering pattern in the silk dress. He became acutely

aware of her perfume lingering among the aromas of the meal. Her

tears were painting dark trails down her cheeks. He gazed down

into his plate, their anniversary dinner, and let loose a guilty

sigh.

"Greta, I'm sorry. I'm, so, so sorry. With all the work and

everything..." He lifted his hands a bit. "I just, well, I just

forgot."

She reached her gloved hand across the table and touched his

wrist. "It's all right, Matthew," she said with a resigned smile.

She wiped her cheek with her napkin and lifted her fork.

"It is delicious," Matthew said enthusiastically.

She speared a few vegetables, chewed slowly, put down her fork,

and took a long drink of wine, all the while watching her

husband's hurried consumption.

"Matthew, can you slow down? Please, can't we enjoy our dinner

together tonight?"

"I'm sorry, honey. It's just that, you see, I've got more work to

do," he said, then tentatively added, "for the trip."

"What trip?"

"Tomorrow. New York. I told you I was meeting with Harrell on

Monday, didn't I?"

"No, Matthew, you did not."

"Hmm. Funny, I thought I said something. Sorry. See what I mean.

I'm so overwhelmed these days."

"Matthew, you're changing in unpleasant ways. And there's nothing

funny about it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"However selfish you were before getting rid of Peter Jones, you

were at least considerate and apologetic. Genuinely. Or so you

seemed."

"I said I was sorry about forgetting. You're upset, and you're

basing your criticism on that."

"No, Matthew. That's exactly what I'm talking about. This new way

you're behaving. You say you are meeting with 'Harrell' -

whatever happened to 'William,' your friend?"

"He's not my friend, Greta. He's a business partner."

"Oh, of course. Pardon me. And is that what we are too, Matthew?

Business partners?"

He shook his head as if to say he'd had enough. In fact, she

thought, that was what was wrong, that he'd had enough of them,

of the dead end that their marriage had turned into.

With an disgusted huff she poured herself more of the good French

wine, held the glass beneath her nose and she gazed out the

window at the reflecting pond beyond the foot of their estate.

"Maybe, Matthew, we should talk. Don't you think, especially

since tonight is our anniversary, that we should talk? What's

happened to us?"

"Dear, I can't," he said, pausing to wash down a mouthful of food

with a swallow of wine. "I'm going to be up until six in the

morning as it is. And I've got an early flight. I'll just be able

to jog and shower."

He ate and she drank in silence for a few minutes, until she

could stand it no more.

"Matthew, is it going to stop? Is it going to change? Ever?"

"What, honey? Will what stop?"

Any remorse he may have felt for forgetting their anniversary was

obviously gone now she could see, forgotten with everything else,

as if a switch had been thrown, his mind saturated once again

with his work. "Matthew, do you understand that you are obsessed

with Wallaby? Really, you are worse than Peter ever was."

"It's not an easy job," he said, wiping a piece of bread in the

last smear of sauce on his plate. "Replacing him."

"We never see each other anymore. Even when you two had your

falling-out, you saw him more than you see me now. Every morning

you're up at five-thirty, then you're at work all day, and I

never talk to you - "

"Meetings."

"Then you come home and gobble down your dinner, barely a word

between us, or if you do have anything to say it's about that

damn company, then you're off into your library until late at

night until you come to bed and fall asleep." Her breathing had

become panicky.

"Look, I've got to do my job," he said, irritated now.

She leaned forward with her hands flattened on either side of her

full plate. She didn't care that her gloved left hand was there

for him to contend with. Maybe that was the problem, that she had

never really forced him to deal with it.

"Matthew, I'm all alone. You're all I've got. It's not that I

mind being here all day, but when you come home, it's worse

because then you're here but we're still not together, and on the

weekends, like today, you work all day in the library."

She intended to force him into battle if that was what it took.

But what he did next completely disarmed her: He placed a hand

over hers, the left one, and met her eyes with compassion. She

felt suddenly hopeful. She had finally gotten through to him.

"Greta," he said gently, "everything I'm doing is for us. The

things I'm making happen at work are very complex and important,

and these things will change our lives forever." He patted her

hand and smiled. "Soon it will slow down a little," he said,

tossing down the rest of his wine.

But his words sounded shallow and condescending. Her hopes of

understanding disintegrated and the throb in her left hand

returned with renewed force. She snatched her glass and finished

her wine in one quick swallow. She poured another. Was there no

way to get through to him? To make him see how close he was

coming to destroying them? "Matthew, it's ruining us, and you're

letting it happen." Nothing. She went for broke. "Don't you see,

I'm trying not to let anything bad happen to us."

He seemed undaunted by her warning. Wiping his lips with his

napkin, he got up, walked around behind her chair and placed his

hands on her shoulders.

"Darling," he said, "I have to get back to work now. Nothing bad

will happen to us. I won't let it." Then he kissed the top of her

head and left the room.

She turned her head and looked out at the pond again, and

whispered to her reflection in the window.

"Then I will."

* * *

"Poppyshit!" Byron shouted, waving his glass at Peter, who sat

across the table. "The problem with kids today is their parents!"

He set his glass down firmly as if challenging anyone to dispute

his opinion.

"Dear," Grace interrupted, gently touching her napkin to her

upper lip with raised eyebrows at her husband.

"What? Huh?" he mumbled, confused. "Oh," he exclaimed, dabbing

his lips with his napkin, wiping away a small piece of

sauerkraut.

Grace smiled and shook her head, her grin spreading wider when

Kate smiled back.

Peter had chosen the subject of children to start the table

discussion. "I don't think that's a fair judgment, Byron," Peter

said. "I think it's more than just what goes on in the home. It's

everything, all of society. Kids are hardly given a good example

by their parents, their friends. Movies. Television," he said.

"It's like they've turned into MTV lemmings."

The foursome ate at an antique Shaker table, situated near the

living room hearth. The home was decorated in simple and warm

country style. A charming, homey combination. Like Byron and

Grace Holmes themselves.

Kate and Peter had both felt instantly comfortable when they

arrived a few minutes late wearing jeans and sweaters, which fit

in nicely with Byron's work shirt and khakis, and Grace's simple

cable-knit sweater and flannel slacks. Dock lamps dotted the

inlet outside, and boats bobbed silently in the bay, glowing with

a fuzzy luminescence in the moonlight. Peter and Kate's own

vacation home was situated a few hundred yards down the inlet.

Their dock was similar to the Holmes's, though they did not own a

boat.

"We had primarily invented the Mate computer with no one in mind

but ourselves, computer guys," Peter said. "But within a short

time, parents were buying them like crazy for their kids.

"We want," he started, then paused for an instant to correct

himself, "wanted computers to be especially great for kids, to

lure them away from the TV set. When some of the software

developers created really great learning games, it all took off

from there." His eyes were shining with the clarity that comes

when you talk about something you deeply care about.

They were silent for a moment then Byron looked up from his plate

with a frown. "That's all well and good. And you're right about

it, that children especially benefit from computers, and not by

television. Now," he said, pointing to Peter's plate with his

mustard-smeared knife, "how about you eat that bratwurst before

it gets cold."

Grace broke the silence. "They have a computer at the foster home

where I volunteer a few hours a week, one of yours I think," she

said, smiling at Peter. "Those little kids, and the bigger ones

too, they sit there for hours and play games on it, and do

homework, and talk about all sorts of things I don't understand,

in a language all their own. It's lovely how such a thing could

bring these children together and give them a family of sorts."

The discussion carried on some more. Peter had not resumed

eating, so Grace got up and began to clear the table.

"Let me help you," Kate said.

"You get no dessert if you don't finish your meal, boy," Byron

said. He rubbed his hands across his chest in post-Thanksgiving

dinner fashion.

"Everything was delicious, Grace," Peter said. "It's just that I

haven't had a very good appetite lately."

"That's all right. You can take home leftovers if you'd like."

"Too late," Byron said, spearing the remaining half of sausage

from Peter's plate.

When Kate and Grace were out of earshot, Byron leaned across the

table. "You're a lucky fellow," he whispered. "She's a pretty

lady." He dropped a big wink.

"I know it," Peter agreed, looking out at the water. There was a

stirring in his chest, and he quickly turned his thoughts to

other things.

"Come on," Byron said, pushing away from the table. "Let's get

some air while the ladies fuss and giggle."

Peter had to laugh at that one. The thought of Kate "fussing"

about with Grace in the kitchen made Peter both happy and sad at

the same time. It was what he wanted now, yet it was what she

would not be for him. How could she be so sure they weren't ready

to settle down? As far as children were concerned, they could

adopt. Talking about kids, and knowing that there were none in

his and Kate's near future, had turned his dark mood of late even

darker.

As they headed out onto the deck, Byron pulled a small pouch from

his pants pocket, and from his shirt pocket he produced a briar

pipe. He filled the pipe in silence as they strolled along the

dock. When they reached the end, Byron lit up. The glow of his

match reflected back in the black water. That is just what I

need, Peter thought, a spark to go off inside my head.

"You know, boy," Byron said, shaking out the match, "I like you."

He inhaled on the pipe, regarding Peter for a moment.

"Thanks," Peter said. "You're a good guy, too."

"That's what my wife tells me," Byron said, exhaling a cloud of

blue smoke. "You and I ought to take a float out on this baby,"

he said, poking his pipe at his boat, the "Net Work." He sat

down, dangling his feet above the low tide, and Peter sat down

beside him. "Listen, I'm gonna tell you something, and I want you

to promise me you'll think about it. Okay?"

"Sure."

"You're a bright fella. But you're walking around like a little

boy who lost his old dog and hates the world for it," he said.

Peter exhaled, his breath forming a faint mist in the cool air,

and looked down into the water.

"Son, everything dies. It's how life goes on. Your pooch, he's

gone. It's time to go pick a new puppy, and train it, and love

it, and make it great."

"That's easy for you to say. You've done it all and it lasted

longer for you, most of your life, and you have a wife now and

you're happy."

"Poppyshit!" Byron said. "Do you think the 990 was the only thing

I ever did with ICP? No way. I did all sorts of things with them,

but the difference is that I stayed on board, and times were

different then. I was trained to do the things I did. You're

different."

"How so?"

"You're a rebel. I was too, but in a different sort of way.

You're a real risk-taker, but not for the sake of taking risks.

You do it because it's the only way you know how to be."

Peter nodded.

"You've got to understand and accept that it just takes a little

healing, over time. Time. I can tell you this because I've been

through it myself. I almost died once, had that heart attack I

mentioned to you the other day. Got it from not letting go.

Almost lost my life. But worse, after I got out of the hospital,

I almost lost my wife. Ah, I don't want to get into all that.

Just understand something mister, that this isn't the last time

it's going to happen to you. You have to know that now, while

things are germinating up here." He tapped a finger to his head.

"When the next thing comes, when you start out all clumsy and

getting into it all over again, even if it's way back in the back

of your heart, you have to accept that someday it's going to

change, end, and then you start all over again. And again and

again. You keep doing it. Over and over. And it gets better and

better with age. Just like they say."

Peter felt choked up listening to Byron so candidly share his

experience. "But," Peter started with a little more than a quiet

puff from his lips. "But it hurts."

"Of course it hurts," Byron said. "But you pick up, dust yourself

off, and go at it again. Where do you think all this age-old

advice comes from? It's truth, friend, that's why you're hearing

it from me. Sure thing."

"I don't know. It's not all the same, you've got more that

matters," Peter said, hitching his thumb absently in the

direction of Byron's home.

"Hah, boy's blind, too. I see a lady in there who looks at you

with real fancy in her eye. She's standing by you strong, I know

it."

Byron took his pipe from his mouth and looked thoughtfully into

its bowl. "I'll give you something to think about, and you let it

roll around in your head a bit." He sniffed. "Thing is, is I've

been bored lately. Yeah, I love it here, and our home in

Connecticut, and Gracie, and we've been talking about maybe

traveling again this winter," he said, waving his pipe in the

general direction of everywhere in the world, "but I've been

feeling sort of itchy. Like I gotta do something. You ask me, I

think there was a reason for us running into each other the way

we did."

"How's that?"

"I don't know why. Not yet, anyway. I suspect it has something to

do with our difference in thinking. I mean that in a good way. We

come from different worlds, yet we we're not such different

beings. If you and I put our heads together, I bet we could

really show the rest of 'em a thing or two."

"Think so?"

Byron winked. "I know so," he said, patting Peter on the leg.

"Now come on," he said, rising to his feet. "Let's go get us a

slice of that apple pie."

* * *

She set the dirty dishes in the sink, wrapped the leftovers in

foil. On the counter, there sat a cranberry and apple crumble she

had made for dessert. The bourbon sauce, which was to be warmed

and drizzled over the piping dessert, sat in a saucepan on the

stove, a gloppy mess. She dumped it down the drain and left the

dishes in the sink for Marie to deal with in the morning.

Matthew was back in his office working, and Greta stood with the

last of the wine in her glass gazing out the kitchen window at

the valley beyond.

When was it going to end, she had asked him. But she knew the

answer to that question. There were two answers, really. The

first was that it was never going to end, and the second was that

it already had. She had tried - for the last time? - to break

through the wall he had over the years erected between them. But

she knew now, after tonight's dinner, that the wall would only

grow higher, thicker. After Matthew turned Wallaby into what he

wanted, then sold it to ICP, it would be no different when he was

promoted to a higher rank within ICP, perched atop his

ever-growing blockade. Maybe they would stay in California, but

probably they would have to go back to New York, to ICP's

headquarters. Though she sometimes missed New York, the thought

or returning held little appeal. There her friends were all wives

of the other International Foods executives, and out here,

regardless of all she had heard about the nice people in

California, the women were still the same, robots who yessed

their husbands at social occasions and dinner parties, while

behind their backs they, and their husbands, engaged in

extramarital affairs.

That wasn't how Greta wanted to end up living her life. But would

she?

She finished her wine and set the glass on the counter - a little

too firmly. The crystal base shattered into little bits with a

high resonating tinkle, yet the bowl of the glass remained intact

in her hand.

"Shit," she cried, the sound breaking a dam in her, releasing a

flood of tears. She tossed the unbroken half into the sink, which

echoed the same tinkling sounds, even louder this time. She held

her breath, wondering if he had heard, wondering if would come to

see if she had injured herself. She waited, holding on to this

fragile hope with all of her breath.

If he had heard, he wasn't letting her know. She let out a great

sigh. Jesus, was that her life with Matthew? Shattered, broken

beyond repair? It was too much to consider at this moment. She

needed to get out of the house for a little while, to go for a

walk in the pretty night and clear her head.

She snatched her windbreaker from the coat hook beside the door

to the garage and stepped outside into the evening's coolness.

She wandered down the sloping hill to the high, solid gate. She

stepped through the gateway and hiked down the trail to the edge

of the pond with its narrow dirt path.

Eventually, if she followed it, the path would lead her to the

horse stables. Sometimes she rode Mighty Boy along here, circling

the entire pond and back around to the stable, passing her own

home on the way. Quickly and steadfastly she strode through the

twisted, tree-lined path in the moonlight. The stables lay a

half-mile ahead.

It was supposed to have been her night to celebrate the memories

of her marriage, but now she found herself thinking about the

scene that had taken place in Mighty Boy's stall the other day.

For better or worse, she had stopped him. She had admitted to him

that she and Matthew were having problems, but they were still

married, and even though she had desperately wanted him to go on,

she said she could not let herself be with him. He had released

her, and assured her that it would not happen again. Unless, he

said, she came to him. Since that day she had not gone back to

the ranch.

She slowed for a moment, then stopped. She absently stroked her

left hand with her right hand as she examined her present state

of mind. What was she going to do, just knock on the door of his

cottage? She turned and looked back up the hill to her home. A

few lights glowed - Matthew's office. She swallowed, and her left

hand throbbed some more.

Yes, she decided, that was exactly what she was going to do.

She moved on, her pace quickening, her heart pumping. Shortly the

stables came into view, illuminated by both the light of the moon

and by the floodlights surrounding the property. Trailing along

the border of light, just beyond its edge, she grew excited and

reckless, like an inexperienced burglar. Her brisk walk had

warmed her and she unzipped her jacket as she stealthily slipped

around the stable.

She passed the main house, where the ranch's owner lived alone.

Purple-blue light flickered from an upstairs window. About fifty

yards from where she stood were two small cottages. She had

passed them many times while riding. Jean-Pierre lived in one of

those cottages, and though she had never been invited inside, she

knew which one was his because he had mentioned once that it

afforded a beautiful view of the pond from his bedroom window,

through which he could see her home and its rear upstairs light

glowing late at night. Though her home was too high and far away

for him to see inside, she was excited by the thought of him

lying in his dark bedroom, fixated on her bedroom window. Had he

ever glimpsed her passing the window, closing the curtains?

The sound of a car engine starting suddenly broke through the

quiet evening. A second later a swath of light beamed just a foot

beside her and beyond, as far as she could see, into the woods.

She ducked behind a small wooden utility shed stationed alongside

the drive. White light pierced through the tiny cracks and seams

of the shed. Cautiously she peeked around its edge. A car

appeared from between the cottages, its light sweeping past the

shed as it steered onto the drive. Greta flattened herself

against the side of the small building and crept around the

corner once the car had completely passed.

Was he going out for the night? The sound of the engine grew

distant, then came a high squealing noise when the car reached

the end and turned onto the main road. Once more, the sounds of

the night and her own pulse were all she could hear. She left her

cover and pressed on.

No, she saw at once, it hadn't been Jean-Pierre because his MG

was parked in front of the cottage. Avoiding the light cast by

the lamp outside the front door, she circled around to the back

of the small house. She peered into the bedroom window. The room

was lit by a small lamp beside an empty bed with twisted sheets.

The sight caused her breath to catch. She rushed to the back

stoop and halted before the door, flexed her hands a few times.

Feeling the night's coolness breezing through the silken material

of her gloves, she absently wiped them on her dress and turned

and faced the pond for a moment to collect her thoughts.

Could she really go through with this? Her eyes searched across

the small shining lake, along to the narrow shore and the trail's

edge, up the hill. Her home. She could see the very window where

she had stood just minutes earlier, and she could see too the

damned glow coming from Matthew's office, where, on their

anniversary night, he was fondling his true love, Wallaby.

Yes, she could go through with this, and would. She turned and

knocked three times on the Dutch door, so loudly that she

startled herself. She heard the short, hollow tamp of footsteps,

the clacking sound of the door latch. For an instant it felt as

if her wedding band had tightened around her finger. Irrational.

The top half of the door swung open, and there he stood, wearing

only jeans and wire-framed reading glasses. His expression bore

no surprise. A knowing smile formed on his full lips. She started

breathing again. Plumes of mist danced around her head as the

warmth of the cottage bled outside into the chilly air. He

removed his glasses and closed the top door for a moment, then

the entire door opened and he stepped back, his arm extended. She

quickly and nervously glanced around the room as she went inside,

taking in at once its simple furnishings and his things. There

were boots beside the front door, a black T-shirt tossed over the

back of the couch, a beer bottle beneath the shaded lamp, a

wineglass beside the bottle, a pair of brown leather gloves

beside the glass. She heard her own blood pulse in her ears, felt

dizzy and a little buzzed by the wine, the rush of activity, and

now the stillness.

Following her gaze, Jean-Pierre quickly stepped into the tiny

living room. He picked up the gloves. They were women's gloves,

she could see that now. Everything was happening so fast.

His shoulders sagged. "You saw them," he said.

Her eyes quickly jumped to the bottle, to the glass, to the

gloves, back to the glass. She thought of the car that had just

gone. She looked into his eyes. "What?" she said, her voice not

sounding like her own.

He held the gloves out to her. "I wanted to wrap them and

surprise you."

She blinked. "For me?"

"Of course."

She accepted the gloves in her right hand. There were a few

small, barely noticeable scratches on them, but the stitching was

clean and new. She wanted to say something, but when she looked

into his eyes again, whatever she had thought she wanted to say

vanished, and in its place was desire, like what she had felt

when he kissed her in the stall.

"Thank you," she managed as she absently watched him take back

the gloves and carefully fold them over, then tuck them into her

jacket pocket.

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her. Her eyes were still

closed and lips slightly parted when he pulled his face away. She

had come to him, and now she needed him to guide her.

He stepped aside and indicated the way to the bedroom. She moved

and he trailed her holding one of her hands in his, the one she

would let him hold. Had he figured it out yet, she wondered,

about the other one. She stopped beside the bed, facing the pond.

He switched off the lamp and placed his hands on her shoulders.

She struggled to see clearly, but could not. He pressed his hard

body against her back. The air was all made of his scent, musky,

sexy, alive. She wanted to be tumbled and spun in the tangled

sheets that lay before her, to move her hands between their

softness and his firmness, to flop into the pillows, his weight

hard on her, his mouth on hers. She closed her eyes. Yes, his

mouth, which was now gently kissing the back of her neck, his

lips pulling the small hairs at the base of her skull. She

twisted her head into the warmth of his hot and chilling breath.

A small sound escaped her as he slid her windbreaker from her

shoulders. It fell to the ground with a soft rustle. She closed

her eyes and reached her good hand to her left shoulder, placing

it over his hand. She leaned back into his hardness and he

pressed himself against her more firmly. The wine had helped to

numb her feelings, and now the charged atmosphere of his bedroom

melted her into yielding. Even her left hand felt normal.

I tried, God as my witness, I tried, she thought with a shudder

as he wrapped his arms around her and across her breasts. He held

her until her trembling subsided, then he began to unzip her

dress, very slowly. She opened her eyes. Her vision had adjusted

to the silvery light, which now sharpened the edges of everything

and cast ambiguous shadows.

And there, across the pond, she saw Matthew's lamp.

"No," she said, reaching behind for her zipper.

He gripped her wrist.

"Yes," he breathed hotly in her ear.

She challenged his hold. Unable to resist, she yielded, spun

fiercely, and sought his lips. He held her head between his hands

and kissed her, pushing against her so intensely she felt she

would burst into flames. Her hands slid up his chest and across

his shoulders, his broad back. This hardness, I want this on me,

was all she could think, I have to have this in me.

But again, as if burning into her back, Matthew's library lamp

broke her, mocked her. With a cry, she twisted around. "No. I

can't. Not with him right there."

"We'll pull the shade," Jean-Pierre said. He nuzzled his nose in

her hair.

"No," she said, planting herself firmly. "Not now. Not with him

this close."

"Then when, Greta? When?"

This had been a mistake. She had to get away. "Tomorrow," she

said, pulling away from him. "Tomorrow, Jean-Pierre." She tugged

at her dress, putting some more distance between them as she

rearranged herself. Her expression was final, forbidding. She

wanted to remember him just like this, standing before her with

his arms at his sides, his bright white teeth and eyes, the

silvery sharp edges of his muscled chest.

"Where?" he asked, taking her by the elbows.

"Matthew is going to New York. I'll call you." Afraid that the

gentle yet firm and alluring touch of his powerful hands would

stall her, she forced herself to pull away.

He handed her her jacket, and followed her into the light of the

living room. She opened the door, turned around, and slipped on

her jacket, zipping it firmly.

He clasped one hand on the door's edge. With the other he gripped

her wrist and pulled her close. She gasped. He kissed her long

and deeply. The cold night air chilled her back, while the heat

of his mouth warmed her insides. She drew away with a frustrated

moan.

He raised her good hand to his lips and brushed it lightly. The

stubble of his beard on the silken material caused a sound that

had an extraordinary effect on her lower regions. She pressed her

upper thighs together.

"Tomorrow," he said, and released her.

She nodded, then was off and back into the night, back to her

home.

Running through the chilly night she remembered the gloves in her

pocket. She stopped and removed her silk gloves and put on the

pair he had given her. They made her feel secure and warm, but

not all the way. Perhaps they would feel right once she had the

left one tailored to accommodate her shortcoming.

Whatever it takes, she solemnly vowed, whatever it takes.

Chapter 10

"Mr. Harrell, Mr. Locke has arrived."

"Send him in, please," came William Harrell's voice thinly from

the intercom on his secretary's desk.

Matthew was surrounded by the kind of opulence afforded only by

companies at the highest reaches of the Fortune 500. Plush

carpets, deep, rich wooden desks, fine art originals, and people

referring to one another as Mr., Ms., Mrs., and "sir." It was a

sobering contrast to Wallaby's compact, Herman-Miller modular

partition offices, open-air buildings, and first-name protocols.

Had it been only three years since Matthew had occupied an office

at International Foods very much like this one, so expansive it

was more like a penthouse apartment than an office? Matthew's own

office at Wallaby was no larger than the standard manager's

office, just big enough to move around comfortably in. He felt

queerly out of place entering the ICP building, surrounded by

such abundance, such magnitude. He had even forgotten how long it

took for elevators to climb tall buildings; Wallaby's tallest

building was only three stories high, and almost everyone used

the central atrium stairs to travel between floors.

He shrugged his shoulders to straighten his suit - yet another

difference between casual West Coast wizardry and starchy East

Coast Big Business. He had felt uncomfortable walking through the

city, unable to see more than a few blocks in any direction,

surrounded by noise, exhaust, and serious faces. Indeed,

California, with its rolling hills and vistas, mild weather, and

no-hurry attitude had affected him more deeply than he had

realized.

In one hand he carried his briefcase, in the other a large binder

containing all of Wallaby's product plans, financial summaries,

and forecasts, as well as the strategy he had worked on two

nights ago. He had finalized the strategy on the plane yesterday

and printed the finished copy in his hotel suite last night with

his Joey Plus and portable printer.

He had come to think of the binder as his clay, molded into the

shape of a new Wallaby, a grassroots company deemed a serious

player by the most important counsel of all, based in this very

city: Wall Street. Since last week's introduction of the new Joey

Plus, Wallaby's stock had climbed four points, and reviews were

glowing.

It was all very exciting. So much so it had affected him in his

sleeping hours. Last night he had had a shadowy, romantic dream,

that he was as a gemologist transporting precious jewels for

Sotheby's of London...then it shifted, and the gems had changed

to secret documents for the CIA...then it turned out that he was

working not for the CIA, but for them...the other side. When he

left the hotel this morning for his meeting, he felt as if he

were holding in his hands his fate, his life. Many lives. And

then a macabre thought entered his mind, left over from his

exotic dream: Where was the cyanide pill? He had no cyanide pill

if he was caught. It was a preposterous notion of course, his

imagination getting the better of him. Nevertheless, still a

little intrigued by the role his dream had cast him in, he strode

into William's office with his life in his hands and a feeling of

pure elation, and just a little fear. Good fear.

"Hello, Matthew," William said heartily, rounding his wide desk

with his hand extended. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal

business suit, a crisp white shirt, and a burgundy tie. The man's

entire appearance exuded sharpness, Big Business. In other words,

ICP.

Matthew set his briefcase on the thickly carpeted floor,

clutching the binder in his left hand. He noticed William's

impeccable manicure as they shook hands. Matthew's own

fingernails were chewed and dry, and he could not remember the

last time he had had a manicure himself. He was beginning to feel

as if he were underdressed, as if he had underestimated the

importance of this date. Gripping the binder with both hands, he

grasped all at once that it was not his costume that should match

William's incomparability; it was the binder's contents: Wallaby.

This was not just his life in his hands, it was his love. And it

was perfect.

William's secretary returned with a tray of coffee, tea, and

pastries. She placed the tray on the table, and Matthew asked her

for a glass water.

"What's the matter? No more city fuel?" William said as he poured

himself a cup of steaming coffee.

"Haven't touched the stuff in over two years."

"Next thing you'll tell me is that you're into flotation tanks

and sushi."

"The sushi part, yes," Matthew said with a light laugh.

"How's Greta?" William asked, sipping his coffee.

"Oh, she's fine, thank you." Matthew accepted the glass of water

and finished half of it in one drink.

"And how does she like California living?"

"She likes it. She keeps quite busy."

"Sounds nice."

"Yes," Matthew said, setting the glass down. He placed his

briefcase on the table. With the mention of his wife, he thought

for an instant of what he had hidden inside his briefcase. Since

he had placed it there, he had never once taken it out again and

looked at it. Would he ever?

"Let's get started," William said. "I got your e-mail, and I'm

pleased to hear everything went well with your executives and

board. It hasn't been easy on my end. My advisers keep scratching

their heads, thinking their boss has gone crazy, especially after

your introduction last week. They want us to build something to

'blow the doors off the Joey Plus,' as my technology adviser puts

it. But, to his dismay, I've not approved any new development,

other than revisions and enhancements, since you and I had our

first meeting."

Matthew was pleased with this confirmation of the Joey Plus's

success. It meant that to William and ICP, Wallaby, and he,

Matthew, were even more valuable now than when they had first met

to discuss their secretive pact.

"I'll tell you," William said, indicating the binder with his

eyes, "I'm glad I can finally reveal our plan to my board of

directors and the executive staff. As I've assured you already,

they will vote unanimously in favor of our plan. They'll have no

choice."

"Here it is. The complete strategy, as outlined." Matthew handed

the binder to William, who opened it in his lap and was silent

for a few moments as he browsed through the various sections.

"Oh yes," he said, "this is a trade after all." He lifted a

folder from the table and handed it to Matthew. "Here are all the

connectivity specifications for the 990 series, as well as the

file compatibility specs for the BP series."

Matthew took the slim nearly weightless folder in his hands and

all of the sudden felt a bit let down. The folder felt like

nothing compared to the binder he had just turned over. No girth.

No satisfaction. No substance between his fingers. This

information would go to Alan Parker and his engineering

organization, and perhaps to them it was attractive, but Matthew

already missed the extensive, intricately organized volumes in

the thick binder now in William's possession. The exchange felt

uneven, unbalanced. Unfair.

"I especially like your idea of calling our plan a 'strategic

alliance,' " William said. "Tell me more about how you plan to

handle the announcement."

Matthew stood up and removed his jacket. "I think what we should

do is announce our relationship in three months, when we have a

working prototype of the Joey II, which will be the first Wallaby

portable computer that's compatible with your computers."

William nodded, crossed his legs, and continued to browse through

the lengthy document, glancing now and then at Matthew.

"We'll announce that we're working together on strategic

connectivity products from an engineering, marketing, sales, and

customer service standpoint. We'll reveal that you and I met,

several months ago - and by the way, my executive staff and board

are aware of today's meeting - and you will explain ICP's

election for Wallaby Joey II systems as an alternative to your

own portable computer, and that you will continue to support the

older ICP BP computer, as well as facilitate co-sales with our

people for Joey II computers. And finally, once you begin the

merger process, we'll determine Wallaby's value, and you'll

follow up about a year later with the acquisition announcement."

William snapped the binder closed. "Excellent."

"Yes," Matthew agreed under his breath as he seated himself. He

felt a little dizzy. Perhaps the building's height and the change

in environment were getting to him. He wanted to finish this

meeting and get back down on the ground as soon as possible.

"It's exactly how I had envisioned it, but better," William said.

"You've managed to smooth the transition with the alliance

aspect, so we're careful to unveil our deal a little at a time."

"That's the idea."

"Very good." William placed his cup and saucer on the table.

Rubbing his hands together he sat a little more upright. "Now,

there is one small detail that I'm curious about. Have you spoken

with Peter Jones?" His eyes locked on Matthew's.

"No," Matthew said, barely able to contain his surprise.

"I see," William said. "Has there been any communication between

the two of you? A letter? An e-mail?"

"None."

"Hmm."

"Why do you ask? Is there a concern?"

"Well, it's more a curiosity than a concern really. Nothing to

worry about. What's he doing now?"

"He's been in seclusion in Maine, at his vacation home. He still

owns a large amount of Wallaby stock," Matthew added in an

attempt to reassure the other man.

"Yes, well, that's no guarantee, is it." William said. It was not

a question. He removed his glasses and lightly massaged his

eyelids. "What I'm wondering about is the same thing I was

curious about when I first contacted you, proposing this

venture."

"Which is?" Matthew asked, fully knowing the reason before

William delivered the words.

"My biggest - " William started, but then paused abruptly to

select his choice of words. "My initial motivation for wanting

Wallaby was, of course, Jones's product in the pipeline, the

Joey. And what is the Joey, really, but the physical evidence of

Jones's vision? So naturally, I'm curious about what he's up to,

now that he's not spending his time at Wallaby."

This concern had never occurred to Matthew, and apparently his

expression said as much.

"Matthew, don't worry, it's not going to change our arrangement,"

William said. "We want Wallaby, and especially the Joey

technology."

Joey technology. Peter's invention. Matthew was at once overcome

by a wave of jealousy and loathing. When would Wallaby be

considered his? Once Wallaby was merged with ICP, would people

still call it "the company founded by Peter Jones?" Would he,

Matthew, be forgotten, like some sort of middle man?