William said, "There's no way you can persuade Jones to return to
Wallaby?"
"That seems unlikely," Matthew said calmly, but what he really
wanted to say, to shout, was that Wallaby was his now, and Peter
Jones was gone for good.
"I see." William nodded and closed the binder, shutting with it
any further discussion of Peter Jones. "When do you fly back?"
"Tomorrow."
William tapped the binder. "I'm going to have to spend some time
with this before I'll have any questions for you." He glanced at
his watch. "Do you have any other meetings while you're here?"
"None. I allotted a full day for us, and intended to go back
tomorrow. However, if we're through, I'll go back tonight, and
you can contact me when you're ready."
"Fine," William said, rising. He offered a few words of
reassurance. "It's all coming along well, Matthew." They shook
hands outside William's office, and Matthew exited the suite.
Pressing the down elevator button, he noticed his hand was a
little unsteady. Now that their meeting was through, he was
grateful to be leaving New York City a day sooner than planned.
"Come on," Matthew whispered, pressing the button again and
again.
As he stood brooding over William's surprise concern for Peter
Jones, waiting for what felt like an eternity for the elevator to
arrive, he absently chewed his thumbnail, wishing in earnest for
things to move more quickly.
* * *
"Hey, where're you off to so early?" Kate said, lifting her head
from the pillow.
Climbing into his jeans, Peter nearly tripped himself in his
pants legs as he turned to face her.
"Oops, sorry," he whispered, "I was trying to be quiet." He knelt
next to the bed and kissed her. Her eyelids fluttered,
wakefulness coming slowly. "Would you mind if we took a rain
check on our trip to Boston today?" Her hair lay spread around
the pillow, and he combed it with his fingers, smoothing it
around her head.
She opened her eyes and shook her head, then smiled slowly,
joyfully.
"Why the big grin?"
She lifted a hand from beneath the comforter and gently knocked
her knuckles on his head. "Circus is in town," she said, cupping
his chin.
"Well, I've been thinking," Peter said, running fingers through
his hair.
"Mm hmm."
"When Byron and I talked the other night, you know, outside, I
started thinking about some things."
"You don't say?" she said, with mock surprise. "Like when I kept
trying to talk to you yesterday at the park and you were in
another zone?"
"Yeah," he said, nodding, "then too. I started coming up with a
concept I think he could help me work through. There's something
missing, a link I guess, and if I talk to him about it he'll
probably be able to help me come up with some ideas."
"Hey, you're going to be busy, it sounds like. Maybe I should
just go down to Boston myself, then home. That okay?"
"If it's okay with you. I mean, if you want. I'm sorry," he said,
planting his hands on either side of her head and looking into
her eyes. "I just have to talk to him about this."
"Petey, I'm ecstatic you want to see Byron this morning. I'll be
back next weekend. If, that is, you'll still want to see me."
"You're a goof sometimes." He thanked her with a kiss, then went
back to getting dressed.
"Hey," she said, propping up on one elbow as he slipped on his
dock shoes.
"Hmm?"
"Who's calling who a goof?" She tossed a pillow at him. "You're
inside-out, Einstein."
He looked down at his shirt, pulled it over his head, reversed
it, and put it back on. "Thanks," he said, then leaned over and
kissed her good-bye.
"Don't mention it."
On his way out of the house he stopped in the kitchen and wrote
"I'm a lucky guy," on a little yellow Post-it note. He signed it
with a tiny heart and pressed it onto the coffee machine.
He walked the short distance to the Holmes house quickly, his
thoughts turning round and round. With the tourist season over,
the town was somber and cool. Here and there a car occupied the
driveway of one of the homes along the inlet, and even fewer
boats remained docked. He arrived at the Holmes place just as
Grace was coming around from the side of the house carrying a
potted plant in her hands. "This one isn't going to make it," she
said, holding the sickly plant up for him to see.
"Sure isn't," Peter said. "Is Byron here?"
"He's in back," she said. Then, with a smile, she confided, "I'm
glad you came by. Yesterday he was mumbling about some idea he
said he's got to talk to you about. He was going to head over to
your house in a little bit. He'll be glad you're here."
Peter rounded the house and trotted down the dock. He could see
the top of Byron's white-haired head. "Hey," he said, leaping
from the dock to the boat.
"I see you got your boat shoes on," Byron said, looking up from
his work, as he finished oiling the boat's teakwood bulwarks.
"Good," he said, making a few last wipes. "You're ready to sail."
"If you say so."
"I say so. You saved me a short walk, you know, 'cause I was
going to come over and talk to you today after I took a little
sail." He replaced the lid on the can of oil and tossed the
sodden rags in a plastic bag, stuffed both into a canvas sack.
"Here, stow this, son," he said, pointing to an open bin just
inside the cabin. Peter caught the small sack and put it away.
The boat's teakwood and brass cabin was clean, classy, elegant,
and sharp - much like its captain, Peter thought.
"Cast off," Byron told him, indicating the boat's mooring lines.
Peter jumped to the dock and unwrapped the lines from the cleats.
The engine churned alive. "Now give us a good shove," Byron
ordered.
Once Peter was back on board, Byron applied power and the boat
lurched once, then smoothed, and they motored for the inlet, the
water ahead rolling in small swells, the day clear and crisp.
"Is it going to be windy enough?" Peter asked, shading his eyes
and squinting out at the ocean that lay a half-mile ahead.
"Here," Byron said. He tossed Peter a spare pair of sunglasses.
Peter put them on and looked again. He could see a few boats in
the distance whipping along at a respectable clip, their sails
puffed fully.
"Sail much?" Byron said.
Peter shook his head. He gripped the rail behind him with both
hands, anchoring himself in a leaning position as he watched
Byron work the wheel.
The older man smiled and pulled his pipe from his shirt. Holding
the wheel steady with his elbows, he expertly applied his lighter
to the pipe's bowl. "You'll get used to it," he said, pointing
his pipe at Peter's rigid knees. "Just gotta go with the flow."
When they reached the ocean, Byron began yelling orders to Peter,
who followed them with colt-like shakiness. Within minutes the
mainsail and jib were swollen fully in the eastern wind.
Byron shut off the engine, and Peter observed the silence, the
power of the wind as it pushed the sleek vessel along quickly and
quietly, as if by magic.
"Here," Byron said, stepping back from the wheel. "Hold it where
my hands are."
Peter placed his hands over Byron's, ready. When Byron let go,
Peter's body gave a slight jerk. "Just keep her steady," Byron
said, returning his hands. He held them there until Peter
adjusted to the boat's pull.
Byron disappeared inside the cabin for a moment, then returned
with two cans of beer. He popped the lids and handed one to
Peter. "Top of the morning to ya," he said, tipping his can to
Peter.
The two men shared a couple of minutes of silence between them as
they sailed some distance. Peter was the first to speak up. "I've
got an idea," he said simply.
"Me too," Byron said. His gaze was focused behind Peter, at the
distant shoreline. He took a sip from his beer and gave Peter a
nod. "You first," he said.
"Okay. I was thinking about what you said the other night. You
know, about our differences, good ones."
Byron took a thoughtful suck of his pipe and nodded, then
expelled a plume of aromatic smoke.
"So I started thinking," Peter went on, his speech coming
quickly, "that with your experience in big system stuff, and with
what I know about little system stuff, what if we put our heads
together?"
Byron made a gesture with his pipe for Peter to go on.
"Okay. See, I've been thinking about portable computers, and PIAs
- you know, personal information managers. And as much as I think
they are helpful, like the Joey, they're not really as helpful as
the could be. They don't so much help you, not directly anyway,
as serve you, so to speak. I mean, they're really just smaller,
more tightly-integrated computers than real helpers."
"Mm hmm."
"So, what if there was a way to make a portable computer really
help you? To really assist you, by anticipating your next move.
By knowing you better and better the more you work with it?"
Byron took the small metal wind cap off the bowl of his pipe and
checked the tobacco. He leaned over the side of the rail and
tapped it carefully against his weathered palm, spilling the
black ashes into the ocean. Then he leaned against the cabin,
took a long swallow of his beer, and pushed his sunglasses higher
on his nose.
"What you're talking about is agents. Agent technology. Little
'intelligent' software buddies that run on your computer in the
background and pay attention to what you're doing, and what
you're not doing, and then act on their own, on your behalf, to
help you by anticipating your next move. Sound about right?"
"That's exactly right. We were just starting to play around with
the concept before I left. But my lead programmer was really into
them, and he had a bunch of friends at MIT who were studying them
in a big way."
"Right. And what I was thinking about fits in nice with what's
got you all juiced. See, all this poppyshit everyone's going on
about, the world wide web and the Internet, it's got me a little
ticked off. It's supposed to be the world's greatest 'new'
information source, yet getting connected is a bitch. And what
with those snappy little computers you make, well, a person
should be able to hook up to the net and web by just plugging in
the phone. It's too damn complicated the way it is now. It needs
to be simpler."
Peter jumped in excitedly. "You know, that's incredible, I was
thinking that that would be my next step at Wallaby, to make net
stuff easier for people. And now that you mention it, think about
the two. I mean, combining both the net stuff and the agent
stuff. I've seen demonstrations of net-savvy agents that go off
and find information and articles you are looking for, seeking
out news that you know you are interested in, and news that you
didn't know you were interested in, but based on your previous
interests, the agent finds related items for you. That's what I
call a real information assistant."
"Yep, that's a damn good idea," Byron agreed . "And that net
stuff, you know, is what this old geezer knows best. Hell, I was
cruising the net while you were doo-dooing in your diapers. That
was when the government was the biggest Internet user and text
and numbers ruled the world. Now I log-in and whew, it's like
walking into a virtual playhouse, all the stuff that's on there
these days. Just the other day I took Gracie for a 'tour' of
Prague, thanks to that city's new web page, created by this group
of expatriates who just up and moved there. It was all there:
snapshots, video clips, restaurant and hotel guides, travel
information, the whole works."
"Wow. Sounds like you've really kept up on all this stuff."
"You better believe it. What, you think a guy like me retires and
then just unplugs? No siree. And as for those snazzy little
agents you're all worked up over, I've got a recent report on
them back at my office in New York. In particular, the ones with
net smarts."
Peter smiled and gave an amused shake of his head. "You know, it
looks like you were right. I mean, that you and I have more in
common than I thought."
Byron shrugged and looked off into the distance for a few
moments, then looked Peter in the eye.
"Guess it's time I fess up," Byron said. "See, I'd been watching
you sit in that cafe for a couple of months. I knew who you were.
I saw the way you looked. I saw the way you didn't look, too, at
anything around you. It was in your face, that you wanted to be
left alone. I knew I couldn't introduce myself to you, not for a
while, anyway. So I waited. Until the other day, when that new
Joey Plus was introduced. Hell, I figured it was as good a time
as any to throw a line to a fellow sea dog. All along I've been
hoping since I saw you the first time that we'd get it on in the
brain, like we are now. You know?"
A beaming grin peeled across Peter's face. "Yes. I know. And so
what I was really wondering is, do you think maybe we could work
on some of this stuff together?"
Byron scratched his head. "Sounds like I've got a new hobby," he
said. He raised his can of beer. "Partners?"
Peter felt a little sting in his eyes. It was the briny ocean
mist, he told himself, blinking behind his sunglasses to rid his
eyes of the moisture that had abruptly formed there as he touched
his beer can to Byron's.
"Partners."
Chapter 11
Her tears had caused her mascara to run all over the pillow in
black streaks. Applied two nights ago, the night of their
anniversary, her makeup was all gone now from her puffy red eyes.
She turned the pillow over, revealing more smears, then reached
across the bed for one of Matthew's pillows, which she punched it
into shape and stuffed under her head.
After rushing home from Jean-Pierre's cottage Saturday night,
Matthew had noticed neither her absence nor her return. He had
been in his office the whole time, and was still working when she
went to bed, where she spent several restless hours alone.
Finally, unable to lie still, she had gotten up and sat gazing
out the window, across the pond, to the cottage. A few times she
had actually considered going back to him, but she told herself
that maybe Matthew would come to bed. Her imagination had
ultimately forced her back to the welcoming pillows, and in a few
moments Jean-Pierre had magically come to her, by way of her own
sleight of hand, stroking her, yes, like that, then sweetness,
and finally she was satisfied, and then sad, and then guilty. She
had cried herself to sleep. A few hours later she was awakened by
Matthew rustling with his jogging things and again, a little
later, by the shower. She had pretended to be asleep while he
dressed and packed for his trip to New York. She had heard the
gate bell, indicating the arrival of the limousine that would
take him to San Francisco International Airport. She waited, half
expecting at any moment to smell his clean scent wafting near, a
light kiss on her cheek. But there came no scent, no kiss. Just
more of the same indifference, more hurt.
She had slept until noon, then gone downstairs, in her robe, and
eaten the remainder of last night's dinner for lunch. She put her
dish in the sink and pulled a clean champagne glass down from the
shelf and snatched a bottle from the refrigerator. By two in the
afternoon she was drunk in bed, and crying. She could not bring
herself to call Jean-Pierre as she had promised, could not bring
herself to dial the number she had by now committed to memory.
She could only cry and doze, cry and doze, all through the
afternoon. Once more, when it was dark outside, she ventured
downstairs for something to eat. She found lasagna in the
freezer, which she reheated in the microwave. Afterwards she
washed down three Extra Strength Tylenol with champagne from the
second bottle she opened. Retreating once more to her bed, she
pulled the shades on her windows and climbed under the covers.
She had slept through most of Sunday night in drunken illness,
and except for using the toilet and descending to the kitchen,
had been in bed from Saturday night until now, early Monday
evening. She wondered if she should get out of bed, or just go
through the night again. Marie had knocked cautiously on her
bedroom door earlier in the day, asking her if she was feeling
ill. She had told her yes, and told her not to make dinner, that
she would find something in the freezer.
She felt exhausted from thinking and dreaming and worrying about
her predicament, which only seemed to tighten its hold on her
heart.
How could she face Jean-Pierre? She wanted him, yes, but she had
felt awful after Saturday night, struggling to understand her
motivation, her fantasy of having him. Was she only reacting
selfishly to Matthew's rejection? Perhaps. But that was what hurt
the most, facing the fact that she had lost Matthew.
And every time she thought about this, she thought about her own
very personal loss, and the irony of it all. It had been her
upper hand, she mused, with which she had originally attracted
Matthew, the young marketing manager on the rise among the ranks
of International Foods.
After their initial meeting at ICP's Orange Fresh advertising
photo shoot, Matthew had asked Greta to dinner, where he
excitedly told her there was talk of his promotion. Yet, during
dinner, his confidence seemed to weaken. When he told her about
some of his ideas, she expressed genuine interest and
fascination, to which he brightened. She could plainly see that
he was a rising star, yet his mood had vacillated wildly between
confidence and insecurity in the span of time between the first
course and the dessert. After their first dinner date, a pattern
then developed. As often as possible they would dine together,
and sometimes he would invite her to spend the night with him.
What she never seemed to notice was that he only asked her to
stay during periods in his career when he was lacking in
confidence about a particular campaign or promotion. It was
during their evenings together that he had first introduced her
to his unusual sexual tastes. Almost every time she would end up
masturbating them at the same time, him with her left hand, and
herself with her right. He always complained that he was too
tired for intercourse, but if she wanted, they could do it that
way, his way. He was a young, busy executive on the fast track,
who had spent all of his prime years working hard at his career.
Clearly he was going to be very successful, and if this was the
price she had to pay, she concluded, then for the time being it
was worth it. She wanted him.
A year later they married. She continued to pull him from the
emotional fluxes that arose whenever he started to lose his
nerve, especially when he was deciding whether or not to go to
Wallaby, and then later, when he faced his first confrontation
with Peter Jones. In the few of months that had followed Peter's
ouster, Matthew had come to her less and less with his dilemmas,
suddenly, miraculously confident in all aspects of his work.
As much as she wanted to deny it, she had finally, in the last
twenty-four hours, forced herself to admit that the essential
separation had happened the day of her accident onboard the yacht
when they were celebrating the success of Orange Fresh.
And after last week's introduction of the new Joey thing, she had
sensed the last of her power of persuasion slipping from her
grasp. This past Friday night was the worst. He had gotten home
later than usual, and when she had asked him how his day had
gone, hoping for a hint of something special for their
anniversary the following day, he had told her all about his
meeting with his executive staff, that they had granted their
support to work closely with ICP. This was just the beginning, he
told her excitedly. How many times had she heard that? When the
truth was that their marriage had ended long ago, when, drunk on
the very potion that had earned him esteem, she had gone
overboard, landing in the lagoon with a bloody splash. Yes, that
was when she had lost him, lost them.
And that, she knew, was the real reason why she could not bring
herself to call Jean-Pierre. Now, for probably the twentieth
time, she picked up the telephone and merely stared morosely at
the green digits glowing enticingly before her. She had memorized
the phone number, not by digits, but by the pattern of tones that
she played over and over with her index finger. Each time she
pressed every digit in his phone number except the last, the
six-note Touch Tone song deepening her dilemma because it
reminded her of one of International Foods' stupid little
commercial jingles for soda pop or corn chips. And, of course,
the real reason was that when she dialed, she had to look at her
hands, which, since the accident, had never been seen or held by
another person unless they were gloved, and even then she would
only offered the right one. She too had learned how to avoid
seeing the left one. By diverting her eyes she only ever caught a
flesh-colored flash, nothing more.
She tossed her head into the pillows. Maybe he would understand.
Maybe it was not as grotesque as she imagined. Should she simply
go to him, as she had the other night, and try to explain her
problem to him?
No. She could not, not now. She was too drunk and tired, and had
not showered in two days. But she could be with her fantasy of
him, she thought with painful longing.
She turned off the bedside lamp and reached inside her robe,
touched her breast. If she was going to consider herself
grotesque, she thought drunkenly, she might was well begin to
associate the act with the cause. That way, perhaps she would
eventually banish him from her mind out of sheer disgust. As if
to punctuate this point, she removed the gloves upon her retreat
to bed on Saturday night, and for the first time she could
remember, she had skipped her nightly ritual of creaming her
hands with moisturizing lotion. Already, she told herself, she
could feel them drying out. She switched hands and used the left.
Before she got any further, she froze.
A sound, outside.
She strained to listen...heard the wind through the trees, but
nothing else.
Just when she was ready to discount the noise as her mind playing
tricks on her, she heard it again. Closer this time, as though
just outside on the ground level, below the terrace.
Except for the faint light from the downstairs foyer lamp that
bled up through the open bedroom doorway, she was in nearly
complete darkness. The lamp, she thought, turn on the lamp.
Shakily, she stretched to her night table, and, unmindful of the
champagne bottles, her hand blindly knocked one to the floor. It
landed with a solid thud.
Silence.
She hunkered down onto her hands and knees beside the bed to
retrieve the bottle. It was the empty one, and it gave her an
idea. She hefted it in her hand, considered its weight. Could she
use it to protect herself?
She heard the sound again, louder. Closer. A scratching noise,
along on the side of the wall where the ivy clung to the trellis
and covered the huge stone pillars supporting the terrace.
It was probably nothing, she tried to assure herself. A cat. Or
just the wind, she ventured. But then why if it was only a cat,
she asked herself, was she holding her breath and the neck of a
champagne bottle so tightly in her fist? She crouched beside the
bed and stared hard at the drawn cotton curtain hanging before
the French doors. Silver blue moonlight shone through the sheer
fabric, picking up the shadows from nearby trees that swayed to
and fro in the easy breeze.
What to do, what to do, she wondered with growing panic. Run
downstairs and get a knife from the kitchen? Call the police? Why
didn't they have a gun?
Deciding on the second option, she reached for the phone. The
number. What was the phone number? Drunk and scared, she
struggled to remember the something-something-one number in her
head, but no rhyme came. Instead, Jean-Pierre's phone jingle
bleep-bleeped over and over in her mind.
The scraping sound again, much closer. As close as the edge of
the concrete terrace wall.
The dial tone questioned loudly. She pressed the zero button and
waited a moment before realizing her error. She remembered the
number: 411. She smashed her thumb down on the disconnect button
and redialed.
A large form settled heavily on the platform just beyond the
door, a human form silhouetted against the curtain.
A voice from the handset: "What city please?"
Greta gasped and swallowed a dry lump in her throat as she
realized her second error. Dear God, she had dialed wrong again.
No, she had remembered wrong. Not 411!
"What city please?" the voice repeated.
Nine! 911! Yes! That was it, ask her to connect you -
But before she could speak the line click-clicked, disconnected.
"Wait!" she hissed, straining to be both heard and quiet at once.
Dial tone.
A soft knock on the French doors.
She punched the correct sequence into the phone.
The knock again, more loudly now.
She looked outside. The silhouette crouched.
"Woodside Police emergency services. Can I help you?"
"Greta?" His raspy French accent from the terrace.
"Oh," she murmured into the phone, snapping her eyes shut for a
moment.
"Hello? Can I help you?" the phone voice repeated.
She placed the phone back on its cradle and breathed a fatigued
sigh. She would have to make no decision now. He had decided for
her. And it was the right decision. Clutching her robe tightly
around her, she got to her feet and went to the closed door. All
at once she halted, remembering that she had not showered or even
brushed her hair. But her greatest negligence during her
temporary invalidation was that she had even let her hands go
unconditioned. And ungloved. She leaned closer to the drawn
curtains.
"Jean-Pierre?"
"Greta. Yes." The shadow of his head leaned closer, just inches
away. "Open the door."
"Jean-Pierre. I can't. I look just awful," she said. "You can't
see me like this. I've been so upset. In bed for two days."
"Greta," he crooned softly. "You did not call me yesterday. Nor
today. I have been waiting, but could wait no longer. I thought
Matthew may have come home early, so I sat nearby and watched for
a while. I know he is not here. Let me in, Greta."
The thought of Jean-Pierre sitting in his bedroom, or just
outside the gate, watching for signs of Matthew being home made
her feel suddenly roguish and sexy. Desired.
"Jean-Pierre, it's been so awful staying here. I wanted to come
see you, but I could not bring myself to do it."
"I am here. I brought you something. Now let me in," he
commanded, his voice much louder.
"Yes," she said and unlatched the door.
He stepped inside the room and gripped her shoulders. Night air
and animal and maleness flooded her senses. She gasped all of it
in, then her breath was cut off by his lips. He kissed her, hard,
and snapped his head away. "Matthew. When?"
"He won't be back until tomorrow."
"Good."
"Yes." She looked past his shoulder, outside the doors, and began
to cry softly.
He frowned and pulled her down beside him on the bed. "Greta,
what is it?" He wiped her cheeks with his thumbs.
"I've been so upset and confused by everything. This is so hard
for me." She closed her eyes and dropped her forehead against his
shoulder. Her mind flashed with images of the first time he had
kissed her, in the horse stall.
"You mustn't cry." He kissed her again. His hands touched just
inside her soft robe. Lightly, down to her belly. Gooseflesh
prickled her forearms, spread to her stomach, her loins. Her
nipples felt pinched and hard, needed pinching.
"Wait," she said, squeezing his strong forearms. "I've been in
bed for two days. I really must take a shower."
"Mmm," he hummed. "Never mind that." In one quick motion he slid
the robe from her shoulders and undid the belt, parting the
garment at her waist. Pushing her down, he crouched over her,
facing her, supporting his weight on either side with his knees.
His jeans-clad thighs rubbed lightly against her own. She had
imagined and wanted this moment for so long. However she could
not be with him here like this until she had a quick shower.
"Please," she said, squirming from beneath him. "I'll just be a
few minutes," she said, and darted from his lunging grasp to the
bathroom.
There, she looked at herself in the mirror. With horror, she
remembered that her hands were ungloved. She let her eyes go
first to her right hand, then the left. She forced her vision to
stay there until she could breathe again. Yes, she would have to
tell him. And show him.
A few minutes later she emerged from the bathroom wearing a towel
around her midsection. Jean-Pierre was lying on the bed propped
on one elbow, naked. Timidly, she proceeded to the bedside. He
raised himself to his knees and placed his hands on her hips.
Before she could take in the shape and size of his nakedness, he
had her on the bed in one quick movement, the towel discarded
with a flick of his wrist.
He breathed a lusty sigh and lowered his lips to hers. She felt
his hard, blazing length along her entire body. She wanted to
look at him next to her like this, but before she could take in
their togetherness, he kissed her again, gently this time,
teasingly. She expected that in any second he would enter her,
have her.
But instead he gently clasped her hands in his own. "Your hands,
Greta, this is the first time I have felt them."
"Feel them. Both of them. Go on."
It took him a moment to register. "Oh, Greta. Is this why you
have been afraid?"
She began to cry again. "It's so horrible. I was once a hand
model, and then that happened. And everything ended."
He said nothing. He kissed her, told her softly to cry and let it
out. "What happened, Greta? You must tell me. There is nothing
bad about it to me."
When she stopped crying she wiped her eyes and sat up, allowing
his hands to remain on hers through the entire story, which she
recounted in a quiet monotone.
"We were on a yacht anchored in a windy lagoon, celebrating a new
soda of Matthew's that was a huge success. I'd had a lot to
drink. At one point I was standing off to the side all by myself.
I was poking my ring finger in the little hole of an empty can,
thinking about how Matthew and I were going to start a family.
Apparently we were getting ready to sail some more. It was dark.
I remember they were taking Matthew's picture just a few feet
away. The flashes popped and at the same time a strong wind
rocked the boat. I lost my balance and reached out to grab the
rail but I was blinded by flashes and couldn't see. My finger was
still in the can and I had no time to shake it off before
grabbing on to stop myself from falling. I felt rope and metal
and pain all at once. I had grabbed between the support line and
the rail, and the can was caught between that and my hand. I
think that was when I started to scream. I was leaning forward
trying to free my hand when the boat lurched. I fell overboard.
My finger didn't come with me. Matthew was standing at the rail
of the boat, screaming hysterically. Someone jumped in. It was
dark, but I saw the blood then, and when I reached for the life
preserver I saw what had happened. The little white nub of bone.
The rest of it gone. I passed out and woke up in the hospital.
They said that the can with my finger and my wedding band had
fallen overboard with me. They never found it. It's still out
there in the ocean, lost, Matthew and I with it."
They were silent for a very long time. She did not cry anymore,
she only lay there with her head turned on the pillow, eyes
closed, waiting for him to let go of her hand. But he did not let
go. Instead he kissed her right hand, then the left one, each
knuckle. She was frozen in place as he did this, as he kissed
between her pinkie and the middle finger, at the space where her
ring finger once was. She gasped when she felt his tongue there.
Holding the hand, he leisurely traced along her breasts with her
own fingertips. He trailed their course with his lips and tongue,
taking tiny nips at one breast, then the other. He squatted over
her, his knees on either side. His ponytail fell forward into her
face and she let some of the gathered hair enter her mouth as he
sucked her breasts with growing urgency. Her hips responded. She
lifted herself against him, pressed his head harder into her
chest. He held both of her breasts, licked beneath them. She felt
a chilling tingle along the back of her neck each time the fine
hairs of his buttocks brushed against her thighs. Gripping him
beneath his armpits, she squeezed his strong chest between her
hands and pulled him fully down onto her with all of her might.
"Slowly," he whispered, resisting her insistence. "There is no
hurry."
"Yes," she moaned, nearly in tears. "Yes, hurry, I want you so
bad." Never before had she been kept on edge like this, all of
her energy wriggling beneath him, wanting him. It had always been
Matthew wanting her when he needed, and she had always been there
to service him. But this was not like that.
And then she felt a new emotion that was both exciting and
frightening. "I need you," she mouthed without a sound into the
pillow. Her inhibitions lifted and, as if beyond her control, she
felt her entire self slacken, acceptance at last releasing her
anxiety.
Sensing her sacrifice, he pressed his whole hard body against
her, claiming her entirely from head to toe. His hot sex lay
rigid between them, ready to consummate their bond.
With a lustful moan of anticipation he lay on his side and took
her hand again. He kissed her wrists, her lips, her throat,
traced her fingers along his ample sex, beneath his scrotum,
which lay swollen over her hotness. She attempted to wrap her
hand around it entirely, attempted to gently cup and fondle his
testicles, but his control was beyond her own, and so she let him
lead her maddeningly, pleasurably, on an erotic discovery of
their bodies.
With his penis in both their hands, he played its tip along her
folds, as far up to her navel, back again, and down and around
the edge of her anus. In an instant he was inside her with his
fingers. Then he removed his and encouraged hers in. At first she
pulled away, her entire arm taut in his grip. He eased her
resistance with a kiss that was both tender and probing, secure.
"Shhh," he whispered, gently pressing her fingers inside her. She
yielded, pressed a breast to his mouth as they alternated their
exploration of her innermost region. Gently he withdrew his hand
entirely, and watched her as she continued by herself, tuning in
to her own rhythm.
"Yes," he said encouragingly, caressing between her buttocks with
his hand. He changed position so that he could work his tongue
between her fingers. She quickened her rhythm, squeezing his
tongue with each press and flick. He followed her fingers inside
with his tongue and she cried out his name when she felt it slide
in the gap created by her missing finger. Her free hand flew to
his hair and with a moan she freed his ponytail, wanting all of
him inside her. His hands rolled and pinched her nipples in time
with each lunge of his tongue, propelling her on mercilessly. She
moaned deeply, and he pulled back when she drew close.
She pulled his head up by the hair and crushed his lips with a
kiss. She opened her legs and slid them up, pressing her knees
into his flanks. Then she led him in, pulling her hand from
between them. He alternately kissed her and her hand, the stubby
knuckle. With each of his thrusts he kissed her, and it felt
marvelously good and wicked at the same time, feeling him inside
her and holding her hand and kissing her. With each lunge he
squeezed more tightly, as they inched closer, until his
unflagging rhythm suddenly altered to forceful, jutting bursts.
With each hot gush inside her, she cried out his name, her hand
twitching spasmodically in his as she was overcome by wave after
wave of irrepressible pleasure.
After their breathing returned to almost normal he took her in
his arms, their steaming bodies sticking together as they lay
entangled, too exhausted to move. Her head was spinning from the
champagne and from their intoxicating lovemaking.
Never before had she felt like this, she thought, feeling him
still inside her, softening. Matthew had always been the one to
want, and she had always given to him, but now she understood all
at once her desire to be given to.
Their hands remained clasped together as she drifted away from
her thoughts, the tingling inside her turning to numbness as she
cooled, cooled, then felt chilled, as though she were shaking.
Being shaken.
"Greta!" Jean-Pierre whispered.
"Mmm?" she moaned, disoriented.
"Matthew!"
Not Matthew, she thought half-consciously. No, not Matthew. Not
for a while. Only Jean-Pierre now.
"Matthew!" Jean-Pierre hissed again, leaping from the bed.
She sat up, wide-eyed. It was dark in the room. She turned on the
beside lamp. Jean-Pierre was hastily gathering his strewn
clothes. No, he didn't understand. They were safe. Touching her
hand to her head for an instant, she relaxed a little, felt a
little laugh begin in her chest at the comedy of his panic. He
must have heard Marie, because Matthew wouldn't be home from his
New York trip until tomorrow afternoon.
But then she heard his voice, "Greta?," faintly, coming from
downstairs.
Judging by the echo she guessed that he was in the kitchen - and
only one minute away from making his way through the foyer, up
the stairs, and into their bedroom. "My God!" she gasped,
struggling with her robe. "Hurry! Leave!"
Jean-Pierre had managed to pull on his pants, shirt, jacket.
Snatching up his shoes and socks and wristwatch, he stepped
outside, onto the terrace. She gathered her robe and tied it
closed as she rushed from the room.
"Matthew?" she called from the top of the stairs. "I'm up here,"
she said, composing herself as she descended quickly.
"There you are," Matthew said, his garment bag and briefcase in
tow. He set down the briefcase at the bottom of the stairs and
flipped through a few pieces of mail. Yes, she thought
thankfully, take your time and read your mail, all of it. "I came
back tonight instead. My meeting was shorter than I'd expected."
He glanced at her.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he stopped going through the mail. He
dropped it next to his briefcase and began climbing the steps.
"Why is it so dark in the house? Are you in bed already?"
She stopped and raised her wrist to her head, fumbling with her
words. "I'm not feeling very well," she said. She pulled a
tattered tissue from her pocket, dabbed it beneath her dry nose,
coughed. "Darling," she said, blocking his way, "could you please
get me a glass of water?"
He stopped, eyed her with subdued curiosity. Then he let out an
impatient sign and turned and started back down the steps. Just
another minute, she thought, and Jean-Pierre would be safely
gone.
But then Matthew stopped, turned around, and climbed toward her
again. "There are cups in the bathroom," he recalled aloud as he
passed her. She clutched the hem of her robe and lifted it and
chased after him in hopes of getting to the bedroom before he
did.
She didn't.
He flipped on the light switch, which lit up several lamps in the
room all at once, and tripled its brightness. Now everything was
fully illuminated, exposed.
She tried to see what Matthew was seeing: The bed was a shambles.
Sheets, pillows, and the comforter strewn across the mattress and
onto the floor. The two empty champagne bottles. One on its side.
The bath towel beside the bed. The unlocked terrace door.
He strode past the bed to his walk-in closet and hung up his
garment bag, acting as though he did not notice the mess. Pulling
his tie from his collar, he caught her earnest reflection in the
full-length closet mirror. He turned around to take a closer look
at her disheveled appearance, and for a moment his eyes fixed on
the empty champagne bottle resting atop the night table. He
graced her with a brief, condescending glance, then went back to
undressing.
A chilly gust of wind blew open the terrace doors and lifted the
curtains. He clucked his tongue as he crossed the room to close
the doors.
"Oh" Greta said sharply, coming up quickly behind him. "I was so
hot. I think I have a fever."
Ignoring her, he pulled the doors shut.
She angled her head to see outside. Jean-Pierre seemed to have
gotten away safely.
Matthew twisted the lock and grabbed the curtains and started to
slide them together. Suddenly he stopped and crouched a little.
"What's that?" he said, squinting outside.
"What's what, darling?" Greta said, hearing her own voice crack
as she rushed to his side.
Matthew stepped out onto the terrace.
"This." He bent over and picked something up. "It caught my eye
in the light," he said. From his fingers he dangled a fine gold
chain, with a sparkling gold object dangling from it. A charm of
some sort.
She scrutinized the object for an instant, then broke into a wide
smile. "Oh, there it is," she said, taking the chain in her hand
and holding it up with a glad smile on her face. "I've been
looking for this for days."
"Hmm. I've never seen that one before," Matthew said
indifferently before disappearing into the bathroom.
And neither had she. Her heart was galloping in her chest. She
sat on the bed and took a quick peek at the charm necklace in her
palm. Then all at once she remembered Jean-Pierre saying, when
he'd arrived, that he had brought her something.
The bathroom light went out, and she carefully tucked the object
into her robe pocket. Assembling the bedclothes as best she
could, she pulled the comforter over her legs, then shut off her
night lamp.
Dressed in his pajamas, Matthew stood at the foot of the bed.
"Since you're not feeling well," he said, glancing at the
mascara-streaked pillows, "I'll sleep in the guest room." He shut
off the remaining lamps as he left the room. When she heard his
door close down the hall, she switched her night lamp on again
and pulled the necklace from her pocket. She inspected it more
closely under the light.
It was a tiny horseshoe charm. She squeezed the charm tightly
between her palms, feeling him again. Then she clasped the
necklace around her neck and turned off the lamp. She pulled the
comforter over her body. "Good night, Jean-Pierre," she
whispered. She kissed the charm, then squeezed it tightly in her
left fist and held it against her breast.
As her thoughts swirled into pleasant dreams, her grip relaxed,
then gently unrolled, and the symbol of Jean-Pierre's love
slipped through her fingers, and she slept like never before.
* * *
After William finished reading through the binder Matthew had
given him earlier in the day, he got up from his reading chair
and stretched.
The strategy was perfect. Matthew had put together a plan that,
after they announced the Joey II computer in about a year, would
demonstrate that Wallaby had grown up and was venturing into the
big-business world by working a strategic deal with ICP. Soon
after that, before the stock had too much time to climb, Wallaby
would be acquired by ICP and become a subsidiary of the huge
computer giant.
William thought for a moment about Matthew and his manner. He
seemed high-strung and edgy when they had met earlier in the day.
When he had asked about Peter Jones, Matthew had turned
defensive. Though William had every intention of following
through with his plans to acquire Wallaby, he wondered if maybe
his inquiry had caused Matthew to fear that he was losing
confidence in him, and in Wallaby.
William was in fact more than mildly curious about what Jones had
been up to over the past few months. Even though he was still on
the payroll at Wallaby and officially an employee, after what
Matthew had told him, William felt certain that there was little
hope of Jones ever going back to Wallaby.
An unhappy thought, for, after all, it was Jones who had invented
the Joey, and the older Mate, which was the reason he had even
started formulating the secret acquisition plan a few years ago
in the first place.
He wondered: Could Jones be a threat to ICP and Wallaby if he
decided to resign and go it alone, perhaps competing head-on with
his "old" company with a newer product, something more compelling
than the Joey?
William knew that Jones had substantial financial reserves, and
combined with the venture capital he could gather by simply
picking up the telephone, he would easily gain the resources
necessary to do something big. But in an industry dominated by
only a few major players, even Silicon Valley's wunderkind would
face obstacles at this stage of the game. And of course, William
reminded himself, suddenly taking down his fear a few notches,
the largest obstacle Jones would confront was Jones himself.
Wasn't that why he had originally hired Matthew Locke? He was not
an organization man, incapable of managing a large company. And
that would hurt him. Thank goodness for small wonders.
With some amusement at the irony of this last thought, William
placed the binder beside his Joey, with which tomorrow morning he
would compose an e-mail message to Matthew, congratulating him on
his work. He was too tired now, and his elation had turned to
exhaustion. He needed a good night's sleep. He glanced at
Martha's picture for a moment, then shut off his desk lamp.
The ring of the telephone startled him. He reached across his
desk to answer it before the second ring, noticing the time on
his wall clock. Quarter past midnight.
"Hello?"
"Billy, did I wake you?" a croaky voice asked.
"Who's calling, please?"
"I knew it! Working late as usual. How's the ol' boss?"
"Byron! I'm fine. How are you and Grace?"
"A-okay. We're staying for an extra while here in Maine.
Sailing's been good. Few more weeks left."
"Great to hear."
"I'm calling for a favor," Byron said.
"Shoot."
"I need some of my old stuff from my office there in New York."
As the most prominent inventor in ICP's history, Byron was
granted lifelong privileges that included an office that was
cleaned every day and kept in a ready state, should he ever
decide to drop by and sit in, for whatever reason.
"Sure. What kind of stuff?" William said and smiled to himself.
His honorable former partner was experiencing post-retirement
pangs. He probably wanted to browse through his old journals,
notes, take a trip down memory lane, as it were.
"On my shelf, right behind my desk, there's a binder called
'Advanced Network Agent Design.'"
William snapped on the desk lamp and wrote himself a note.
"I'll have Barbara send it to you. Anything else?"
"No. I mean, no, I don't want you to send it to me. I want you to
send it to this address," Byron said.
William heard some papers shuffling.
"Here it is: 42 Inlet Drive, Camden, Maine, 04288."
"You got it, Byron. I'll have Barbara fetch it tomorrow and
express it to you so you get it by Wednesday. Oh, wait a second,
who's the addressee?"
"Peter Jones."
William's eyes shot to Martha's photo. He blinked rapidly and his
lips parted. But no words would come out. He shut his mouth, took
a deep swallow. Heard himself repeat the addressee's name, then
for a few beats he heard his own blood pounding in his ears.
"Yep, new buddy of mine. You know who he is, right?"
William took a few seconds to answer. "Of course," he said,
staring at his Joey. Then, struggling to sound as matter-of-fact
as possible: "Why are you sending him this?"
"We're kicking around an idea we've come up with," said Byron,
all snappy and playful.
"I see," William managed. "Byron, are the two of you thinking of
starting up something new?"
"Hell, I don't know. It may be nothing. But it may be something,
too. Listen, I don't want to talk your ear off. It's late, and
you've got a real job to go to in the morning."
"It's okay. I was just reading."
"Well, if you've got a few minutes."
"I do. Really. The time doesn't matter," William said, and
shakily seated himself in his chair. He reached over to the
bookshelf and lifted Martha's photo. He placed it in his lap.
"Please, go on," he said, and for the next forty-five minutes, he
listened.
PART III
Chapter 12
Four months had passed since William Harrell and Matthew Locke
had traded secrets in New York...and since Matthew and Laurence
Maupin had met on her bed.
They were together again now, backstage at Lincoln Center in New
York City, preparing for the announcement of ICP and Wallaby's
strategic alliance before an audience of executives from both
companies, and industry partners, customers, and the press.
"Matthew, you seem a little nervous, and that will show to the
audience," Laurence said, standing before Matthew, who sat
backstage in a dressing room. A makeup attendant patted his
forehead and cheeks with flesh-tone powder.
"I'm just excited," he said.
"Smile. Make sure you smile," Laurence urged, trailing Matthew as
they moved along the rear hallway to the stage area. They stopped
behind the curtain's edge, and Matthew checked his watch.
"Hello, Matthew," William Harrell said warmly, joining them.
Though they were dressed similarly, William appeared very cool,
very calm, very much in control, the very opposite of how Matthew
was feeling.
A man appeared wearing a microphone and earpiece headset. He
nodded to Laurence then faced Matthew. "Mr. Locke, you're on in
one minute, as soon as the music stops."
"Good luck," William said, shaking Matthew's hand. He stepped
aside, opening a clear path to the stage.
The auditorium grew silent as the overhead lights dimmed and the
piped-in classical music dissolved. An announcer's voice greeted
the audience and a large screen unrolled, on which a slide
projector beamed the Wallaby logo.
"Good luck," Laurence whispered, squeezing his hands. A spotlight
focused on the podium gaped wide and bright.
The announcer boomed: "Please welcome the Chairman, President,
and Chief Executive Officer of Wallaby, Incorporated, Matthew
Locke."
Applause sounded when Matthew appeared. He traversed the distance
to the podium with clear composure and stood before the audience
a few moments, allowing them to take in his dark gray suit, his
confident air. He graced the audience with a sweeping smile, then
focused his attention at the center of the auditorium, just above
the heads of his audience, as his mistress and tutor had taught
him.
"Thank you, and good morning. Today will mark a very important
day in Wallaby's history. As you know, Wallaby is a company that
has always been focused on empowering individuals with portable
computer technology. Many of you today, stowing your own Joey or
Joey Plus in your briefcases and folios, have first hand
experience with Wallaby's products, and today we'd like to take
that experience to the next level."
In sync with his speech, the slides Matthew had shown the
executive staff just four months ago, when he first proposed the
strategic alliance with ICP, flashed behind him on the high
screen.
"What we are about to show you will enable Wallaby to continue to
deliver on its original vision of powerful portable computing,
but with more flexibility than ever. That means customers who
were previously locked out of the Joey platform because of its
incompatibility with other systems can finally hop on the
bandwagon and benefit from the Joey's advanced technology, and
continue to access files and documents created on those other
systems, simply and easily."
At this the crowd stirred. It was exactly the kind of reaction
Matthew had hoped for. Barely able to contain his smile, he
pressed on.
"Today, Wallaby announces a new and friendly personality in
compatible computing." The spotlight on Matthew faded to a dim
glow, and a second circle of light appeared, center stage.
"But rather than standing here and telling you about our exciting
news, why don't I let the new Joey II show you."
The excited audience silenced. On drum roll cue a shrouded,
remote-controlled box about the size of a shopping cart glided
from stage right to center stage, into the spotlight. The drum
roll intensified.
The entire auditorium went black for a few seconds, then cymbals
crashed loudly. The shroud was gone, and there, bathed in intense
light, was a dark gray prototype Joey II computer.
Matthew himself joined in the thunderous applause. He felt as
though an intense wave of heat had just washed over him. For the
first time in Wallaby's history, someone other than Peter Jones
was revealing a new product before a cheering audience.
Seconds later the computer's screen, controlled by an automated
script, came to life, and its image was projected, via video
output, to the overhead screen for all the audience to watch.
The screen cleared and then the Joey II went into a six-minute
animated presentation demonstrating the system's new features,
including a new slot for plugging in a local area network card, a
larger hard disk, faster fax sending and receiving, and built-in
file translation software for reading documents and other files
directly from ICP's formerly incompatible BP desktop and portable
computers.
When it was over, cymbals crashed and the audience applauded
wildly, thrilling Matthew to the bone. He stole a quick glance to
his left, offstage and behind the curtains. Laurence signaled
with a thumbs-up gesture.
He turned back to the audience and waited for the applause to
finish.
"Today you just saw a prototype of the new Joey II computer, the
first engineering collaboration between International Computer
Products and Wallaby.
"When the Joey II is available in six months, Wallaby and ICP
will begin a co-selling relationship. For the first time in
history, two former rivals, Wallaby salespeople and ICP
salespeople will share and support the same customers.
"This is a non-financial arrangement, and represents a first-ever
strategic alliance between our companies, enabling Wallaby to
continue to develop exciting and powerful portable computers, now
with built-in ICP compatibility that makes the Joey II the
perfect companion to ICP's line of BP desktop computers."
The presentation continued, and Matthew detailed the specific
markets and technologies that each of the companies had agreed to
develop together. Afterward, as Matthew and Laurence were
collecting their notes and briefcases, William strolled into the
press room.
"Well done, Matthew," William said, smiling politely to Laurence.
"Thank you."
"May I have a word with you?" William said. "It will only take a
minute."
"Sure," Matthew said, shutting his briefcase. "I'll be right
back, Lauri," he said, and followed William from the room.
"In here," William said, pushing into an empty dressing room. The
light from the hallway fanned into the room and aided their
search for the wall switch.
Finding none, Matthew switched on one of the makeup tables
mirrors. Twenty light bulbs lit up around the mirror's rim, and
he turned around the chair facing it and seated himself. William
pulled up a small stool and sat down.
"It all went very well, Matthew," William said. "I just wanted a
moment alone with you to tell you how happy I am, especially
after the shakiness we've experienced over the past few months."
"Thank you. And I understand. We've both had our own concerns,
you on one side, me on the other."
"Yes," William agreed. "I sometimes didn't believe we would make
it to this day, but we did, and now we're ready to move into the
final phase." The final phase: ICP acquires Wallaby, and Matthew
comes under William's command. "And they bought your response
with nary a doubt," William said. "That was good. Because they're
going to have a big surprise in a couple of months."
He was referring to the reporter's question that had been
directed to Matthew minutes ago: "With this 'strategic
alliance,'" the reporter had said, affecting a difficulty with
the definition of the agreement, "aren't you afraid, Mr. Locke,
of a possible ICP takeover of Wallaby in the future? Or is this
perhaps something you may want?"
Despite the dead-on accuracy of the reporter's speculation,
Matthew had not wavered in his response, explaining, with a
discernible hint of Peter Jones's once-infamous arrogance, that
today's strategic alliance announcement was as close as Wallaby
intended to get to ICP. To further squash the theory, he threw in
a nugget about takeovers, and how FTC regulations would prevent
ICP from subsuming Wallaby as long as Wallaby continued to build
portable computers.
However the reason his response had sounded so believable to
everyone, and to himself especially, because it was the truth.
Was.
Right then, as he had answered the reporter's question, a new
plan, a revised plan, had crystallized in Matthew's mind: There
would be no eventual merger between ICP and Wallaby.
"It's back to the office for me," William said, checking his
watch.
Matthew said good-bye and turned to face himself in the mirror.
He felt different, felt he looked different. Younger. More alive
than ever. He pinched back a smile as he whispered the words he
would say if it were Peter rather than himself looking him in the
eye right now: "I told you so." He said it again, and this time
broke into a huge self-satisfied grin, his laughing eyes piercing
back from the mirror into his own.
"Matthew?" Laurence stepped into the room. "Who are you talking
to? Is everything okay?"
This somehow stuck him as funny and he let out a burst of
laughter. "Fine. Great. Super," he said. He whisked his fingers
through his hair and inhaled a deep breath.
Ironically, he at once understood that Wallaby - no, that he -
now had ICP in a precarious position. William himself had told
Matthew that he had not approved any new portable computer
designs, banking everything on today's announcement, so that
ultimately he could acquire Wallaby with its now-compatible
technology. The way Matthew saw it, Wallaby - delightfully modest
and manageable, both in size and volume compared to ICP - now
held at least a two-year technology advantage over the world's
biggest computer company. And the thought of having them by the
tail delighted Matthew beyond any dream he ever had of merging
the companies as one.
"Good," Laurence said. "Come on, let's go play in the city." She
shook her rental car keys at him. "I've got the keys."
"Wrong," Matthew said, and with a playful look in his eye
produced his hotel room key and twirled it on his finger. "It
looks like I'm holding the only key we'll need."
Chapter 13
It was on days like this, bright and sunny with a slight morning
chill, that she felt happier than ever. With Matthew in New York
on business, Greta had given the housekeeper the past three days
off, letting her know that she could handle her own meals. But
that was hardly the reason why it was better for Marie to be out
of the house.
She gripped the handlebars firmly, admiring her own hands without
ill feelings. The gears of her exercise cycle spun quietly, crisp
air breezing in through the open balcony doors. Her breathing was
heavy but controlled, just as he had taught her.
She heard the shower stop and checked the cycle's timer. Another
quarter mile before she was through. That would work out almost
perfectly, giving her a few minutes to cool down before he was
all finished in the bathroom.
The cool winter air whispered across her face, and with each
misty exhale puffing from her nostrils she imagined the sensual
air of France, of Europe, so much there for them to see and do
together, an afternoon ride in dewy green hills, pedaling along
right behind him with his strong back in view, the bobbing of the
red and white checkered tablecloth peeking out from the picnic
basket strapped to his bicycle...
"Darling, are you going to pedal all the way to Alaska?"
Jean-Pierre said, glancing at the accumulated mileage on the
cycle's odometer.
Greta laughed heartily. "I stopped looking and...I guess...I
just...kept...going."
"To the hospital is where I'll be going," Jean-Pierre said.
Hitching his towel around his waist, he went to the balcony doors
and closed them. "With pneumonia!"
"Oh, darling, I'm sorry," she said, lifting her feet from the
pedals. She dropped her head into her crossed arms over the
handlebars and regulated her breathing as she cooled down. The
machine's flywheel slowed to a stop and she shook herself
briskly. "I feel so good!" she shouted.
For the past four months, since the beginning of their affair,
she had exercised every day. Though Jean-Pierre had been the one
to suggest the calisthenics, she had become obsessed with her
daily workout and needed no encouragement to get on her cycle and
go every morning. With each strained breath she pictured herself
becoming more slender, more youthful, more attractive and
beautiful and sexy for him.
Clad in undershorts, Jean-Pierre stood combing his long hair
before Matthew's bureau mirror. He swung his head back, collected
his mane with both hands behind his head, and worked an elastic
band over the ponytail.
Greta tugged off her headband and playfully pulled it over his
head. "Now you look like an Indian."
He smiled and tugged the band off. As he reached for his shirt
hanging on the bedpost, she grabbed his wrist and roughly pulled
him beside her on the bed. She flattened his hand against her
chest, his middle finger settled over the horseshoe charm he had
given her. "Are you an Indian giver?" she said suggestively,
moving his hand from the charm to her breast.
He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. When her grip
loosened he stepped back and stood before her with his hands on
her hips. "Greta," he warned her, "I must get ready. I have a
nine o'clock lesson, and already I am going to be late."
She stretched, "Okay, okay, no pow-wow for now."
"Besides, darling," he said to her reflection in the mirror, "you
too have a busy day ahead of you."
"Yes, yes, I know," she said with an unpleasant expression. "I'll
call as soon as I get out of the shower."
He sat beside her, boots in hand. "Maybe you should call now," he
said, "so I can be here with you."
"After the shower. I promise." She stood and unzipped her
athletic top.
He tugged on his second boot. "It is just that they can be so
pushy and overwhelming."
"He is a friend of ours, Jean-Pierre. Well, of Matthew's anyway.
But I trust he'll be straight with me," she said, sounding not
totally certain.
"I am just trying to help," Jean-Pierre said, tucking in his
shirt.
She slid her little horseshoe charm back and forth on its chain.
Should she call now? Perhaps with Jean-Pierre here it would be
easier. And if she really was going to go through with this, she
might as well do it with him here. He was, after all, the reason
why she had made up her mind in the first place.
"Wait," she said, as he was zipping his suede jacket. "Pass me my
little address book. It's over there next to my wallet." She
flipped through the book and found the number she wanted and
dialed the telephone.
Jean-Pierre stood with his arms crossed, broad shoulders pressed
squarely against the wall. He gave her an encouraging look.
She turned her attention to her free hand, the left, which she
had kept ungloved since she and Jean-Pierre had made love the
first time. Somehow it seemed only fitting that she stare at
where her finger once was while making this call. On the second
ring a young woman's voice greeted her.
"This is Greta Locke," she said, and after a moment's
hesitation, "Matthew Locke's wife." She met Jean-Pierre's intense
stare. "I'd like to speak with Mitchell, please." A pause, then:
"Mitchell, hello. Yes, he's fine, thank you." Her expression
turned serious as she smiled through the last of the lawyer's
greeting.
"Actually, Mitchell, things aren't exactly perfect," she said,
twisting the phone cord in her hand. Her eyes went to Jean-Pierre
for a moment, taking him in from head to toe, his boots. The
ranch, she reminded herself, boosting her courage. This was all
for their ranch. She took a deep breath and plunged on. "I'm
calling you, Mitchell, because I want a divorce." Pinpoint dots
of sweat had formed on her upper lip.
"I'm sorry?" she said, shaking her gaze from Jean-Pierre. "No,
Matthew and I have not talked about it yet." Another pause. "No,
I don't know if it's what Matthew wants. It's what I want." She
swallowed a deluge of conflicting emotions, her eyes pleading
with her lover for support.
Jean-Pierre dropped before her and rested his head in her lap.
"Yes, I will," she said, and placed her hand on Jean-Pierre's
head. "Yes, as soon as he gets home from New York, yes."
Jean-Pierre lifted his face. He was silently mouthing a word, but
she could not understand him.
"No, I can't think of anything. I'm sure by the time I call you
back I'll have - oh, wait." She cupped her hand over the
mouthpiece.
"Property," Jean-Pierre whispered.
"Oh yes, Mitchell, I do have one question." She held the phone
with both hands and looked out the window. "Mitchell, I'm not
clear on a few things in these matters. The property. The house.
Assets. Those sorts of things."
Jean-Pierre held her around the waist with both arms. In the
distance she could see his small cottage, the ranch, a few horses
being led from the stable.
"It is half, then," she said softly. Her hand dropped to
Jean-Pierre's head and slid down to his shoulder. She held on
tight. "Half of everything," she uttered, feeling as if her lips
were suddenly anesthetized.
"Okay," she said, her voice different now, smaller. "Thank you,
Mitchell. I'll contact you soon." She placed the handset on its
cradle and closed her eyes.
Jean-Pierre seated himself beside her and wrapped his arms around
her and held her tight. He whispered to her soothingly, to
breathe slowly, relax.
She opened her mouth, tried to form words, but they would not
come. After a minute she regained some control. "My God,
Jean-Pierre," she managed, hiding her face in her trembling
hands. "That amounts to millions."
"Greta," he said, pulling her from him, "You have earned your
share. You have worked for it."
"Yes," she said. "Yes," an emphatic whisper. "I have worked hard
for it, haven't I?"
"Yes," Jean-Pierre assured her, petting her hair. He smiled. "You
have indeed."
* * *
"That's right, as much of it as I can sell," Peter said into the
telephone. With a disbelieving expression he shook his head at
Byron, who crossed his arms and shot him a mildly disturbed look.
"Okay, Peggy, thanks," Peter said, then hung up the phone.
"You sure you want to do that?" Byron said carefully, turning his
coffee cup in his palm.
"You bet I am! Byron, I can't believe this! I can't believe
Matthew has formed an alliance with them!" Peter said, batting
his hand at the "Wall Street Journal," whose headline announced,
"ICP, Wallaby Announce Strategic Venture."
"Petey, don't forget that 'them' is where this old timer comes
from."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean to disparage you, or
where you're from. I'm just astonished Matthew has actually done
what he was trying to get me to agree to do. To sell out Wallaby
to ICP."
"He's not selling out, boy. He's upping Wallaby's market.
Probably triple it in a few years because of that two-step he
pulled today."
Peter folded his arms. "All the more reason for me to sell my
share in Wallaby and invest it in what we're working on. You
know, I'm in the mood for a little shopping spree. I think my
mind is made up about those couple of acquisitions we've been
talking about. The net browser. The compression routines. And
definitely that knock-out handwriting recognition kernel. Yes
indeed, it's time to do a little spending."
The two men had turned the extra bedroom in Byron's Maine home
into a lab and workroom. Scattered all around were diagrams of
circuit boards, tools, and assorted computer and electronic
parts. A flowchart of the software that Byron was engineering,
based on the design the two men had come up with in the last four
months, was spread out on the table before them.
"Well, that's settled then," Byron said. "Good. Now what do you
say you wipe that little snarl off your face and we get back to
work. Come on." He patted the stool beside him and Peter, still
plainly agitated by the news, returned to his seat beside his
partner.
"This is what I changed last night," Byron said, pointing at a
series of boxes indicating the user interface portion of the
code. "It's what's going to make this baby different from every
other portable doohickey out there."
Peter leaned over the table, following Byron's finger. He shook
his head. "No."
"No? No what?"
Peter roughly took Byron's hand in his. "This!" he said,
encircling the entire drawing with the other man's finger and, in
doing so, pulling Byron from his stool and practically stretching
him across the table.
"Hey!" Byron yelled. "If you want to dance, just say so, but be
careful, boy, I prefer the floor to tables!"
"I'm sorry," Peter said. He let go of Byron's hand, and gently
patted it.
Byron tugged at his sweater sleeve and flexed his arm.
"But look at this," Peter said. "All of this!" he continued,
gesturing in a frenzy now with both hands at the entire table,
the scattered parts, the room.
Byron casually fished his tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket.
"Don't you see what's wrong with all this stuff you're talking
about?"
"Why don't you tell me," Byron said. He crossed his legs and
began packing his pipe.
"First, with all respect to your history," Peter started, "it's
too complicated."
Byron took a few glowing tokes from his pipe than shook out the
wooden match. His motions were slow, unruffled. He exhaled a
plume of smoke, then strolled slowly around the table, eyeing the
diagram from over the rim of his glasses. "Well, now that you
mention it, she is kind of a little monster, ain't she?"
"Little? Hah! If we were to code this thing as it is we'd need an
army of programmers. We need to break it down into smaller,
smarter chunks. Objects. Maybe we should snap up that little
object system those kids from Cal Poly showed us last week. Hell,
looking at this, two million doesn't sound like that much
anymore."
"Mmm, that would definitely let us break her down to a more
manageable size. And adding features would be trivial. Okay,
let's call them back and have another look, make sure it'll do
what we want," Byron said.
"There's something else."
"Such as?" Byron said, squinting through the rising smoke trails.
"I'm not sure what it is, though. I mean, everything we've got
worked out with the agent software is right on. All the
cross-referencing between the applications, the net-savvy
look-ups and updates and all. But when I step back and look at
this, at how it's going to actually look and operate when it's
done, I feel like it's missing something. Under the hood we're
doing things no one has done before. But on the surface, as nice
as it will look, it doesn't seem, well, new enough to me.
Different enough. What can we do to make ours really different
from the others that are cropping up out there. They've all got
styluses now. And there's that Sony slate computer that came out
last week with a track pad almost exactly like the Joey's, so
that's caught on too. All of it has. The add-on keyboards.
CD-ROMs. Modems. PC Cards. The whole works. I don't know. Other
than the smart software agents we're putting in, what can we do
to make ours the all-out winner. The really intelligent
assistant."
"Mmm," Byron hummed.
"What we need is a new paradigm. A bigger-picture metaphor that
goes beyond what's already out there, taking this whole business
to not just the next possible step, but two or three steps ahead.
Something that really get the juices flowing. I mean, this is all
well and good, but is it good enough?" He knocked his fist gently
on the flowchart and stared intently at Byron.
"I'm with you."
Staring intensely at the drawing, Peter let out an exasperated
sigh. "I just don't know what it should be. And that's the
frustrating part."
Grace appeared at the doorway with a tray in her hands, holding
sandwiches, French fries, two glasses of milk. "Time for a break,
boys."
"Ah, relief," Byron said, rubbing his hands together. "Honey, we
got any vinegar for those fries?"
"Coming right up," Grace said, handing the tray to her husband.
"Now, while we eat," Byron said, blowing on a hot French fry,
"you can give your head a rest for a few minutes, and I promise
you, while your stomach is doing some work of its own, your
brain'll be busy too."
"I'm not so sure," Peter said. He took a sip of his milk.
The telephone rang.
"I'll get it," Grace said, returning from the kitchen with a
bottle of cider vinegar. Byron made a beckoning gesture for the
bottle.
"I got it," Peter said. "Holmes residence," he said, wiping his
lips on his sleeve. "Hi, Peggy. What's up? Wait, let me guess, a
problem with my stock sale already," Peter said with a smirk and
a roll of his eyes at Byron.
"His secretary," Byron said, identifying the caller to his wife.
"What?" Peter shouted, eyes suddenly wide with panic.
"What is it?" Byron asked, coming to Peter's side.
"Hello?" a voice called softly, from inside the house.
"All right, yes," Peter said. "I'll get there as soon as I can."
He hung up the phone and stared at the handset.
"Hi," Kate said, bounding cheerfully into the room. "I let myself
in." She froze in place when she took in Peter's aghast
expression as he turned away and faced the wall. He locked his
hands behind his neck and looked up at the ceiling.
"What the hell's wrong?" Byron said.
"What's going on?" Kate asked Grace, who replied with upturned
palms. "Peter?" Kate gripped his arm. "What is it?"
"Something back home," Peter said, avoiding every set of staring
eyes.
"Is it the stock sale, boy?"
He shook his head.
"Then what?" Kate asked, tugging his arm to make him face her.
He turned around and took her hands. "Something happened. I have
to go home." He studied their interlocked fingers. "I can't tell
you about it right now." He looked her straight in the eye. It
was the wine, he thought grimly.
He let go of her hands. "I need to get to the airport right
away," he said to Byron.
"Okay," Kate said, "let's go," taking his arm.
Peter's feet remained planted.
"Peter?"
"I have to go alone," he said, leaving no room for disagreement.
Grace discreetly nudged her husband.
"Okay," Byron said, settling his hands on both Kate's and Peter's
shoulders. "Put your coat on. I'll take you to the airport." He
gave Kate a reassuring look and a wink.
"Don't you want to pack some things?" Kate said.
"There isn't time," Peter said. "I'll call," he said, unable to
look her in the eye again, then turned and left the room.
"Be back in a bit," Byron said, kissing his wife on the cheek.
"Keep those fries in the oven please, dearest." He turned to Kate
and gently squeezed her arm. "It's going to be okay." Then he
turned and went after Peter.
Hearing Byron's words of reassurance as he waited outside the
workroom, Peter felt the thing in his heart come fully awake. It
had been hibernating all through the winter and he had forgotten
about it. But now it was time to for it to reemerge.
A knot of contradiction swelled in his throat when he remembered
back to the premonition he'd had on that fateful night, more than
half a year ago, that he was going to lose everything close to
his heart, everything that ever mattered. It was starting, he
reasoned, and by the looks of it, Kate would be the first piece
to fall away.
Chapter 14
William Harrell flipped through the folder of reports his
technical adviser had left him, a pleased expression on his face.
His plan was approaching its final stages. Yesterday's strategic
alliance announcement had been deemed an enormous success by the
press, and in just a few short months the plan's final phase
would reach its climax.
He felt at ease and at peace now as he awaited the completion of
his original plan. Though he had a real scare when Byron Holmes
had called him four months earlier, asking for some of his notes
and documentation, his former partner had ultimately assured him
that what he and Peter Jones were working on would not become a
"real" product anytime soon.
Even so, he still felt more than a little concern for what the
two were up to, but after finishing his conversation with Byron,
William realized he had initially overreacted to his old friend's
new hobby, as Byron himself had referred to it.
And now, with the strategic alliance phase complete, William felt
for the first time like he could lift his feet from the pedals
and coast through the final stretch as he advanced to the finish
line.
With regard to the merger, the FTC would never allow ICP to
acquire Wallaby under the two companies' current modes of
operation. To counter this regulation, ICP would halt production
of its BP portable computer, thereby avoiding a monopoly by
pulling its own entry from the market-the Joey line would become
ICP's new standard. In doing so, an even greater battle would
cease. The clone makers, companies that manufactured computers
that operated the same software as ICP's, would be nearly shut
down once ICP announced Joey as their new portable computing
standard. Unlike the BP, which used a third-party source
operating system, the Joey was built upon Wallaby's proprietary
hardware and software technologies, and was therefore illegal for
other manufacturers to replicate it.
William's desktop now proudly displayed his prototype Joey II
system, which he used for all of his office work. He'd had his
technical adviser move his "old" BP to a shelf against the wall.
As far as he was concerned, he would no longer need it.
The irony of his plan was beginning to hit home. Here he sat, the
chairman of the largest computer company in the world, with his
"competitor's" product on his desk. William's dream was nearly
reality. "I liked the product so much, I bought the company," he
quipped to himself as he activated the e-mail program.
The machine's modem dialed the phone and connected to the host
computer. There was only one message, and as it was being written
to his screen, scrolling quickly from the bottom of the screen to
the top, he saw that it was from Matthew Locke. The action was
too quick for his eyes, so as he waited for the message to finish
downloading, he pulled a tissue from his drawer and cleaned the
computer's monitor.
Matthew's message was now unfolded on the display, complete, and
as he wiped, the e-mail's subject caught his eye. He quickly
scanned the screen for the gist of the message-and he froze.
His throat constricted and his mind slammed on the brakes,
chucking him from his exhilarating joyride. He felt his insides
rumble as if he were about to lose control of his system, not
unlike the feeling, the lack of feeling, that he had experienced
as Martha's hand let go of his when she had slipped away.
He forced his hands to be still on the desk and read the message
from the beginning.
- - - - - - - - - -
TO: wharrell@icp.com
FROM: mlocke@wallaby.com
SUBJECT: REVISED PLAN
William, I'll get right to the point: Yesterday's introduction of
the Joey II was phenomenal.
Therefore, Wallaby and ICP will maintain a strategic alliance
relationship, as we disclosed to the press: Wallaby will work
with ICP to develop powerful Joey products which are compatible
with ICP systems.
We will not go through with our private original plan of merging
the two companies into one.
I am satisfied with my role at Wallaby as chairman, president,
and CEO, and I look forward to our two companies working
together.
--Matthew
- - - - - - - - - -
"No," William declared breathlessly as he sank heavily into his
chair. He raised the tissue to his brow, blotted the sweat that
had instantly formed there.
In one fell swoop, Matthew Locke had just changed William's
entire plan-and the future of ICP. He felt his heart racing, and
he began to hyperventilate. He wondered if he was experiencing
the onset of a stroke. He held his palm over his heart and willed
it to slow while he attempted to breathe evenly, all the while
staring at the message spilled across his-no, Matthew's!-screen.
When he eventually calmed down enough to think a little more
clearly, his panic was replaced by shallow emptiness. Then,
vaguely at first, a strange feeling of grief and mourning numbed
his senses, resurfacing for the first time since he had begun his
plan to acquire Wallaby.
His mind started racing, and his immediate reaction was to
quickly counter Matthew's scheme by unveiling ICP's own
competitive product, showing him that no one pushed the
number-one computer maker around. Thinking this through, however,
William could hardly bring himself to ask the question, What can
I do? He already knew the answer. Nothing. Hadn't he himself
halted any new designs of ICP's BP series, or for that matter,
any new portable design, after reaching the "Jones" phase of the
original plan, when Matthew had moved into power?
No backup plan, he thought and shook his head sadly. The
funeral...the rebound to Wallaby...through these events he had
lost the foresight to build a backup plan in case something like
this should happen. And, he realized, taking the final blow,
there could be no going back. While he could simply pick up the
phone and call his development heads in and put together a team
to begin accelerated development of his technical and market
advisors' proposed concepts, a real product would not surface for
at least twelve to eighteen months, probably more. He had no
immediate backup plan, no product of his own to augment ICP's new
strategic dependence and commitment to Wallaby and the Joey. He
could not cancel the strategic alliance.
His gaze lingered painfully over the Joey II stationed before
him. Its beautiful compact design, its crisp high-resolution
screen, its ergonomic keyboard, its slick trackpad. Gently,
William touched the trackpad, slid his fingertip across its
smooth black surface.
Suddenly, strangely, his thoughts turned sympathetically to Peter
Jones. Matthew Locke had just pulled on William the same surprise
he had inflicted on Peter Jones.
Then all at once he felt charged as if by a synaptic tingle, a
stirring in his fingertip that shot up to his brain. At first he
feared he was completely losing control, but then he let out a
little laugh, realizing, yes, he had crossed a fine line, and
suddenly it all made complete and wonderfully perfect sense to
him.
The call. Of course. It had been there all along, a hibernating
backup plan, but William had simply ignored it. There had been no
reason to notice it. His old friend calling just to say hello, to
ask for a few notes, all along up to his old playful tricks.
Could it be possible? Were they really onto something? Something
that William could perhaps enlist to save ICP from the switch
Matthew Locke had just thrown?
Jones. That was the mistake he had allowed Matthew to make. A
mistake that would now work in his favor.
Perhaps you were right, Matthew, William mused, sliding his
fingertip to an appended e-mail file. He opened it and searched
for Matthew's very first message to him after the board meeting
in which Jones had been voted out of Wallaby. There it was.
Though Matthew had tried to persuade Jones to stay on at Wallaby,
his exact words in the message were, "We'll succeed regardless."
You may be right, Matthew, William thought silently. He slid his
fingertip over to a tiny card-file icon on the screen, typed
"Holmes" on the keyboard and tapped the find icon.
He tapped the phone icon and the Joey's modem dialed Byron
Holmes's telephone number. As he waited for his old friend to
answer, he stared at his fingertip resting comfortably on the
trackpad. A sudden awareness hit him as if somehow he had just
solved a puzzle that had been silently challenging him for a long
time, that Wallaby without Peter Jones was as unsound as a the
Joey without its sleek intuitive trackpad.
Grace answered, and they exchanged a few moments of courteous
conversation then William asked for Byron.
"He's in his play room. I'll tell him to pick up."
A moment later, Byron came on the line. "Hi, Billy."
"Byron, how are things coming along?" William asked.
"Oh, not bad. You know, too cold to fish, mostly sitting around
the house, stoking a fire."
"Right," William said, knowing he couldn't just pop Byron's cap
open without a little playing. "And in your spare time, how's
your hobby coming along?"
"Well, now, Billy, is there something you're curious about?"
"Yes, there is." He decided to come right to the point with his
old friend, to simply ask for his help. "I'm very interested in
what you and Peter Jones are working on."
"It's good stuff, Billy, though we've had a little bit of a
pause."
"What kind of pause?"
"Petey had to go back to California. Had some business to deal
with."
California: Wallaby. Was there more to Matthew Locke's scheming?
Had he persuaded Jones to come back to Wallaby, to rejoin him in
leading the company? That would explain Matthew's newfound
resolution to go it alone, without ICP. After all, wasn't Jones
the one who had been so resistant to ICP all these years?
"Back to Wallaby?"
"Hell, no. Quite the contrary. Petey started selling off his
Wallaby stock yesterday to fund our project."
William knew that Jones's stock sale would yield millions of
dollars, many digits, the sort of lengthy figures required for
serious development. Things were coming along, then. Which meant
that they were probably well on their way to a real product
design after all.
"He's selling the stock because he was disgusted that you and
Wallaby are in a deal together," Byron said. "He predicts that
you're going to buy them in less than a year, and he doesn't want
any of his money going to that. Nothing personal, Billy. It's
Locke he's angry with."
Touche, William thought, ironically pleased that Jones's
speculation was right on target. He dabbed his forehead with a
fresh tissue. "Byron, I'd like to make a proposition."
"Shoot."
"I'd like to have a look at what you are working on. When you are
ready, of course."
"Hmm. I like that idea, Billy, but I don't know if Petey would
feel the same way."
"Byron, listen to me," William plunged on, pulling out all stops.
"The Wallaby announcement is meant as a temporary solution. We
want to come out with our own system that will do everything the
Joey can, but more."
"Billy, you don't sound so good. Are you all right?"
"No, Byron. I'm not. I'm asking you for a favor, from one old
friend to another. Let me have a look at what you're working on."
"Well, since you put it that way, let me see what I can do. I
think I can get Petey to agree to let you have a peek."
"When?"
"That I don't know. A little while. He needs some time to himself
to take care of some personal business."
"Fair enough," William said, and said good-bye.
He glanced out the window at the World Trade Center. This may be
the best way, he reasoned. After all, the portable system
stationed before him had been invented by Jones. And even if his
plan to acquire Wallaby had worked, wouldn't he have been plagued
with worry over Jones's next step?
Perhaps this time, he pondered as he gazed out the window, he
would get the strategic ally he had been after all along. Peter
Jones.
* * *
Peter stared absently at the clock mounted high on the yellow
cinderblock wall. Following the second hand's ride around the
dial, he mused at how as a boy he used to watch the clock in
school, the thin red line sliding silently past the bold black
numerals, inching painfully closer with each agonizing second
toward the end of the school day. Would this baby ever have the
opportunity to watch the second hand sweep the dial in a
schoolroom?
He had been sitting at Stanford Hospital for hours. His neck and
back were sore from sleeping on the hard plastic furniture, and
now, staring at the clock once more, he willed the thin red line
to go slower, for each precious second offered more hope, life,
for this unborn baby.
His baby.
At first Peter had not wanted to believe the doctor, insisting
that there had been a mistake, a mix-up, that he was just a
friend of Ivy's, and it couldn't possibly be his baby. But the
doctor relayed to Peter, from Ivy, that she had been with no one
else in more than a year before Peter, and no one after. The
doctor offered to conduct a simple blood test that would settle
the matter, but Peter decided against it.
He knew Ivy was telling the truth. It was his baby, and he prayed
that it not be delivered. Not just yet. It needed more time.
Dr. Chen, the resident physician caring for Ivy, said the chances
of survival for the twenty-eight-week infant were roughly ninety
to ninety-five percent.
Peter could not believe this was happening to him. It was not
something he asked for or wanted. Not like this, anyway. He had
assumed (hadn't he?) that she had used some sort of protection.
In the past, he and Kate had never worried about birth-control.
With Kate it was neither an issue or a possibility.
He thought back to their night together, her desperation. He also
recalled the indications of her drug usage. The doctor warned him
that she was very weak, and had admitted to taking drugs during
the pregnancy. The birth would be difficult and extremely
dangerous for her, considering her overall poor health. Presently
the physician was attempting to prevent the premature birth by
administering medication that could retard labor, to allow the
baby its final eight weeks of development in the womb.
Now, waiting to find out if the drugs would take effect, Peter
sat alone, wondering what he would do if the baby was born today,
or next week...or whenever, for that matter. Even if they
successfully postponed the birth, there was no running away from
the fact that it was his child. And what about Ivy? Would she ask
him to marry her? Who was the faulty party? Hadn't he known that
he had done the wrong thing? Hadn't he known afterwards that
things would never be the same again with Kate?
Kate. Their talk, before they had gone to dinner at the Holmeses'
for the first time, about wanting a baby. About wanting to settle
down, to marry. What would happen to him and Kate?
"Good morning, Mr. Jones," Dr. Chen said, snapping Peter's gaze
from the clock.
"How is she?"
"There's been a change. After her first round of medication the
contractions were less frequent, indicating that the pregnancy
would not proceed," the doctor explained.
"That's good news, right?"
"It was good. But Ivy has passed fluid. The amniotic sac is
leaking. Her labor has resumed. We have no choice but to see it
through."
"But the baby?"
"We don't know how much damage Ivy's drug abuse may have caused
the baby, or herself. Any baby coming into the world early runs
the risk of respiratory distress syndrome."
Peter shook his head impatiently to indicate that he didn't
understand, and Dr. Chen explained.
"A vital substance that coats the lining of the baby's lungs and
its small interior cavities, called alveoli, is not fully
advanced at this stage of development. The air sacs in the lungs
tend to stay collapsed. We'll have the baby on a respirator, of
course, but there may be other complications."
Peter closed his eyes, images of tiny pink, deflated balloons
streaking across his mind. So fragile. So vulnerable and
helpless.
The doctor placed a hand on Peter's shoulder. "This isn't going
to be easy," he said. "We'll do our best."
And then the doctor was gone, leaving Peter to stare once more at
the clock and wait, all by himself.
Chapter 15
"Hello, Matthew," Greta said coolly, settling her coffee cup onto
its saucer.
"Hi," Matthew said brightly. He dropped his garment bag and
briefcase in the doorway, strolled past her without so much as a
glance, and went to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass
of orange juice, drank it in one gulp, and set the glass on the
countertop.
"Has Marie been sick or something?" he said, striking up
conversation as he strolled into the breakfast area, peeling the
paper wrapper off a muffin.
"I gave her a few days off," Greta said. "She'll be back this
afternoon."
"How come the time off?" Matthew said, without much interest. He
ate his muffin and pulled apart the newspaper, folded it on the
table, scanned the page, then glanced across it to his wife.
"I didn't want her around. I wanted to be alone."
He nodded, as if respecting her wish for privacy, then started
reading yet another article reporting yesterday's Wallaby and ICP
New York City announcement.
"Matthew," Greta said abruptly.
"Hmm?" he replied, his eyes never leaving the article.
"We need to talk."
He looked up distractedly for a moment at his wife, then returned
his attention to the newspaper. "Okay. Do we have yesterday's
'Examiner'?" He looked around the room. "I couldn't find one in
New York."
"Over there. Next to the sofa," she said, indicating the pile of
papers in the sitting room. He went to the stack and picked up
the topmost issue and sat down on the sofa. "What were you
saying?"
She studied him, instantly oblivious to her again as he read
about himself and yesterday's news. In an odd way she was glad
that he was behaving like this, poring over himself in the
newspaper, for it solidified her determination and kicked up the
heat of her anger a few more notches. There he sat, holding in
his hands the cause for their breakup, smiling proudly at his own
picture of himself and his damned machine. Should she feel any
guilt or remorse for having taken a lover, for calling the lawyer
yesterday to inform him that she wanted to divorce Matthew, when
there he sat beaming at his engagement announcement to a stupid
little computer?
Well then, let's see how he liked her newsbreak announcement. She
stood up from the table walked over to where he sat, crossed her
arms and waited for him to acknowledge her.
"I'm sorry," he said, folding the newspaper and tossing it to the
floor, "I just wanted to see what they said locally." Rubbing his
hands together, he settled back comfortably into the sofa. "Now,
what was it you were saying?"
It was plain to see that he was being perfunctory, that he
couldn't wait to be done with whatever it was she wanted to talk
about so he could rush off to the office, where, having just
flown in from New York, he'd squeeze in a few more hours of work.
She pictured him on the plane, skipping the meal so he wouldn't
have to sacrifice the workspace of his tray table. It was just
the sort of image she needed to complete her anger and loathing.
She said, "I want a divorce." The words rolled off her tongue
easily and she nearly smiled to herself. So simple. She tucked
her fist in her robe pockets as he stood, hands open at his
sides.
"Honey? What do you mean?"
"Shall I get you a dictionary?"
"Greta," he said cautiously, clasping his hands together. "I know
I've been busy, but it's all been for this." He tapped the pile
of newspapers with his foot.
"My oh my, the papers are right, you are smart. Yes, it has all
been for that," she agreed, stamping her foot over the picture of
his face.
"But honey," he said, wrongfully interpreting her sarcasm, "I've
changed my mind. I sent a message to William before leaving New
York calling the whole thing off! I don't want Wallaby and ICP to
merge as we had originally planned. This way I - I mean, Wallaby
- will have more power because now we're going to grow at a
phenomenal rate, all because of yesterday's announcement." His
eyes were shining. "The plan is off!" he said, and gripped her
shoulders.
"And so are we!" she spat, shrugging from his touch.
"But Greta, wait. I mean, I know we've had our problems, but that
doesn't mean we should just throw away our lives together."
"Together?" she said, astonished. "What lives, Matthew? What
together?" She shook her head sadly at his photograph smiling up
at her from the newspaper. "There's your together."
"Greta? What is it? What have I done? What can I do? Is there
something you want?"
"No, Matthew, not from you." She touched her finger to her
horseshoe charm, slid it from side to side. "This time, I've
gotten what I want all by myself."
This seemed funny to him. "Oh?" he said grandly. "And what's
that, honey?"
"Love."
That wasn't what he'd had in mind. He blinked several times
rapidly. His eyes locked on a point in the ceiling. All the
clowning was gone from his face. He had expected something
amusing, like a new hobby or craft, but this took him by complete
surprise. "An affair?" he asked, catching her eye. She looked
away. He tugged the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, composed himself,
all business. "An affair," he repeated. "I see."
"It's your fault."
He was thoughtful for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Yes. I
suppose it is."
Matthew's first reaction was to tell her about Laurence. He cared
very much for the girl, and telling his wife so would at least
give him the satisfaction of equally offending the fidelity they
had promised one another when they married. He wanted to tell his
wife how Lauri had helped him build his confidence the way she
once had, and too how the girl brought him pleasure in ways she,
his wife, never had. But what would that accomplish? She was
having an affair, he thought absently as he perused the room,
eyes stopping here and there. He might be having an affair with
Laurence, but he was not in love with her, and he certainly had
no desire to marry her. He was not in love with his own wife
either, but, he quickly calculated in his mind, he could not bear
a divorce. It was a matter of economics. Quite simply, if he
agreed, she would be entitled to at least half of his assets,
over fifteen million dollars, give or take a million. His
alternative: appease her, make her feel better, no matter what
the investment. A weekend cottage in Monterey? A trip around the
world? Whatever she wanted, he would give it to her - he would
think of it as an insurance policy.
"Darling, I'm so sorry," he said with pleading eyes. "It really
is my fault. What with my obsession over Wallaby all this time,
letting things get this far away from me. From us. However, I
don't think divorce is the right answer. We should try to work
this out."
She smiled. "Do you think I don't know what you're thinking? Oh
yes, half of this is mine. And that's the law. Darling."
He swallowed. She knew him too well, could read him so easily. He
couldn't hide from her his fear of losing half of his wealth. He
had to try a different angle.
"But you're the one having an affair. You admitted it. How do you
think that will hold up?"
"It doesn't matter. California still splits the pot."
"This is bullshit."
"You should know, you're so full of it."
"Don't challenge me on this, Greta."
"Too late. I called Mitchell yesterday, and told him - "
Matthew cut her short. "You what?" His voice was a disbelieving
rasp. "You called my friend and told him we wanted a divorce?"
"No. I said I wanted it. But yes," she said with a shrug,
unafraid, "that's what I did."
"How dare you contact my lawyer when I knew nothing of this! Are
you crazy?"
"Why, yes, darling. That's exactly what I am, crazy. Driven mad
by Mr. Chips. At least that's what I'm ready to tell the court,
if I decide I'd like more than half. In fact, I think I need to
lie down, I'm feeling sort of suicidal again. All the stress I've
been under since this happened." She stuck her four-fingered hand
out at him.
He smacked it away. "I'll fight you on this, Greta."
"Try. You'll only make matters worse for yourself," she said,
kicking the newspapers. "It doesn't matter what they might say
about me in the papers. But you, my dear - you better think twice
before you make your next move, or it's going to cost you a hell
of a lot more than you can afford."
It was true. The press would turn this kind of thing into a
circus. He had seen this expression on her face before, this same
expression he had once found so alluring, so sure and empowering,
so certain of his success, their success. When working on his
behalf, this look had once charged him with excitement,
confidence. Now he saw the face of his opponent from across the
ring, and she looked fanatical in the way she said she was - in
the way she would convince the court she was, and possibly all
but wipe him out.
He needed time. This was too much to handle right now, especially
in light of his change of heart with ICP. He had to make a deal
with her, come to some sort of understanding, at least for a
short while until he could deal with this properly.
"What about a trial period?" he said. "Just give me a little
time, and we'll work out some sort of settlement between us. In
the meantime, I'll leave you alone. You can have whatever you
need to go away on your own if you'd like. Let's just not do
anything hasty. Please, Greta. I'm asking nicely. Just give me
some breathing room to sort through this."
She thought for a moment about what Jean-Pierre had told her.
First, he was going to travel to France to look at properties for
them. That would take some time. And once he found something, she
would have to pack, and with all the logistics involved in
moving, especially to another country, that too would take
awhile. Either way, she would be in California for at least a few
more months while she and Jean-Pierre made their plans. There was
no real hurry, and, she suddenly realized, they had not even
discussed marriage. Would they marry? She felt an unexpected
chill along her neck. Perhaps it was best to play it cool, she
told herself, while the arrangements for France were being made.
She said, "I may choose to travel, get away for while. Maybe even
stay somewhere else."
What could that cost? Matthew asked himself. Compared to what she
might get if they were to proceed with a divorce, setting her up
in her own place amounted to a pinch of salt. For now.
"Fine. Whatever you need. Let's see what happens when things
settle down in a few months."
"Ha ha, that's what you think. Please, take a good look at
yourself. With you it will never settle down, Matthew. You're
married to Wallaby, not me. You think you've replaced Peter Jones
as some sort of hotshot smart aleck, but now you're as sickly
attached to that company as he ever was. You didn't want him out
of your way so you could run the business - no, you were after
more. You were after his lover. And you got it." She shot him a
mean laugh and turned her head in disgust. And began to cry.
If only right now he would come to her and hold her, and tell her
everything would be all right, and kiss her, really kiss her, the
way he once had, full of need and desire, then she would go back
to him, make their marriage work again. Somehow. As happy as
Jean-Pierre made her feel, she understood that she had only begun
her affair with him because Matthew had rejected her. If he
wanted her back, he could have her. But it was now or never.
Matthew turned away. "Fine," he said flatly, then lifted his
briefcase and walked out of the house, got in his car, and drove
away.
And along with him went all of her hopes of ever realizing the
plan for happiness they had made before moving to California. It
was really over. She was now in control of her own plan. She was
scared, but she was determined. To hell with him. With her share
of the money, she could live the rest of her life without a care.
She hugged herself tightly inside the sleeves of her robe, and an
eerie thought entered her mind. She shivered, and the hairs on
her arms stood up. Glancing around the room, at their things, she
understood for the very first time that everything she ever
associated with Matthew - money, power, luxury - all of a sudden
didn't matter anymore. She was angry with herself for thinking
she should go back to him. Was she going mad? Had he really made
her crazy? How could she in one instant wish to go back to him,
and in the next wonder if he had ever really mattered? Had he
been an instrument to her, just as she had been to him? It sure
looked that way now. She had used him to acquire more and more
things, but she no longer needed these tokens of power and
prestige. There was only one thing she needed now, the love of
her attractive Frenchman. Nothing else mattered anymore.
Feeling free for the first time of the man to whom she had felt
so dependent, Greta calmly sat down on the sofa. Yes, it would be
worth waiting a little longer while Jean-Pierre created their new
world.
After all, she told herself, she had nothing to lose.
Chapter 16
"Mr. Jones," Dr. Chen said, lightly shaking Peter's shoulder.
Peter snapped awake. "What time is it?" he asked as he shakily
rose to his feet. Dr. Chen gently steadied him. Daylight shone
through the windows at the end of the hall. He glanced at the
wall clock. Half past noon. He had been asleep for little more
than an hour.
"It's time for you to see Ivy," Dr. Chen said. He led Peter by
the arm through swinging double doors. "And your baby girl."
Peter stopped in his tracks. He felt flushed and his throat felt
swollen. "She's all right? And the baby too? They both made it
though okay?"
Dr. Chen carefully guided Peter to the wall, out of the way of
the busy corridor traffic. "Not entirely," he said. "There were
complications. Both Ivy and the baby are very fragile. The baby
weighs only two and three-quarter pounds. She's in neonatal care
right now, hooked up to life-support equipment."
"But she's alive."
"Yes. She's alive," the doctor said. "The outlook is fair, but we
don't know yet if there is other damage. Damage we can't see from
the drugs."
Peter felt a sudden wave of revulsion. Images of strangely
twisted limbs and gnarled faces flashed in his mind. He himself
and asked, "Is she retarded?"
"There is no disfiguration," the doctor said. "But it's too early
to judge her overall condition. She appears to be a normal, if
premature baby."
Peter allowed himself a tight smile. "Thank you, doctor," he
said.
They ambled down the hall. "Ivy's not doing well," the doctor
added, "but she insisted on seeing you now. She's very weak, so
you'll only have a few minutes."
Peter nodded. "Then can I see...?" he said and left the question
unfinished, wondering what was the baby's name.
"Yes. But that must be brief too," the doctor said, bringing him
up to a closed door. "Wait, Mr. Jones," Dr. Chen said, gripping
Peter's wrist as he reached for the door latch. "Her condition is
not very good, physically or mentally. Don't upset her. Try to
encourage her. I don't know what your plans are with her, but try
to reinforce her with some positive thoughts. Do you understand?"
Peter nodded, then gingerly opened the door and went into the
room. The shades were drawn, and strange electronic sounds
emanated from machines stationed beside the bed. He went to her.
A dim lamp spread yellow light over the bed, and through the
blankets covering her Peter could see that Ivy was very thin. Her
head was tilted toward the window and her closed eyelids seemed
dark and bluish. She looked so different from when he had thrown
her out of his home. He remembered her pure adoration, her desire
to please him with her project. He braced himself against the bed
rail and leaned his face closer to hers. She smelled medicinal,
sterile. Her delicate bone structure, her pert nose, were masked
by thin, nearly transparent skin. He felt responsible. Guilty. He
must take care of her.
And Kate...? No. He couldn't let himself think about that right
now. He had to let Ivy know everything would be all right, that
he would take care of her.
He whispered her name and she stirred, eyelids fluttering. A thin
smile touched her lips, then she blinked a few times and her eyes
filled with tears. She let out a long breath through pressed
lips, closed her eyes, and made an anguished face. "I told myself
I wouldn't get like this when I saw you." She looked away.
"Hey," he said, touching her cheek. She pulled her hand from
beneath the blankets and wrapped her thin fingers around his. His
body stiffened at her chilly, tenuous touch. At once he felt pity
and fear. He was afraid for her life. She looked as if she were a
breath away from dying. She had all but destroyed herself. And
the baby? What had she done to the baby? He wanted to hold her,
tell her she was forgiven, yet he was the one who should be
asking for forgiveness. It was all so twisted.
"Don't," she said, pulling her hand away. "Just don't. I don't
know what I'm more disgusted about. Me, or you? I wanted you, and
you took me and then you threw me away." Her words were thick and
slurred. She was bombed on painkillers and tranquilizers and
whatever else they were feeding her through the intravenous tube.
"I threw myself away, too, after you made me go. I think I wanted
to make the baby go away. I think I did what I did, the drugs and
all, to hurt it. I'm sick Peter. I'm very sick now, and I have to
get all this poison out of me. Including you."
"Ivy, don't talk this way. I'm sorry. You're sorry. We're both
sorry for the mistake we made. But we've got to deal with it.
It's my responsibility."
She winced. "Now you come to my rescue," a pause, then, "I'm
sorry. I don't want to be like this. I just hate you right now.
So much. Christ, that ride from LA up here."
She was making no sense at all. "What are you talking about?"
Maybe, he thought, it would be better to leave and come back
later, after she had rested.
"Yes. The ride. To see Kate McGreggor. She was the one I wanted
to meet, more than you. She was who I wanted to be like. Her
guards, or whatever they are, never let me in to see her. I tried
to find out more about her, where she lived and all. That was
when I found that article about you, with her in it. I didn't
even know who you were. And then I read about what you'd done,
and that you were why the Joey was what it was, I don't know, I
wanted to do that instead. I hated her then. I didn't want to be
a musician anymore. I wanted to be a techno-artist or something.
It's my parent's fuckin' fault, my liberal upbringing. I don't
know. Or maybe something else. They're here now. Better late than
never, right? Hey, lucky me, I can call them by their first
names, but I could never call them Mom and Dad. That's what I
wanted. Rick and Jeannette. No. It's not their fault. What am I
saying? I don't even know who I am."
She turned her head away from him and rested. She lay still for a
while, and when he thought she was asleep he turned to go.
"Stop," she said in a rasp. "We're not done." She was sitting up.
Her eyes were dry now, awake yet unalive. "We're gonna make a
deal. You've got a baby to take care of now, Peter. I can't do
it. Not right now, at least. I can't even piss on my own. I have
to push a button to get one of them to help me. How the hell'm I
gonna take care of a baby? I can't even name the thing. That's
your call, too. You get to call all the shots, Peter. Shoot,
bang, bang, I'm almost dead. You're holding the gun, man. Don't
go shootin' your own head, though. Oh, don't worry, I'll get
better - it's the only way I'll get you. Get back at you is what
I mean. You got a cigarette?"
He shook his head.
She made a disgusted face at him and waved her hand, scratching
her fingers through her hair. "Then there's the other thing. I
can't do any more about it. Not for a while. You might as well
take a look at it."
"What other thing?"
Like a drunkard at a bar, signaling for a particular brand, she
gestured to the corner of the room. "In there. In my pack. Get
it."
He opened a narrow cabinet door and pulled her blue knapsack from
the shelf. He held it to her. She smacked it with her hand. "Open
it yourself."
Inside he found several notebooks and pens.
"The disks, dick."
And he found a large stack of diskettes, bound together by rubber
bands.
"What is it?" he said.
Once more she turned her head on the pillow so that she was
facing away from him. "What's it say on the label?"
"ISLE."
"You can read."
"Ivy," he started, but then held his tongue. She had every right
to be treating him this way. But she was saying things he didn't
want to hear her say. She was heavily drugged and needed rest.
They could deal with all this in a few days. "Why don't we do all
this later?"
"There is no 'later.' I don't want to see you again. Not for a
long time, till I'm able to look at you without all this shit in
me and coming out of me."
"Then what? What is this? What do you want me to do with it?"
"That ride I told you about, from LA back up here with the idea
of somehow meeting you? I heard 'Teach the Children' on the radio
on the way up. It hit me like a cyclone. I had to stop in Fresno
to find the tape. I played it over and over. I thought, yeah,
teach them well, and do it with computers. I mean, it's what I
knew I had to do, with what I was thinking about language, the
idea of it applied to Joeys and letting kids learn with them. And
somehow my hormones and whatever else was in me when I met you
thought, 'Do it with your own kid, like with him, you, make a
baby out of it all and the program will write itself.' I waited
until it was the right time of the month to make you that dinner
I made, so we'd do it, and get it all going the way I saw it."
"You did this on purpose? This baby?"
"Yes. But stop it. I mean, we're talking about the other now.
We're on that, what's in your hands."
"What's it got to do with what you said?"
"It means Intelligent Speech and Language Environment. There's a
little box in there too, synthesizer and recognizer all in one.
But it's not just for kids, or learning. It's whatever you want
it to be. You'll see what I mean. Go ahead, take it, the notes
and code lists and everything, it's all in there. See if it's
worth anything to you. Hell knows, I'm gonna have a shit load of
bills when I'm through with this rinse cycle."
"Okay."
"'Okay' is all you say. No thanks? Jesus. That's just like you."
"Thanks. I mean, we'll figure this all out. We will."
"Blah, blah, blah."
The door opened behind him. He turned. The nurse and a
middle-aged couple entered the room. "Mr. Jones, Ivy's parents
would like to be with her now."
He looked at Ivy. He could not see her face.
"Get better," he said to her and she responded with a huffing
sound.
The man came before Peter. His face was tanned and pleasant, and
the woman at his side was attractive. Her hair was bright, like
Ivy's. She looked at Peter sadly, and pressed her husband forward
an inch.
He spoke. "Mr. Jones, we'd like to know how you intend to take
care of this."
"Dad," Ivy said to the window, "lay off. We're dealing with it."
"We had hoped you wouldn't come," Mrs. Green said. "We would be
the child's guardians if you hadn't. We'll gladly take care of
her."
"Get out," Ivy said, poking Peter in the ribs. "Just get out with
it all."
"This child's an enormous responsibility," the father said.
"Please let us take her."
"Right, Dad. Like you know all about it. Got a joint on you?"
"I can take care of her," Peter said, clutching the knapsack with
both hands. "And I will provide for Ivy."
"You sure will," Ivy piped in. "I'll send you the tab." She
snorted and laughed, then she started crying. Her father glanced
her way, then looked at Peter. He shook his head in
disappointment and went to his daughter's side.
"I'm so sorry," Peter said to Mrs. Green.
"To say the least," she said, joining her husband and daughter.
Peter exited the room carrying the knapsack. From the hallway he
took one last look at Ivy and her parents before the door closed,
shutting out the image huddled behind it. He was dazed by the
events of the last forty-eight hours. He slowly made his way down
the corridor, turning once to look back at the closed door to her
room. The first thought to surface through his haze of emotions
was of the baby. He had promised these people that he would care
for her.
He paused before the nurses' station and asked how to reach the
neonatal care unit. He tramped down the corridor, rounded the
corner, and pushed through a set of swinging double doors. To the
nurse sitting at a small desk, he said, "Pardon me, which baby is
the Jones-Green baby? I'm her father."
The nurse led him into a clean room and instructed him to put on
a sterile gown and a face mask. He followed her orders in
silence. Dressed in the sanitary outfit, he followed the nurse
into a room containing a row of clear plastic bubble-like
incubators, one of which held his baby's fragile baby. It was a
strange setting, surreal, like something out of a science fiction
film.
"Here she is," the nurse said.
Encased in the hygienic shell lay his baby girl. She was tiny,
and he could see thin, pulsing veins through her skin and bruises
all over her body. Her head! It looked so huge and unnatural, he
thought with alarm. He leaned closer, panicked.
The nurse saw his aghast expression and touched a gloved hand to
his arm. "Oh, don't worry. That's normal," she said. "All the
rest of her will catch up in the next couple of weeks. The head
develops a little faster at this stage. It's perfectly ordinary."
"What is all this?" he asked, studying the clear tubes entering
her nostrils and poking into her arms and belly, the wires and
probes taped to her impossible little body.
"Respiratory, protein, waste, heart," the nurse said, indicating
the various points, all of which appeared crudely connected and
held in place by swatches of white tape.
"How is she?"
"We're keeping a close eye on her. It was a difficult birth, but
she seems like a fighter."
"Hang in there, little girl," Peter whispered.
"I'm afraid we have to leave now. We need to be extremely careful
about exposure."
Peter and nodded, and through his paper face mask he kissed his
gloved fingers and touched the plastic shell. He straightened and
followed the nurse out of the room. Pulling himself free of the
green scrub outfit, he glanced one last time back through the
glass window into the neonatal room. He collected the knapsack
and pushed through the doors.
Sitting outside the room in one of the hard plastic waiting
chairs, was Kate.
Without a word she stood and caught him in her arms. She held him
for a moment, stiffly, then guided him to the seat beside her.
"Jesus, Kate. How did you - ?"
"I called Peggy. She told me you were here."
Peter looked at the silver doors. "She's so tiny. "
"I heard," Kate said. She pressed her folded hands into her lap
and cleared her throat. "Peter, why? Why didn't you tell me?"
He closed his eyes. He felt precariously close to throwing up,
surrounded by riddles and agony. Ivy. The baby. Kate.
"Kate," he said, "I didn't think this would happen." He opened
his eyes and looked at her. "You have to believe me."
"How many does this make?" Kate said, bitterly. "We could have
adopted."
He tried to put his arm around her, but she pulled away and
stood, hugging her arms tightly around herself.
"Kate, none," he said, moving closer. "There have never been any
others. I didn't plan this to happen."
"And she did?"
"No. Yes! I don't know," he said. "She was desperate. It just
happened. I didn't want it to, but it just did. We'd had too much
to drink. It was the wine - "
She slapped him hard across the face.
Without a word, he dropped his chin to his chest. He knew that
the blow he had struck her, this whole situation, had cut deep.
The damage would take a very long time to heal. But he had to
have her forgiveness, because without her he would never get
through this.
"Kate, please. I don't know what we'll do," he said. "But please
don't leave me. I need you."
Dr. Chen appeared from around the corner. "Mr. Jones?" he said.
He looked at Kate and gestured politely for her to sit down. Then
he led Peter away, around the bend in the corridor. They sat
down.
"Mr. Jones, we need for you to name your daughter."
No name. Their baby girl had no name. This thought seemed to be
the final blow to drain him of his last ounce of energy. It was
real, and final. His life was changed now and forever. Somehow
the knapsack fell from his hands, its contents spilling onto the
floor. Kate. He had to ask her.
"Wait," he said to the doctor. He jumped to his feet and ran
around the corner, calling out her name. But she was gone.
His shoulders slackened and he went back to the doctor, who was
collecting the contents that had spilled out of the knapsack.
Peter bent down to take over. He was overcome by a wave of
dizziness and the nausea. Then, just as abruptly, the spinning
halted and the sickness retreated, forced back by a keening sound
that arose in his throat.
There, among the clutter of notes and pens and the little black
box with its exposed circuits and wires, he found, written in her
mother's own hand across the label of the topmost disk, their
baby's name.
"Isle," he whispered.
"Mr. Jones?" the doctor said, not sure he had heard correctly.
"I said, Isle," Peter said, louder this time, taking the disks in
his hand. "My daughter's name is Isle."
PART IV
Chapter 17
"That's a good girl," Peter said, cradling the tiny Isle in his
arms. He checked her bottle. "Almost done."
For one and a half months she had been home with Peter, deemed
well enough leave the hospital after a touch-and-go stay for the
same length of time. She weighed a scant six and a quarter
pounds. Her eyes were curious and alert, just like her mother's.
Peter longed for her eyes to keep the clear sapphire color, a
glittering reflection of Ivy. Isle's hair was beginning to
outcrop in satiny brown whorls, the same color as her father's.
"Your little jewel," Grace said all smiles as she came into the
living room. "Go ahead, I'll finish up with her."
"Okay, shrimp, over to Grace," Peter said, handing over the
little pink bundle.
Peter stood beaming at his infant in Grace's lap, her tiny mouth
puckering the nipple of the bottle, tiny hands clutching and
uncurling, tiny stocking feet kicking. So fragile, yet strong.
"Petey!" Byron boomed from elsewhere in the house. "Let's go!"
"Better hurry before the bear comes out of his cave looking for
you."
"Coming," Peter called, and hurriedly kissed Isle's fuzzy head.