Having temporarily moved into Peter's California mansion since

they had come back from Maine after Isle's birth, the Holmeses

had been a godsend. Grace was all too happy to help out with

Isle, and Byron and Peter had resumed their project. He had still

not seen or heard from Ivy, and she had refused his calls at the

detoxification clinic where she was recovering.

Byron and Peter and their small team worked all hours of the day

on the design they had settled on. The day Isle was born, Ivy had

provided him with the missing link, the distinct component that

he had been seeking. With the ISLE interface, they now had a

model from which to refine the hardware, honing its design to

provide the ultimate platform, the perfect stage upon which Ivy's

invention could perform.

"Come here," Byron said enthusiastically, "Get a look at this."

He was standing before a Joey Plus computer. It was connected to

a small, open black box filled with a convolution of wires,

circuits, and components. Peter stood beside his mentor in the

makeshift partitioned lab they had set up in one of the large

bedrooms.

"We've got the agent tied in to the speech recognizer and it's

working like a charm. Here," Byron said, handing Peter a small

microphone, "tell it you want to make a date."

Peter cleared his throat. "Computer," he said, the keyword that

the ISLE speech recognizer listened for to carry out spoken

commands, "lunch with Byron on Friday."

On the screen, a small month-view calendar opened and the

upcoming Friday flashed. A moment later "12:00PM Byron Holmes /

Lunch" appeared in the date box.

The Joey Plus's built-in speaker came to life with a robotic

voice. "Lunch with Byron Holmes, noon, confirmed. Is there an

agenda?"

Peter grinned and looked at Byron, who lowered his voice. "A

little something we threw in this morning."

Peter spoke into the microphone. "Yes. Discuss computer

enhancements and - "

"Computer," the Joey said, interrupting Peter, "is unrecognized."

Peter gave Byron a puzzled look. "What happened?"

Byron was scratching his head. "Well how do you like that. We

never considered that. I mean, that if we call the computer

'computer,' then we can't use that word once it's listening to

whatever we tell it."

"Ah," Peter said. "Right. Hmm." He thought about this for a

second, then sat down before the Joey and started typing.

"What are you doing?" Byron said.

"Well," Peter said, lifting the microphone, "since the word

computer won't compute, all we need to do is give it a unique

name that we wouldn't normally use in an everyday context."

"Of course," Byron said. "Good thinking."

Peter pressed a key and the Joey spoke: "Please say my name so

that I know who I am."

"Pip," Peter said, loud and clear.

"Please repeat my name again, faster this time."

Peter said the name faster. The Joey Plus asked him to repeat it

once more, slowly this time, so that it knew three slight

variations on of its own name, thereby making recognition more

accurate.

"Pip?" Byron asked.

"Sure," Peter said. "Pip. Like in Dicken's "Great Expectations."

One of my all-time favorite characters."

"Then Pip it is," Byron laughed. "Let's give it a try."

Peter repeated the test and the Joey Plus, a.k.a. Pip, pulled off

the scheduling task without a hitch.

"Well done," Peter said, congratulating Byron.

"That's nothing. We got the net lookup voice stuff working too."

"Hey, come look at this," Paul Trueblood said, appearing from

behind one of the partitions used to divide the huge room.

Peter had contacted his two favorite engineers, Paul Trueblood

and Rick Boardman, after he and Byron had relocated the project

to California. During a dinner Peter had arranged, Byron had

talked about the ISLE vision, providing the engineers the

opportunity to get to know him. Both were excited by what they

heard, and the very next day both engineers resigned from Wallaby

and returned to Peter's home, ready to dive into the project.

In one hand Paul held a short stylus pen, and in the other a flat

display unit that connected to another Joey Plus portable

computer. With the stylus he began "writing" directly on the

display. As he scribbled, the computer converted his script

handwriting into clear text.

"Looking good," Peter said, watching the software do its thing

quickly and accurately. "Hey, no mistakes," he said when Paul

finished jotting down several lines. It took him a moment to

realize that what Paul had written were the lyrics to a song. A

Kate McGreggor song.

Byron applauded and, noticing Peter's ruminating, elbowed him.

"Good stuff, Paul," Peter said quietly.

"Hey, Ricky," Byron called, "how'd you manage to speed up the

recognition so much?"

A smiling Rick peered over the edge of another nearby partition.

"You can thank my pals at MIT. They were kind enough to slip me

some new algorithms at that conference I went to last week," Rick

said. "It zips up the language translation stuff, too. Watch." He

punched a few keys and the text on the display suddenly changed

to Spanish, accents and all, then, a keystroke later, Cyrillic.

"Okay, come on now," Peter said with a clap, putting an end to

the show. "We've only got another forty-five minutes," he said,

checking the clock on the wall. "I want you guys to run through

it once more to make sure there aren't any glitches."

"It's all working," Paul assured him, a little defensively. Just

like old times.

Peter smiled. "Okay, okay."

Byron said, "We've got the whole works all ready to show him.

It's gonna knock his socks off."

Peter had been skeptical about meeting Byron's old friend, who

was due to arrive shortly. However, trusting Byron's judgment, he

had ultimately given in.

"I hope so," Peter said, then, "I'm going to check on Isle." He

excused himself.

"She's asleep," Grace whispered, glancing up from her book. Isle

slept peacefully beside her on the sofa.

"Any calls?" Peter said. The house and lab phones were on

separate lines, so that the men were not distracted while

working.

Grace gave a sympathetic shake of her head.

Peter had not heard from Kate since Isle's birth. He had called

her the night she'd departed, and tried to persuade her to

return. She had declined, and that was the last time they had

spoken.

He now had Isle, and Byron and Grace, a family of sorts, and

ISLE. The project had crystallized into a wondrous thing. This

afternoon's meeting could signal the beginning of something

great, something bigger than anything he had ever done at

Wallaby. Yet, if he could, Peter would trade all of it to have

Kate back. If only he could undo his mistake...

As if reading his mind, the older woman laid a hand on his wrist.

"Petey, you can call her, you know."

He shrugged. "I told her I would leave it up to her. That she's

eternally welcome, and we want her back. But I think I've lost

her for good, Grace."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure. You know, after Byron had his heart

attack, I almost left him."

"Really? How come?"

"His pride. He felt so incapacitated by the fact that he couldn't

help himself, and that he was nearing retirement, that he sort of

turned against me. When he was bedridden, I set up a room in the

house with all his favorite things, maps and model ships, books

he loved. But all he could do was reject my help, hurt me."

"But it's not the same."

"Isn't it? Didn't what happened between you and Ivy happen

because you knew, in the back of your mind, that you were losing

control at Wallaby? And maybe you thought Kate would not want you

once that happened?"

Peter stared at her. What she said had never occurred to him, but

when he considered it, it rang true.

"Petey, I know my husband better than anyone. And I know when I

see someone who's like him. I made a decision many years ago to

be his partner, till death do us part. We came close to breaking

that promise, until he told me one simple thing."

"I think I know what he said."

"Then why don't you say it?"

He hesitated, then it. "I was scared."

"And so was he. But when he told me, when he came right out and

said it, I understood. Yes, it's different. Infidelity is harder

to forgive. But if you tell her why, as you just told me, maybe

she'll give you a second chance."

"It's all so mixed up. There's the baby, and the project and

everything going on today. I'm not sure now is the right time.

Everything is so up in the air."

"But if she were back in your life, Peter, wouldn't these things

seem a little more tolerable?"

He looked at his baby. "Yes," he said. "You're right. I'll do it.

I'll call her."

* * *

Greta walked into the bank and faced the long line of customers.

"Ugh," she sneered, settling her sunglasses in her hair.

Resigned, she labored to the end of the line, a dozen or so

people between her and the front. She fished through her purse,

looking for a stray form left over from a past visit. She found

none, and besides, she wasn't sure which form she needed anyway.

There has to be a better way, she thought, glancing anxiously at

the multitude of forms stacked on the podium beside the line.

Just then, the branch manager appeared from a small room behind

the main counter, carrying a handful of papers in his hands. Ah!

There it was, a better way. She managed to catch his eye.

"Bruce! How are you?" Greta said affectionately, catching him

lightly by the arm.

"Well hello, Mrs. Locke. How are you?" he said, patting her hand.

She leaned close to his ear. "I was fine, until I walked into

this. It's becoming so difficult to bank."

Taking advantage of her impairment, which, before falling in love

with Jean-Pierre, she would have never considered, she fluttered

her four-fingered hand in the air. She sighed. "Oh well."

Managing to restrain his surprise, he glanced pensively at the

papers in his hand, then at the woman who stood in front of

Greta. Like the others in line, the woman's attention was fixed

on the front of the line. Greta read the young manager's mind

with delicious knowing: She is Matthew Locke's wife, with a

history of enormous deposits. And very large balances. And, she

knew, he had never before seen her disfigured hand. Pity.

He leaned closer. "Wait over at my desk. I'll be finished with

this transaction in just a minute, then I'll take care of you."

She graced him with a thankful smile and casually strolled over

to the manager's desk and seated herself. She opened her purse,

busied herself emptying old receipts and gum wrappers. A few

minutes later the manager returned and seated himself opposite

her. He collected her litter and, all business, discarded it in

the wastebasket beneath his desk. Clasping his hand together atop

the desk blotter, he beamed with anticipation, plainly expecting

a big deposit. "Now, what is it I can do for you, Mrs. Locke?"

She produced her checkbook and flattened it on the desk before

her. "I'd like to withdraw some of my funds," she said.

His expression seemed to flatten a little. "How much would you

like to withdraw?"

She looked from side to side, then leaned forward, her chin an

inch above her poised pen. "A quarter-million dollars," she

whispered.

"I see," he said, blinking, looking personally offended. "Is

there something wrong with our service?"

She gave a little laugh. "Oh, no. No, no. You're always so kind

and friendly. It's really not that much money - relatively

speaking," she said with a shake of her shoulders, a subtle

reminder of their overall balance.

"From which account will you draw the funds?" he asked, his

fingers working quickly over the keyboard of the computer

terminal beside the desk. "Your personal checking account balance

here doesn't total that amount."

"I know. I'd like you to arrange to collect it from the market

fund account, and then deposit it into this," she said,

indicating the account number in her open checkbook. She unfolded

the small slip of paper Jean-Pierre had given her and showed it

to the manager. "Then I'll write a check, which I'd like wired to

this Swiss account."

"Very well, Mrs. Locke." He opened one of the desk drawers.

"We'll just need to fill out this form," he said, tearing off a

small pink sheet. "Are you and Mr. Locke traveling?" he asked

casually as he transcribed her account number onto the form.

"Nope. Just me. It's to help set up affairs in Europe before I

depart for an extended trip."

He tapped the account number into the computer terminal and a

moment later the account activity unrolled on the display. "Oh,"

he said, frowning. "Mrs. Locke, this is a joint account. I'm

afraid we're going to need Mr. Locke's signature on this form

before we can provide wire authorization."

She straightened. "But the account is in my name," she said,

puzzled.

"Yes, Mrs. Locke," he said patiently, "your checking account is

in your name, but the funds are coming from your joint account

with Mr. Locke."

"But they are leaving from my account," she insisted, as if this

made a difference.

"Yes, they are, but to get into your account they must first come

out of the market fund, which is in both names."

"Is there any other way?" she said, distressed. "I mean, It's

really such a small amount. Couldn't we just this once make it

work somehow?"

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Locke. We must have Mr. Locke's signature

on this form before we can proceed with the transaction. I'm

sorry."

The manager wrote an X beside the line that needed Matthew's

signature. "Normally, Mr. Locke would have to appear in person.

But if you can just have him sign this and then come back with it

before three o'clock, we can complete the transaction today."

Pulling out of the bank's parking lot she decided to drive to

Wallaby and have Matthew sign the form immediately. It was best

to just get the whole transfer done and over with.

When she had asked Jean-Pierre why he couldn't first go over to

France and open a joint account in both their names, he had told

her that this was the best way, something to do with interest

rates and international rules and regulations and other things

she didn't understand, or care to know more about. The long and

short of it, according to Jean-Pierre, was that a delay would

cause them to lose thousands of dollars in interest. He obviously

knew what he was talking about, and she had agreed to do it his

way. After all, she rationalized, it was for their future. And

besides, he had promised he would make no decisions without first

consulting her. This way, if he found something that they liked,

he would be able to act fast, securing the property quickly,

without having to wait for signatures to arrive via slow,

international means.

She pressed hard on the accelerator, hoping to catch Matthew

while he ate lunch in his office, as he customarily did this time

of day.

Chapter 18

"Matthew, it's all so positive," Laurence Maupin said with

smiling allegiance as she closed the copy of the "Wall Street

Journal" resting on his desk. "You've got the press in the palm

of your hand these days."

"I'd say you've had more than a little to do with that."

"Just doing my job."

"And more," he said with a mischievous grin.

His secretary opened his office door and leaned in. "Matthew,

your meeting with the executive staff has been moved to

one-thirty."

He thanked her and she returned to her desk. He closed the issue

of "Business Week" he had been reading, which featured an article

Laurence had pitched. He appraised his young assistant

appreciatively as she flipped through a manila file folder. She

looked at him.

"How about some lunch?" she asked, closing the folder.

"Sure. What are you up for?"

"You pick."

"I haven't had sushi in a while."

Laurence wrinkled her nose. "Hmm. I've somehow managed to avoid

sushi all these years. Well, I guess it's time I tried it."

"You'll love it," he said, escorting her out of his office. To

his secretary Eileen, he said, "We're going next door for lunch."

They boarded the elevator. "I'm curious as to why the executive

staff pulled together for a meeting this afternoon," Matthew

said. "No one has indicated a problem or situation of any sort to

me."

"Perhaps it's to congratulate you on the fact that the Joey II is

shipping two months ahead of schedule, with thousands of orders

waiting to be filled."

"Maybe," he said, without conviction. "But we usually don't call

together an executive staff meeting without some prior notice.

And I'm usually the one to call them."

They crossed the Wallaby parking lot and walked along the

sidewalk. "Who did call this one?" she asked.

He stopped in his tracks, and looked at her. "You know, I don't

know," he said with mild astonishment. "I hadn't thought about it

until you just asked. I suppose it was Hank Towers."

"Well, I can't imagine it being anything but good. Things have

gone up, up, up since you've taken control."

"Yes, and I can thank you for that too," he quipped, shifting the

topic from business to pleasure.

She touched her fingers to her lips to stifle a laugh as he

opened the restaurant door for her. The Japanese hostess greeted

them with a bow, and indicated for them to follow her. She led

them into the dining area.

"I'd prefer a room in back," Matthew said when the hostess

presented a table in the crowded general dining area, occupied

mostly by Wallaby employees.

She nodded kindly and led them to the rear of the restaurant, to

one of the more private rooms, screened off from the rest of the

place with sliding rice paper and teakwood partitions.

"This is much better," Matthew said, stepping up to the low

platform. He and Laurence kicked off their shoes and handed them

to the hostess, who placed them outside the private room. They

seated themselves side by side in the sunken pit, facing the

sliding door.

The door slid closed and they opened their menus. A moment later

Matthew felt Laurence's stocking feet resting on top of his own.

He scanned the menu briefly then folded it. "How about I order?"

he said, noticing she was having some difficulty choosing among

the unusual dishes. "Trust me," he said, and kissed her forehead.

He felt like a man on top of the world. This was how things

should be. In the past couple of months his wife had calmed down,

just as he had known she would, and was off again doing her

projects and things. Whatever it was she was occupying her time

with he did not care, so long as she remained placated. As for

her affair, he supposed she was still carrying on with it, but

with whom, and where, he could not say. Nor did he care.

The rice paper screen silently slid open, and the waitress

entered carrying a tray. She handed them each a moist hot towel

and filled their mugs with green tea, and Matthew recited their

order.

The waitress exited, and he gave Laurence's knee a little

squeeze. "Don't worry, I picked a nice variety. No appalling

surprises, I promise."

* * *

"Amazing!" William Harrell said excitedly as the ISLE system

looked up a name he asked it to find in its sample phone

directory. "And what did you say ISLE stands for?"

"Intelligent Speech and Language Environment."

"Right," William said. "Tell me more about the recognition

interface."

"It was what really shifted our focus on this whole new design,"

Peter began. Byron, Paul, and Rick sat at the table also,

listening as Peter explained their design. "We had already

decided that intelligent agents were the next big step in

portable computers and devices, but it didn't seem like enough to

us. We wanted more. And when we encountered the ISLE hardware and

software, the pieces just sort of fell in place."

He paused for a moment, picked up the small black box sitting on

the table before them. "In its final configuration, this

circuitry will fit on one single PC card, that slides into one of

the portable's available slots. It contains the core recognition

software, speech synthesizer, and 74,000 word English language

library. The card's extra RAM stores up to 5,000 additional words,

such as last names or companies or terms you commonly refer to.

Additional libraries, ones that are industry-specific, for

example, medical libraries, can be stored on another PC card, or

on the hard disk."

"Incredible," William said. "But really, do people want this sort

of interface? Will they really use it? In tests we conducted in

our labs, we found that while users often asked for speech

recognition, few actually used it once we installed it on

prototype systems. What makes this any different?"

Peter nodded in agreement. "You're right. It's true. While people

think they want to be able to talk to a computer, have it take

dictation, we believe what they really want is to give it simple

commands to make certain small tasks simpler. But listen, instead

of telling you all of this, why don't we show you instead. Guys?"

Paul and Rick arranged the hackneyed Joey Plus computer in front

of William and Peter handed him a microphone.

"In a final product," Peter said, "we'll of course build-in a

microphone for hand's free operation." He hit a few keys. "Now,

say you are driving in your car and you remember that you need to

send an e-mail or fax to an associate to confirm an upcoming

appointment."

"Okay," William said. "How do I start."

"Do what comes naturally."

William thought about this for a second then spoke into the

microphone. "Pip, create an e-mail."

The Joey's hard disk was busy for an instant and then a blank

e-mail form popped up on the screen. The Joey said, "To whom?"

William turned to Byron with wide eyes. Byron nodded and

whispered, "Go on, give the little fella what he's asking for."

William said: "Peter."

Joey: "Peter Jones? Or Peter Smith?"

"Peter Jones," William said, then he covered the microphone and

was about to say something, but Peter anticipated his question

before he could ask it.

"That's the agent at work, behind the scenes. It found two Peters

in the address book and didn't know which one you wanted, so it

asked you to decide."

The Joey filled in the 'To:' field and skipped to the next line.

It had already filled in the 'From:' and 'Date:' fields

automatically.

"Subject?" the Joey said.

"Meeting confirmation."

The Joey considered this for a few seconds and then the monthly

calendar view appeared on the screen, layered above the e-mail

form.

"Do you mean your meeting scheduled for this Friday?"

"Yes."

The Joey automatically keyed in the subject field with: "Meeting

Confirmation, July sixth."

"Dear Peter," the Joey said, then "Please begin your message,

William."

William recited a brief note, saying that he was looking forward

to the upcoming meeting. When he was done, he covered the

microphone with his hand again and turned to Byron. "How do I

tell it I'm done?"

"Just say it's name first, and it will know that you want to give

it a command. That's why we named this one Pip. It's a word it

would probably never encounter in your normal correspondence and

so it knows that you are talking to it, rather than giving it

text to put on the screen."

"Pip," William said into the mic, "That's all."

The Joey did not respond.

"Pip," William tried again, "Thank you."

Nothing.

William looked at Peter, who looked at Rick.

"What's the word for done," Peter said.

"Done," Rick said. "Looks like we'd better put in a few more ways

of saying done," he said, scribbling a note to himself.

William said, "Pip: done."

"Thank you," the Joey said. "Shall I send this fax now or later?"

"Now," William said. He looked at Peter. "Is that okay."

Peter nodded.

"Sending," the Joey said. A few moments later the portable's

built-in modem dialed the phone line plugged into it. They heard

the line ring through the computer's speaker, and a half-second

later the fax machine in the workroom rang. It picked up on the

next ring, and William got up and went over to it. The fax he had

just dictated, properly dated and addressed, whispered out of the

fax machine and lay in the tray, complete. William picked it up

and let out a pleased whistle. He heard two beeps behind him and

he turned around.

"Fax transmission complete," the Joey said.

"Pip," William said, "thank you."

"You're welcome, William," the Joey said.

William laughed and shook his head. "Incredible," he said. He

switched off the microphone and laid it down on the table. "Well,

I guess that proves your point. You're right. For simple

busy-work like sending a fax or creating an e-mail, being able to

speak to the computer directly does make the job easier."

"Right," Peter said. "And some people will use it for longer

documents, like a traditional dictation system, but without the

need to transcribe it. And in order to avoid being interrupted in

the middle of your brainstorm it will wait until you are done to

ask you to clarify any words it did not understand."

"What about the handwriting stuff," William said.

"That's another enhancement," Peter said, ready to explain how it

fit in with the rest of the product. But just then, Grace came

into the room.

"Come on, boys, lunch is ready."

The men stood and stretched, and Peter went on as they headed out

of the room. "Like the speech interface, we think the handwriting

recognition, which we've vastly improved over the standard Joey

version, will be used for smaller tasks, jotting down notes and

contact information, that sort of thing. But not necessarily for

writing long letters. For that, they can use the keyboard.

However, for editing an existing document, using the stylus like

a red pen to mark up the page and scribble in corrections or move

text around, we've put in standard editor pen-strokes to make

revisions a snap."

William removed his glasses. "It's amazing. The way these

enhancements - the agent technology, and the speech and improved

handwriting recognition - have upped the ante, making an already

pretty smart portable system truly intelligent."

"Right," Peter said. "And the vertical application possibilities

are endless. Publishing, using the editorial mark-up features I

described. And any business that relies on forms. We're already

collaborating with a doctor friend of mine at Stanford," Peter

said enthusiastically. "She's building a system that lets doctors

and nurses track patients' vital signs and prescription orders on

a prototype system we've hacked together for her."

The group seated themselves around the dining table, with Peter

and William sitting side by side.

William said, "But what about the computer itself? I see you've

cracked open a few Joeys in there and put in your own custom

hardware. Is that how you intend to deliver the product? As a

Joey peripheral?"

Peter let out a big sigh on this one. "That's a good question.

One I tend to get a little too worked up over. See, I want to do

our own thing. It would take longer, but it would be ours, and

not a part of Wallaby's. Let's just say I'm still a little

sensitive on the subject. Byron, why don't you handle that one."

Grace handed Isle to Peter and he gently rocked her in his arms.

"She's precious," William said. "I didn't know you were a

father."

"Yep," Peter said. "Her name is Isle. She's the little jewel

behind everything you just saw." He kissed her fuzzy head.

Byron took a sip of his water and addressed William's question.

"That's not a bad idea, Billy. Petey and I have been talking

about it between us, and we're not exactly sure how we're going

to deliver the final product. We could do it as a Joey add-on. Or

we could create our own new computer. That Joey in there that you

were playing with is only the basic guts. For more reliable net

and web access, we've slipped in a faster, 28.8 KB modem with a

wireless option so you can send and receive e-mails or do paging

through the airwaves, without plugging into a phone line. And

we've come up with a sharper, lower-power thin-film transistor

display, a longer-life battery pack, and an infrared port too,

that lets you beam information to your desktop system or to other

Joeys and IR devices, like printers, or hell, to your TV even,

when we get the home-entertainment interface software we're

kicking around up and running."

William put down his fork and took a sip of his water. "Well,

there is another option that you have not mentioned." He paused.

"You could integrate the ISLE design into a next-generation ICP

product."

Everyone around the table stopped and looked at him. Then they

looked at Peter.

Peter, gently rocking Isle in his lap, looked at Byron. Then he

turned to William, and he smiled.

"Now there's an interesting idea."

* * *

She pulled into a handicapped parking space beside Matthew's car,

then flashed her Wallaby VIP badge to the security guard sitting

behind the lobby desk. Matthew had gotten the pass for her a few

years ago, after she had once been accosted by security when she

had arrived and marched right past the desk carrying a basket of

flowers, a surprise for her husband. As far as she was concerned,

she was still the boss's wife, and she could go anywhere she damn

well pleased. She ignored the guard's pleasantries and boarded

the elevator. A moment later the door parted, and she was on the

top floor.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Locke," a handsome receptionist said

cheerfully.

"Hello, Sheldon," Greta said with an effusive smile. Such a

charming young man. He knew how to treat a distinguished woman.

As she headed away, her peripheral vision caught the young man

lifting the telephone handset, warning the executive secretaries

that she was on her way.

So well trained, she thought, a sudden hush falling over the

executive area. As she marched along the row of offices, each of

the secretaries graced her with a smile and a greeting.

"Greta," Matthew's secretary Eileen said with deliberate

flatness.

Greta marched past her desk without so much as a glance and went

straight into her husband's office.

Eileen came in behind her. "He's gone to lunch next door," she

said. "Can I help you with something?"

Lingering for a few moments, she examined several documents on

Matthew's desk with feigned interest. Satisfied, she cleared her

throat and walked out of the office. Neither of the two women

wished the other any sort of day, good, bad or otherwise.

She made her way back to the elevators.

The elevator rang, and someone ran past her and boarded it.

"Please hold that," she called out. Taking her time to reach the

elevator, a pleasurable knowledge swept through her; whoever the

person in the elevator was, he or she would hold the door for

her.

"Thank you, dear," she said to the young man aboard the elevator.

Because she had participated in all of Wallaby's major functions,

whether on stage with Matthew as he wished the employees season's

greetings, or during congratulatory speeches and celebration

events, everyone in the company recognized Greta Locke - the

head-honcho's wife.

Reveling in this notoriety, she strolled into the sushi

restaurant and searched among the tables for her husband.

Conversations quieted among the diners as they noticed her. Mrs.

Matthew Locke pretended indifference to the attention she drew as

she started through the dining area and headed for the back room,

where on past occasions she and Matthew had dined with some of

the other Wallaby executives and their wives.

"May I help you?" the hostess inquired politely, treading

alongside Greta.

"I know my way around," Greta said. She went in back and stopped

before the group of private partitioned rooms. The doors to three

of the intimate little rooms were open, and she could see they

were empty. She went for the first closed door, but just before

sliding it open she noticed Matthew's shoes, as well as a pair of

heels, sitting on the floor by the last room, which overlooked

the carp pond at the restaurant's atrium center.

As she neared the room, she heard Matthew's voice. "Here, try

this one," then a foolish giggle, presumably belonging to whoever

it was who fit into such tiny heels.

Greta stepped up to the platform and slid the door open, just in

time to see Matthew, chopsticks in hand, placing a dripping pink

piece of raw fish into the mouth of a young pretty thing. The

girl sat with her eyes closed and head titled back slightly,

wriggled her tongue in anticipation. Matthew's other hand was

hidden beneath the girl's hair, supporting her neck.

Looking up and encountering his wife's stunned expression,

Matthew jerked impulsively, and in doing so plunged the chunk of

raw fish into the girl's mouth. Her eyes snapped open, and she

made a revolting sound. Her hands flew to her throat. She was

choking.

Matthew struck the girl sharply on the back, and with a great

popping cough, the pink thing flew from her mouth into her cupped

hand.

Seeing that the girl's airway was free, Matthew turned to his

wife. Getting up, his napkin fell into the tray of sushi. As he

reached for it, his feet encountered an obstacle, and in an

effort to prevent himself from crashing through the window, he

caught the edge of the table, managing to tip over their mugs of

tea, as well as knock most of the remaining sushi onto the floor.

"Sit down, Matthew," Greta said with a disgusted flap of her

hand. She gave him a look. "I must say, darling, I'm very

impressed with your technique. I would have thought you'd need a

hook to catch this sort of fish."

The girl sucked deep gulps of air, alternating her wide,

watery-eyed gape between husband and wife.

"Poor thing, so sorry you don't care for the selection," Greta

said with a pout. "I think there's some more on the floor. Go

fetch, dearie."

"Greta," Matthew snapped, "close that door!"

"Oh, relax, Matthew. This will only take a minute. However," she

said, seating herself in the pit across from them, "I'm not

leaving until I see this live one swim through a hoop and catch a

chunk of that bait in the air."

Matthew glared at his wife as she opened her purse and withdrew

the pink bank form.

"This is Laurence Maupin," Matthew said, attempting to explain

himself. "She's my public relations assistant."

Ignoring the girl's flawless extended hand, Greta slid aside the

tray and dropped the form on the table before Matthew. She made

sure to use her left hand.

The door slid open and the hostess poked her head in. "Would you

like a menu?" she asked graciously.

"Go away," Greta snapped. The door slid closed.

"We were just going over some notes," Matthew said, still

indulging in his farce. "For a speech I'll be giving in a few

weeks."

"Is that so?" Greta said. "And where will you be speaking,

Matthew, Sea World?

More composed now, Laurence eyed her tormentor with plain

contempt. "This is not what you think, Mrs. Locke," she said.

"Butt out. This business is between my husband and I." She

flicked the form into Matthew's lap, then slapped a gold pen down

on the table. "Sign it."

"Greta! This is for a quarter-million dollars," he said, his

voice disbelieving. "What the hell are you doing?"

She gave her husband an impatient look. "Matthew, either you shut

up and sign that, or I walk out there and announce your fishy

little affair with Flipper here."

He considered this, looked down at the form. "I hope you know

what you're doing," he said, and picked up the pen.

"What the hell is so funny?" Greta asked, noticing Laurence's

apparently merry expression as she watched Matthew's hand

squiggling across the form. For the briefest instant, Laurence's

smile intensified when she met Greta's eyes. At this stare-down,

Greta lost.

Matthew shoved the pen and the transfer document across the

table, then crossed his arms and stared down at the ruined lunch

like an angry child.

Greta collected the form and folded it neatly, a triumphant smile

on her face. Matthew shook his head in disgust as the slip

disappeared into her purse with a snap. His anger was complete.

At this point he was only thankful she was leaving immediately,

without causing him any further embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry I can't stay to see the rest of the show - " Greta

started, calmly.

Or so he thought.

"I'll especially hate missing the part where you balance his

balls on your nose."

Matthew lunged for her, but she escaped his grasp with a titter

and left the room, not bothering to close the door. She swept

past the mute diners, her victory plain for everyone to see. She

even paused at the door for a moment to take a few mints at the

hostess desk.

But when she pressed through the doors, leaving her stunned

audience behind, she felt strangely unmasked in the bright

sunlight. Something inside her shifted, and her elation quickly

drained.

She was overcome by a sudden panic. And then it hit her. Was this

her last hurrah? Would that young girl take over her reign as

Mrs. Matthew Locke? she wondered covetously.

She pressed her fist to her mouth and forced herself to

concentrate on her task at hand. She had to get to the bank with

the signed transfer. Then she would feel better. Yes, she told

herself, catching Matthew with his little tart would strengthen

her decision, would reassure her. She couldn't wait to tell

Jean-Pierre she had caught him, red-handed.

But this small euphoria was as short-lived as the last. As she

raced up the highway, a disturbing realization mocked her,

prodding obscenely at her sensibility. That all this time,

contrary to her reasoning, Matthew had had the capacity to love

more than Wallaby, and he had chosen to share it not with her,

but with another woman.

Chapter 19

"Then we have a tentative agreement," William said with plain

satisfaction in his voice. Isle lay slanted across his knees, her

tiny hand now and then batting his tie.

Peter and Byron, seated on a sofa, both nodded in agreement.

"Wonderful," William said. "You hear that, young lady? Your name

is going to be famous!" As if on cue the baby yawned, and

everyone laughed.

"Speaking of tired, you men must be working yourselves to the

bone with all the progress you've made," William said, handling

Isle to Peter. "When do you expect to have a final design?"

Byron considered for a moment. "The hardware design is nearly

complete. We've got a lot of software work to do. Six months?"

Byron ventured, turning to Peter.

"If you say so, chief," Peter said. "We'll need some engineers,

administrative support, that kind of stuff."

William assured the men that he would get them whatever they

needed to see their project through to completion as quickly as

possible.

Peter was nearly satisfied, but there was one last thing he

wanted to clarify. "What about the strategic alliance?"

"That stays, for now." William said, then: "But when the ISLE

system is ready for production, we'll be less dependent on

Wallaby. There's an important difference between what we've got

with Wallaby, and what we are proposing for ISLE. With this, ICP

will have invested hard cash in your baby. So don't worry, we'll

see to it that she's a success."

"Then we're on," Byron said.

William beamed. "Excellent," he said. He checked his watch. "I'd

better get moving if I'm going to catch my plane." The trio

walked to the door together. They shook hands, and William

departed.

"You see, Petey," Byron said after closing the door, "the big

guys aren't all so bad after all, eh?"

"I like him," Peter admitted.

"Man, we've sure got our work cut out for us. I just hope we

don't have any setbacks."

"How did it go?" Grace asked.

Byron kissed her on the cheek. "Like a charm."

"Congratulations," she said. "Peter, this man called while you

guys were out in the yard." She traded a Post-it note for Isle.

There was a name written on it that Peter did not recognize, and

a phone number. "Thanks. I'll call him later. Let's go tell the

guys the good news."

* * *

"Did Greta find you?" Eileen asked, rising from her chair as

Matthew returned from lunch.

"She found me, all right," Matthew said, winded, rushing past her

and into his office. He gathered his pen and notepad and hurried

to the boardroom. There was only a minute to spare before the

meeting began.

The entire Wallaby executive staff was seated around the table.

"Good afternoon," Matthew said, sweeping the group with a smile.

For an instant their inexpressive faces reminded him of the day

they had voted Peter Jones from the company, and the hairs on the

back of his neck tingled as he seated himself at the head of the

table.

All eyes drifted to the assistant chairman, Hank Towers.

"Matthew," he started affably, "we're all pleased with the large

volume of sales orders for the new Joey II."

A few heads nodded. A smile here, another there. The room seemed

to loosen a little, and Matthew smiled broadly. Laurence had been

correct. The meeting had been called to applaud his success with

the Joey II, and the strategic alliance with ICP.

"Thank you," Matthew said modestly. Then he became serious,

scanning the room expertly, locking briefly on each person's

eyes. "But I couldn't have done it without all of you."

Nods. A few brief smiles of genuine affection. Then all eyes

gravitated once more to Hank Towers. There was an unsettling air

of deference, protocol.

"Matthew, you've been very busy with the ICP alliance," Hank

said, "which is perfectly understandable. So the executives and I

have been working on our three-year plan."

Matthew nodded.

"However," Hank said, "there is some concern among us,

particularly in the area of future product engineering."

Matthew glanced at Alan Parker, who had been Matthew's assistant

in getting the Joey division back on track after Peter's

ejection. Alan had directed the reorganization of the Mate and

Joey divisions, and managed the day-to-day development

operations, while Matthew had championed the project's overall

mission of delivering the new Joey Plus, then the Joey II, to the

public. At present, Parker seemed to be very interested in his

disposable pen.

"What kind of concerns?" Matthew said, relieved to hear that his

own voice sounded authoritative.

Hank said, "With the work we've all done, focusing on the Joey

Plus, and especially the II, none of us had much time to think

about the future. Now that you've gotten the Joey II out the

door, we've come to an important realization. Matthew, the truth

of the matter is we have no realistic three-year plan."

"What do you mean no plan?" Matthew said, his voice splintering

in mid-sentence. It was as if he were being shaken awake while in

the midst of a pleasurable dream, suddenly confronted with the

bafflement that comes with the knowledge that it was just that, a

dream. Because he had spent all his time securing the alliance

with ICP, he had never considered what Wallaby would think about

after the relationship was announced.

Actually, he thought in the silence of the room, that was not

altogether correct. In truth, he had not cared about what Wallaby

would face after the ICP strategic alliance, because after that,

according to the original plan, ICP would have bought Wallaby,

and the future strategy would have become their concern. At that

stage he would have been protected behind his big desk in his

luxurious, apartment-sized office. How could he have made such a

simple oversight? After contacting William to cancel the final

stage of the eventual merger, hadn't he realized that following

the Joey II, there would have to come new, future products from

the innovative Wallaby?

Sometime during his reverie, the meeting had resumed.

"...among us is an awareness that we're all but succumbing to ICP

as a maker of compatible systems. Our days as a radical portable

computer company, a company for the people, may be over."

As Matthew considered this implication, that he had crumbled

their fairy-tale company by moving them successfully into big

business, he felt as though he were somehow slipping back in

time, to the meeting in which he had forced out Peter Jones. Only

this time, he was playing the part of Peter. Wasn't that what he

had always wanted?

"Each one of you," he charged, sweeping his index finger around

the table, "approved our plan to build systems that could tie-in

to ICP's computers and share the same information!" He stood up,

shoved his hands into his pockets.

"We did," Hank said calmly, speaking on the group's behalf. "As

well as granting you the authority to run the shop. And all this

room wants to hear is that you've got a product strategy, a

vision, that goes beyond where we are today."

"Of course I have a plan," Matthew said indignantly. "We will

evolve the Joey II, incorporating more powerful features." His

voice turned shrill. "ICP is at our mercy. Think about it! The

orders indicate that we are now the maker on the rise, that Joey

is the one that people want for doing their work and accessing

other systems, if even those systems are ICP's!"

"Matthew, be realistic," Hank said. "ICP could drop our

arrangement at a moment's notice and introduce their own system."

His manner became grave. "Or worse."

Matthew pressed his hands flat on the table, ready to challenge

the group's faithlessness. "Worse? What worse?"

"Denise?" Hank said with a deferential nod to Denise Campbell,

Wallaby's chief financial officer.

"There's a rumor circulating" Denise said. "Supposedly one of our

engineers heard from his former colleague, Paul Trueblood, that

Jones was demonstrating some new product to an official from ICP

today."

Matthew paled. ICP? William Harrell? Was it possible that William

had teamed with Peter in the few short months since Matthew had

pulled the plug on the acquisition plan?

"That's what could be worse," Hank said. "In my estimation, it's

possibly the worst thing that could happen to Wallaby. Our own

founder leaves and builds a product that directly competes with

his own invention."

They all stared at him, waiting. If he didn't think quickly,

there was going to be another vote. "But the ICP alliance is our

vision," Matthew said, groping for a solution.

Hank met this revelation with a gentle shake of his head. He

looked down at his leather portfolio, at some notes. "Matthew,"

he started, sounding very tired.

If he didn't come up with something in the next few seconds,

Matthew knew they would be asked to place their ballots.

Resorting to the thing that had brought him to Wallaby in the

first place, he decided his only chance was to resurrect his

original secret plan.

"Wait," he blurted, cutting off Hank before he could continue. "I

have a solution," he said, trying to sound confident. "I propose

that we merge with ICP."

Their faces around the table disclosed either total confusion or

total shock. Hank gave an astonished chuckle. "What on earth

makes you think we would do a crazy thing like that? Or that they

would?"

"They would, and they will," Matthew said firmly. "When we

announced the strategic alliance, William Harrell had expressed

ICP's interest in possibly merging our companies. I told him we

weren't interested," he said, shifting the details to accommodate

his story. A funny feeling hit him just then. That regardless of

today's outcome, the act of finally revealing his compulsion felt

like a great weight off his shoulders. At least his original plan

was no longer a secret.

"Why weren't we told of this?" Hank demanded.

"I didn't seriously think it would be something any of us would

want," Matthew said. "Harrell knew he couldn't acquire us without

our consent, so I never feared a hostile takeover. An attempt to

create a monopoly would be prevented by the FTC, and more

seriously, the employees would rally against it, and our culture

would be lost."

"But that's just it, Matthew," Hank said. "Without any real

future products in the pipeline our culture is essentially

doomed. You've succeeded in convincing the employees that

coexisting with ICP was the right thing to do. No one has given

back their profit-sharing checks, for crying out loud."

"Hank, this is business, not a fraternity. Business is sales, and

we're finally making them, big time. Why not go all the way with

it? We're a grown-up company now, in with the big boys."

If Wallaby were to merge with ICP, no one seated around the table

would have a financial care in the world. Their stock options

would stack additional millions upon the millions most of them

had already accrued. And looking around the room, at the

calculating faces, he knew that that was exactly what each was

thinking. All except Hank.

"Now then," Matthew said, "I propose we vote. How many people

would agree to the initiation of a merger with ICP?"

"It would mean the end of Wallaby," Hank said gravely.

"No, Hank," Matthew countered, turning to face him. "It's just

the beginning. ICP would sell millions more Joeys then we ever

could."

"Agreed," Hank said. "You just said it yourself. ICP would sell.

No more Wallaby."

As far as Matthew was concerned, it was all the same. He would

assuredly be named president of the Wallaby subsidiary, just as

he and William had planned almost three years ago. And the

thought of eventually taking over William's role at ICP held

enormous appeal again, as it once had. He locked onto this as his

new goal.

"All in favor of me contacting William Harrell and proposing the

merger of ICP and Wallaby, please raise your hands." His own hand

stretched so high it hurt his side.

"We'll have to get full board approval," Hank warned, one last

effort to counter Matthew's proposition.

Matthew said, "When they find out that Peter has been talking to

ICP, I don't see how they can object. Now, all in favor, please

raise your hands."

The room teetered on the edge of absolute stillness.

Then, slowly at first, hands rose. One after another, every

person in the room raised his or her hand - except Hank Towers.

Once more, all eyes were on him.

Slowly, he lifted his open palm, held it there briefly, then

stood and left the room.

"Very well," Matthew said and lowered his hand. The others

followed suit then silently gathered their things and left the

room.

All alone now, he lowered himself to a chair with an exhausted

sigh. He had done it again. First Peter. Then the strategic

alliance. Now the merger. An agreeable sensation of vengeance

washed through him when he thought about Peter Jones and whatever

plan he had up his own sleeve. For the second time he had voted

Peter out, crushing whatever his secret scheme with ICP might

have been.

But then he was hit by a sudden troubling thought. What if

Peter's new project actually was superior to Joey? What if

William no longer wanted Wallaby? What if the two had already

decided to do business together?

He bolted from his chair and raced from the board room. He had to

hurry and try to reach William after he was through with Peter

Jones, even if that meant intercepting him at the airport.

* * *

She had considered driving straight to Jean-Pierre's after

finishing her business with the bank, but decided instead to drop

the car at home first and walk to his cottage. The stroll and the

fresh air would calm her.

In her tight fist she carried the receipt from the funds

transferred to Jean-Pierre's Swiss account. Transaction complete.

Very soon she would find herself strolling to their own stable on

their own ranch, with as many horses as she wanted. She

envisioned a large property with a simple, stately home, the

stable not far from her own back door, nestled among the rolling

hills where she and Jean-Pierre would ride.

She rounded the bend of the path that opened onto the ranch.

There were a few riders tramping out to the hills, a trainer in

the ring was instructing a young student. Jennifer spotted her

and waved from her doorstep just before going inside. Greta

returned the greeting with a wide, happy sweep of her arm.

She doesn't even know, Greta thought. For that matter, no one

knew about her and Jean-Pierre. They had been discreet with the

affair, seeing each other when Matthew was out of town, which had

been often in the past months. She still rode almost every

morning, and often Jean-Pierre joined her. Together they would

hunt out a secluded spot in the hills with a beautiful view,

dismount from their horses, and make love.

Yes, that was how it would be almost every day in her new life

with Jean-Pierre. As she approached the rear of his cottage, she

noticed the drawn curtains on his bedroom window. Was he napping?

She knocked, but there was only silence.

She twisted the doorknob. It was unlocked, and she decided to let

herself in - just as the door was jerked from her hand as it

swung inward.

The girl from the sushi restaurant stood there, shocked.

"You!" Greta screeched.

Laurence took a terrified step backward and attempted to swing

the door shut in Greta's face.

Greta charged and trapped the girl between herself and the

kitchen table. "What are you doing here?" she screamed.

Laurence lifted her hands to protect herself, just as Jean-Pierre

rushed in from the other room and stepped between them.

"Greta, wait," he pleaded, grabbing Greta by the shoulder.

"Laurence is one of my students."

"What?" Greta said, turning to him with a confused and

exasperated expression, the girl temporarily forgotten.

"Yes," he said. "In fact, it was your husband who referred her to

the ranch, knowing that you kept your horse here. Please, let go

of her darling. Come inside. Let me get you something? He spoke

as if he were entertaining guests, three old friends gathering

for lunch.

Laurence had managed to extricate herself from the threesome, and

was presently collecting her bag.

"She" Greta said, "is having an affair with my husband."

"I know," Jean-Pierre said indifferently.

"You knew?"

"No, I said I know. She just told me now. She was so upset that

she stopped off to tell me she wasn't going to take her lesson

this evening, because of what happened at the restaurant."

"And she'll be leaving, right now," Greta said.

"I was just going," Laurence said with a show of dignity.

"I've had enough of your face for one day," Greta said, edging

toward her.

"The feeling is mutual, Mrs. Locke," Laurence replied with a

smirk. Then, "I must say, after finally meeting you in person, I

can stop feeling guilty about my relationship with Matthew." She

brushed a long wayward lock of hair from her face. "You, madam,

and I use the term generously, are a quintessential bitch."

Greta's mouth gaped. "You little tramp!" She lunged for

Laurence's throat.

"Stop," Jean-Pierre commanded, catching Greta by the waist just

in time. "Go," he said to Laurence.

"I don't ever want to see you again!" Greta shouted after the

girl.

Laurence climbed into her car and slammed the door shut, started

the engine, and rolled down the window. She look as though she

were about to shout a retort, but then she thought the better of

it. Or so it seemed, until she lifted her closed fist and ever so

slowly raised her middle finger at Greta.

Greta made another lunge for the girl but Jean-Pierre's hold on

her was too strong to break away.

Laurence laughed heartily at this little show of helplessness,

then gunned the engine and she raced away in her BMW, kicking up

a great cloud of dust in her wake.

Jean-Pierre pulled Greta inside and closed the door. Before she

could say anything, his mouth was on hers. She struggled out of

his grip and fixed her shoulders squarely against the door.

"What is this - what the hell is going on here, Jean-Pierre? I

don't like the way this looks."

He considered her with some amusement, gave her his sexy look.

"What the hell's so funny?" she said. He touched his finger to

her little horseshoe charm and her breath caught and held, and

she felt at once like she wanted to hit him and kiss him.

"You are, Greta. You are overreacting," he said, leaning closer.

He kissed the charm, his breath hot on her throat, then lower.

His touch was distorting whatever semblance of perspective she

had - she was so confused. She shook herself from him and pressed

him back with both fists. "Wait. Stop. Just what do you expect me

to think? One minute that little bitch is sucking tuna fish off

my husband's fingers, the next she's traipsing out your front

door!"

"I don't expect you to think what you're thinking," he said

calmly. Too calm, she was beginning to see, to be guilty.

"But Jean-Pierre," Greta said, still not sure, "why haven't you

told me about her?"

He shrugged. "What is there to tell?" He took her wrists in his

hands. "Do you really think she and I are something?"

"She's very pretty," Greta said. "And very young."

"Not as beautiful as you are to me," he said, kissing away the

creases on her forehead. "Greta. I live here, and I make love to

you. Ms. Maupin, who, as you are now aware, is your husband's

lover, lives in San Francisco. How many times, Greta, has he told

you he's working late at the office? Do you ever check on him

when he goes away? Are you so certain he isn't just fifty miles

from home and at her place, not where he says he's going." He

touched his finger to her chin. "Need I go on?"

She met his eyes. "No," she said quietly, and he kissed her.

Well, Matthew, she thought, tit for tat, and told herself to let

it go. Then she remembered how this whole crazy afternoon had

started.

She held up the receipt.

"When do I start packing?" she said and gave the form a little

shake.

He took it and opened it and smiled and wrapped his arms around

her waist and kissed her chest and lifted her off the ground.

"We're going home!" he hooted.

Then he grimaced and made a pained sound and nearly dropped her.

"Darling! What is it? Your shoulder?"

He nodded, closed his eyes to fight off the pain.

"Oh, you poor thing. When we go we've got to get that fixed for

you, first thing. I don't care what it costs."

He shook his head. "It's very expensive," he said.

"I don't care. Now I want you to promise me you'll let me do that

for you. Promise?"

"Yes," he said, "I promise."

"Good," Greta said, and began unbuttoning her blouse.

Chapter 20

After bolting from the boardroom, Matthew called William

Harrell's secretary at ICP in New York, and she confirmed what he

already knew: William was out of town, and was due back into New

York this evening. He asked her for the flight number and

departure time from San Francisco, then took off for the airport.

He raced down the corridor of the United terminal, checked his

watch as he slowed to pass through the metal detectors. He found

William's flight on one of the departure screens, and to his

great relief, the flight had been delayed fifteen minutes. He

collected himself and walked quickly to the correct gate.

He spotted William in the gate waiting area, flipping through

some notes, a leather garment bag beside him on the floor.

Matthew walked up to him, and William glanced up from his

notebook. "Matthew," he said, surprised. He snapped his notebook

closed and stood, shook Matthew's extended hand with a mixture of

curiosity and indifference. "Are you on this flight?"

"No. I need to talk to you," Matthew said. He motioned for

William to sit, then sat down beside him.

"I know you met with Peter Jones today," Matthew said, glancing

at the binder in William's lap.

"I did," William said.

Matthew hadn't expected William to deny that he had met with

Peter, though now, hearing him admit it, he feared that they had

already formed some sort of deal, and that he was possibly too

late.

"Look, I'll get right to the point. Today I proposed to the

executive staff that I contact you with Wallaby's proposition of

merging our two companies, as you originally planned."

"Really. And why, may I ask, the sudden change of heart?"

Matthew cleared his throat and tried for an open confiding tone.

"Simple. We decided that a merger would be the best thing for

Wallaby because of how well the strategic alliance was received,

and how well the Joey II is selling already. The orders are

phenomenal."

The gate attendant announced that flight was about to begin

boarding. Matthew's heart quickened, but William's expression

remained cool and unchanged.

"The best thing?" William repeated, barely able to conceal his

sarcasm. "I see."

"I want us to go through with the rest of our plan," Matthew

said. "With my support, the merger would be smooth and friendly.

I guarantee it."

"And the board of directors?"

"I've already put a call in to each, and have spoken with two

members on my way here. Both approved the prospect. And with

their votes, as well as mine and Hank's, we've already got a

majority, in addition to the entire executive staff's full

support."

"Hmm. Interesting. Let me think about this, Matthew." William

rose to his feet and reached for his garment bag.

"Wait," Matthew said, gripping the other man's arm desperately.

"I know the original plan wavered a little, but I fully

understand now that you were right all along." Matthew had to get

William's assurance, his word, that they would go back to their

original plan.

Hoisting his garment bag over his shoulder, William seemed

nonplused. The gate attendant announced final boarding.

"I know it's asking a lot," Matthew said, stepping between

William and his path to the gate. "But I'd like your word that

you'll recommend to your board that ICP reinstate its plan to

acquire Wallaby."

William glanced down at the notebook tucked under his arm.

Matthew fancied that he was perhaps sizing up the second of two

opportunities that had been presented to him today, silently

judging which of the two rivals he would choose.

William looked Matthew in the eye, nodded. "Very well," he said,

"I'll make the recommendation, as we had originally planned.

You've got my word."

Matthew let out a sound that was at once a great sigh of relief

and a slightly hysterical chuckle. "Thank you," Matthew said,

slapping William on the back. "Thank you, thank you." He ambled

alongside William to the gate and quickly ran down his immediate

course of action.

"Matthew, relax," William said. "I said you have my word. Now, go

home. We'll talk in the morning." William handed the flight

attendant his boarding pass, and she removed the ticket and

handed him the receipt stub.

"Good-bye, Matthew," William said, then turned and proceeded down

the jetway.

It was done.

* * *

Peter picked up the phone to call Kate at her studio, but then he

remembered the message Grace had given him. He dialed the number.

"Good afternoon, Phillips and Phillips," a receptionist

announced.

"Arnold Phillips, please," Peter said.

The man came on the line a moment later.

"This is Peter Jones. You called me?"

"Mr. Jones, thank you for returning my call so promptly. I'm

representing Ms. Ivy Green. She has hired our firm to reclaim her

rights to Isle, which I believe is currently in your possession."

The room spun. Peter dropped down onto the sofa. "Wait a minute.

I thought she was still in detox? She's not fit to be a mother.

Not yet."

"Oh, Mr. Jones, no, no. There seems to be a misunderstanding. I

apologize for not making the purpose of my call clear from the

start. My client has not retained me to reclaim her child. It's

the hardware and software I'm referring to. However, I believe my

partner does in fact need to talk to you also, about another

case."

Peter listened to what Mr. Phillips had to say, then, a half hour

later, he was transferred to another Mr. Phillips, who, for

forty-five minutes, discussed the child-custody case he had been

hired by Ivy to handle. A hell of a one-two punch.

By the time he hung up the phone he was numb all over. In just

over an hour, his whole life, which he had managed to somehow get

back on track, however shakily, had once again come undone. He

felt like he was at the end of his rope, like he was cracking up.

And the only person who could ever help him through the really

tough times was Kate. That was who he needed to talk to right

now.

But how? How could he call her, when the reason he needed her was

the very reason she had left him?

So instead of calling her he sat there alone, wondering if this

was it, if this was the last of his punishment for his mistakes,

or was there still more to undo?

* * *

"What are you doing?" Matthew said, finding Greta in the den,

crouched among a scattering of cardboard boxes.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Packing."

"Bingo."

"Why?"

"Why?" she repeated, taking in his goofy expression. "Why do

people usually pack, Matthew? Because I'm moving." She returned

to her task of carefully settling a vase into a box.

He placed his hands on the box flaps, holding them down as she

stretched a length of tape from a spool. "When?"

"Soon. And I can do this, thank you," she said curtly, holding

the strip of tape over the box. He let go and dropped his hands

to his sides.

"Greta, I'm sorry about today," he said, watching her work. "It's

not what you think, though."

She stopped what she was doing for a moment and shot him a

warning look. He had come to understand that look very well in

the last few months. She went back to her business, placing the

box atop a few others.

He shifted on his feet and then all at once his face brightened.

"Hey, guess what! We're back to our original plan!"

She settled an antique serving dish inside a new box. "Good for

you."

"Didn't you hear me?"

She poured foam puffs into the box.

"Greta?" he said, gripping her wrists.

"Get your hands off me," she said calmly, wriggling from his

grasp. The box between them trembled dangerously. She quickly

righted it.

"Greta, please," he said. "What you saw today was just lunch."

"Horseshit," she said, getting worked up. Then she checked

herself. She had no intention of getting into an argument with

him after the shit she had been through today. "Matthew, listen

to me. I'm only going to spell this out once. I gave you the time

you asked for. Now you've pushed me too far. Besides, it doesn't

matter."

"It does," he insisted. "What I'm saying is, it's all over. ICP's

going to buy Wallaby after all. And I'll become president of the

subsidiary, just like we planned. And we can go back to New York

if that's what you want. Or we can stay here. Or whatever.

Whatever you want."

"Ah, of course. You'll need a wife if you're going to be a big

shot at ICP. Might as well stick with the one you've got, save

yourself some money that way, and keep the young thing in an

apartment." She offered a scornful chuckle. "Christ, Matthew. You

still don't want to face it?" She shook her head sadly. "It's too

late. We're through. Broken."

"But it's going to be easy from here on in," he pleaded, trailing

her to a black lacquer display pedestal. "My job at ICP will be a

cake walk."

"Cake? Darling, the only cake walk I see is the one between you

and your little girlfriend." Enough of this nonsense. She had

work to do. She wanted to have her most prized possessions safely

packed, to give her a sense of assurance that she was getting

closer to her future with her lover.

Gingerly, she raised her crystal salmon bowl off its pedestal.

"Greta," Matthew cried, gripping the bowl.

She gasped in surprise, then shrieked, "What's gotten into you -

let go!" The quartz ceiling lamp accentuated the bowl's

precarious plight.

"Wait. Oh, Greta. Don't you remember the day you brought this

home?" he said.

Her eyes fixed on his thumbs squashed white, firm and unyielding.

The piece was too valuable to risk losing. She gave in, and he

carefully settled it back onto the pedestal. She stared at him

with a resigned frown, catching her breath. He had nearly ruined

it.

Matthew bent over, set his hands on his knees. "Look at it," he

said, mesmerized by the engraved salmon fish swimming their

final, predestined course.

"All right, Matthew, you've your look. Enough now. Please" She

reached for the bowl.

He gripped too. "It's over," he said, his voice cracking. "Don't

you understand? The struggle's over, Greta. Do you remember when

you came home with this bowl, to celebrate our plans coming

together? That was when it started. And now it's over. So you

see? It all worked out. Everything is fine now. Fine."

She glared at him. "Let go of my bowl."

"Greta, please. It means so much to me. To us," he urged, tugging

forcefully.

"No, damn you. It's mine and I'm taking it with me."

"Where?" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Just where the hell

do you think you're going?" His neck was straining, and his

knuckles were white around the bowl's rim.

"To France!" she cried. Her eyes glistened in the bright white

light. "With Jean-Pierre."

He burst with laughter, and shot his face closer to hers, over

the bowl. "The horse trainer? Oh, that's good, Greta. That's real

good! The horse trainer! So I'm not the only one sleeping with

the staff, am I?"

Her fingers hurt, and she could barely hold on any longer.

"Matthew, please," she begged, afraid. She was painfully close to

letting go, and with this awareness came another, deeper

understanding. That were it not for her missing finger, she would

have possessed the strength to hold on tighter and harder and

longer - No, that was not it, she realized with a cry, her

understanding now complete. The truth was, was were it not for

her missing finger, none of this would have ever happened. Tears

streamed down her face and she begged him to please let her have

her bowl.

"Oh Greta," Matthew said with disgust, "you're so pathetic."

He released his grip on the bowl...and the misfortune that

directly followed his letting go lasted only seconds.

With great force the bowl crashed into Greta's chest and

propelled her backward.

Instantly seeing what his letting go would cause, Matthew dove

forward with outstretched hands. His fingers grazed the bowl's

surface.

Flying backward, Greta let go of the bowl and thrust her hands

behind her to try and break her fall. However, it was her not her

bottom that crashed first, but her head, into the wall behind

her.

Her body dropped to the floor in a lifeless heap, legs splayed at

an awkward angle.

Matthew, in midair, felt the bowl's cool underside brush his

fingertips and he squeezed his hands together. But it was too

late.

The base of the object struck the hardwood floor. It shattered

with a resonant ring, and shards of glass blasted in every

direction.

He closed his eyes as he sailed to the ground and landed in a

pile of glass between his wife's unmoving legs.

Then, perfect silence.

He lay there for a moment before opening his eyes, grateful at

once that his vision had escaped the shrapnel. The first thing he

saw was blood. He panicked, and glass crunched beneath his arms

as he raised himself up on his elbows. He was aware of many stabs

along the undersides of his arms and blood started gushing from

his palms.

Then he saw her. He quickly brushed the largest broken pieces

away with a folded box. He leaned close to her face, squeezed her

cheeks between his bloody fingers. "Greta," he shouted. "Wake

up!" He looked from her face to her chest for evidence of life,

pressed her stomach, tried to make her breathe. He squeezed her

lips between her fingers and put his lips on hers and blew, felt

nothing in return. Had he killed her? He let out an agonized

groan, how could this be happening when everything was back to

the way they had planned?

He crawled up between her legs. He pulled her head to his chest,

and with his other hand he searched for her pulse.

"Oh Greta," he moaned, gazing with disbelief at the fragments.

Where was her pulse?

"I'll fix it," he whispered, probing for her heartbeat with his

bloody fingertips, all the while staring with bedazzled eyes at

the brilliant shards twinkling in the light, searching in vain

for one that might contain the etchings of the salmon fish.

But he found none, for their arduous journey had come to its

fated end, lost forever in the frozen crystal bits.

* * *

Once the plane reached cruising altitude, William reclined his

seat and closed his eyes, musing over an idea that had flashed in

his mind the instant Matthew had asked for his promise.

Now, after dozing on and off through half the flight,

half-consciously dreaming up the specifics of his new plan, he

was ready to put down the particulars. He opened his notebook on

the tray table and went to work. He drew various boxes and

connected them together. He penciled his name in the uppermost

box, and filled in the others.

A flight attendant appeared at his seat. "Sir, you slept through

the meal. Can I bring you a snack or a beverage?"

He looked up from the chart. This was cause for celebration.

"How about a Sassy Screw?" he said, a little embarrassed saying

the cocktail's name, but in want of one just the same. He

continued drawing, completely filling the page with little

squares and lines.

The flight attendant returned and placed the drink on a napkin

beside his notebook. As he put the finishing touches on his work,

a few bubbles fizzed from his drink and settled on the page,

staining it with tiny dots.

As he stared at the little dots speckling his work, an awfully

funny thought entered his mind. A short laugh burst from his

lips, and a few passengers in nearby seats glanced curiously his

way.

There, on the page, was the cause for William's amusement. The

little orange dots, speckling the paper. Matthew's one-time soda

pop success, now a mere stain on William's organization chart.

Pop, pop, fizzle, he mused, and sipped his cocktail.

* * *

Peter stood beneath Hoover Tower on the Stanford Campus, not far

from the very place where he had first met Ivy. He had agreed to

meet her here, to discuss the terms of her cases against him.

In the time he had to wait for her, he considered his life as it

was at this moment. He had long ago gotten over the hurt and

anger he had felt from being ousted from Wallaby. He missed Kate,

but the work he was doing with Byron went a long way to keeping

his mind off his loss of her. Not all the way, but enough to

help. Isle was healthy, and Ivy's lawyers had said that she was

deemed stable enough to mother her baby. But it was his baby,

too. And had he not felt something for her, that night they were

together? To be honest, he was not sure. That night was long past

now, lost in mixed up events and complicated circumstances. All

that remained of it was the unusual feeling he still carried in

his heart, about everything that had been affected by his actions

that evening. He knew he was not in love with Ivy. But he loved

his baby, their baby, and the three of them formed a kind of

family, didn't they? He had never been part of a real family, and

the thought of his daughter going through life without two

parents deeply disturbed him. Would Ivy consider marriage?

"No lawyers?"

He spun around...and was stunned by her transformation.

She looked as youthful and vibrant as when they had first met.

Her bright white-blond hair was pulled up into a smart bun, and

her delicate face was tanned. Her blue eyes sparkled with the

iridescence of tropical water.

He wanted to touch her, her belly, the place where Isle had come

from. She smiled, and he experienced a stirring for her that was

unlike any he had felt before, a connection of some kind, between

her and himself and their child. It was all light and strangely

uplifting, and he let out a breath and wet his lips and formed in

his head the words he would say to her, for at this instant he

knew, yes, that he could love her and that they belonged

together. That they were a family.

But her smile was changing, right before his eyes. It became a

smile that betrayed not her happiness to see him, but her

happiness to see him looking at her this way. Looking at her with

real attraction. Desire. Her smile was the smile of pure

self-satisfaction.

"Amazing, isn't it," she said. "What a little time can do?"

"Oh, Ivy," he said, turning his hands helplessly. "I'm sorry.

About all of it."

"Ha," she said. "Please. I've been in the desert learning how to

stop apologizing. Take my advice, save it."

"But we don't have to be like this. Can't we try to be, I don't

know, nice?"

"Um, no. Not now, anyway. This is business, Peter. Maybe in a

while, after we close our agreement."

"But I don't want you to be angry forever."

"Sit down," she said, and he did. She remained standing however,

looking down at him. "Poor Peter. Just a lost little boy. Look,

I'm not pissed off anymore. Well, not too angry. I'm not sorry,

either. What's done is done. I am definitely not having an easy

time of it, coming off the drugs and all. But I will get there.

All I want is to see my Isle, and my Isle, and how they've grown

in your care." She seated herself on the concrete beside him. "I

thought for sure you'd have ten lawyers here with you," she said.

"Nope," he said. "Where are yours?"

"Don't need them for this. They told you what I want." She

withdrew a single folded sheet document from inside her light

jacket. "It's all here. Plain and simple."

He accepted her pen and the contract, spread the page down on the

concrete.

But he didn't sign it.

Instead he put the pen down, looked her in the eye. "What do you

feel?"

"Feel? About this? Excellent."

"No. I mean about me."

"You?" She looked away for a second. He could see her expression

soften. "I'm not sure." She met his eyes. "But it's not anger

anymore. Really it isn't."

"No, I don't mean that."

"Guilt? Nah, I'm done with that."

"No," he said. "No, not that." He looked at her forehead.

Unwrinkled and smooth, pure. Eyes so sharp, intense, curious.

Cautious. He remembered what it had been like to touch her neck,

her breasts. Back to her eyes.

"Is there anything else?" he said. "I don't know. I mean - love?"

She blinked her eyes closed for a few moments, and when she

opened them again they were glistening. But from what emotion he

could not tell.

"Peter, just sign it."

PART V

Chapter 21

He had not slept all night.

It was not because he missed sleeping in the same bed with Greta.

That, of course, had ended. Nor was it because he missed sleeping

with Laurence. At almost exactly the same time Wallaby started

its merger negotiations with ICP, Laurence had taken a temporary

leave of absence to, she said, care for her ill father. It was

just as well, considering what had happened to Greta and

everything that had followed. Besides, the majority of his

speaking engagements had been postponed or canceled, and he spent

his time attending meeting after meeting, and putting together

piece of the business plan, which consumed most of his waking and

sleeping hours. Relentlessly, he studied ICP's complex corporate

structure and product line. Once more his favorite bed partner

was paperwork - binders, reports, analyses, and technical

documents, a courtship that all led up to today.

Today. The reason he had not been able to sleep all night. He

climbed out of the bed and strolled leisurely through the dark

house, crossing through the living room. A few months ago, after

Greta's accident, he had moved the sofa and furniture against the

wall, among the many stacked boxes that occupied the room.

Today was the most important day of his life. After more than

three long and arduous years of cultivation, he was about to

harvest his greatest achievement. The merger of ICP and Wallaby.

Finally his monumental plan would reach its climax. And afterward

he would begin his new plan - But not so fast, he warned

himself. One step at a time.

The emerging dawn lit up the kitchen with a dull gray. He opened

the refrigerator, considered making breakfast, then decided

against it. He had no appetite. Instead he poured himself a glass

of milk and gazed out the kitchen window while he sipped,

pondering his new and exciting future.

His presence would be required in both New York and California.

Maybe he would set up his primary residence in New York, and find

something smaller in California, perhaps even in San Francisco.

Such a commute would be trivial, for with ICP's takeover, the

issue of highway miles would disappear and he would do his work

on his rides between office and residence in the chauffeured

limousine he would be entitled to.

A rush of elation coursed through him, and he decided to go for a

run. Besides, it was too early to leave, and a run would pass the

time until he had to get ready and meet William Harrell at the

announcement.

He placed his glass in the sink and left the kitchen, changed

into sweats. He needed to be at the hall by nine o'clock. He tied

his sneaker and stretched through a few warm-up exercises, then

collected his house keys.

Just as he was about to leave, the telephone rang.

He checked his jogging watch and picked up the handset. It was

William Harrell. They exchanged greetings, and William asked

Matthew if they could meet for breakfast before the announcement.

"I was just going to go out for a run, but sure."

"Go for your run," William told him. "I'll meet you at the Good

Earth restaurant at seven-fifteen."

"Will do," Matthew said, and asked William what was so pressing

that they needed to meet before the event.

But William had already hung up, leaving Matthew do presume that

his business partner probably wanted to go over a few last-minute

details before the big show.

Although he had no way of knowing it, he had presumed correctly.

There was indeed one minor detail left to go over.

* * *

When she heard him leave the second time, after his run, Greta

climbed out of bed.

She too had not slept very well. She was too excited. She

stretched and considered climbing onto her exercise cycle for a

quick workout. Checking the clock however, she decided to skip

it. She would rather use whatever spare time she had to make sure

she had not forgotten to pack anything that the shipping company

would later send to France.

Standing at the window, she gazed out at the dawning day. Across

the lake she could see Jean-Pierre's cottage. The lights were

off. She pictured him in her mind, sleeping peacefully. No more

would she sleep alone, she thought to herself, letting go of the

curtain.

She took eggs and ham from the refrigerator and set to making

herself breakfast. Marie didn't usually arrive until eight

o'clock, and besides, she thought dreamily as she cracked the

eggs into a bowl, it was good practice for the big country

breakfasts she would make for Jean-Pierre and herself.

While she prepared her eggs, the pictures he had shown her when

he returned from France last week flashed through her mind. It

had taken him a while, but he had finally found them the ranch of

her dreams. How she had missed him! It had been a long and

painful two months, she reflected, but today would finally signal

the end of her suffering with Matthew.

After what he had done to her, nearly killing her that day they

had fought over her bowl, he ended his resistance to her request

for a divorce. On the contrary, because of what he had done, her

case against him was even stronger, and he had no choice but to

agree to her lawyer's terms. The final papers would be drawn up

any day.

She seated herself at the breakfast table. While she ate she

checked the list she had been keeping. Everything she wanted

shipped was checked on the list. Her clothes were already packed,

and their plane tickets were the only unchecked item on the list.

Jean-Pierre had taken care of them. Still, she would ask him to

show her the tickets when she arrived at his cottage in the

limousine. Just to be safe.

She looked at the clock again and saw that it was a good thing

she had gotten out of bed early. Somehow she had managed to spend

nearly a half hour sitting just there dawdling, daydreaming. The

car was due to arrive at eight o'clock sharp, and now she would

have to hurry.

She left her dirty dishes for the housekeeper and trotted briskly

to her room, noticing outside the clouds darkening the sky. It

had rained all week but last night's weather report for today had

promised a possible break in the showers. She prayed they

wouldn't have to take off under stormy conditions, for it would

be a miserable way to start off on their new life together.

Chapter 22

"Ladies and gentlemen, please find your seats," the announcer's

voice boomed through the bustling auditorium.

The seating was already jammed to nearly full capacity as

thousands of Wallaby employees filled the auditorium. A few front

rows remained vacant, reserved for VIPs and the press. The stage

was illuminated with a bright circle of light focused on an empty

podium.

Backstage, William Harrell parted the curtain an inch and peered

out at the gabby crowd. Hank Towers squeezed in beside him and

also surveyed the crowd.

"I've never given a speech to so many people dressed like that,"

William remarked.

Beyond the first few dark rows, wave after wave of bodies clad in

T-shirts and jeans stretched all the way to the back of the

auditorium.

William stepped away from the curtain and rearranged his tie.

Hank patted him on the shoulder and laughed. "You look like

you've gained twenty pounds," he joked privately.

"They're going to witness the world's fastest weight-loss

program," William said with a cunning grin, referring to the

surprise he had prepared for today's announcement.

"Get ready, William," Martin Cohn said, gesturing for everyone to

move away from the curtains.

The announcer's voice filled the auditorium: "Ladies and

gentlemen, vice president and general counsel, Martin Cohn."

Amid quick applause and murmurs, Martin greeted the audience. The

Wallaby logo appeared, projected brightly behind him on a huge

screen hanging above center stage.

"This day will mark an important juncture in Wallaby's history,"

Martin said. "A few months ago we announced a strategic alliance

with International Computer Products, the world's largest

manufacturer of computer products."

The ICP initials materialized beside the Wallaby logo.

"As a result of our announcement, sales of the Joey II computer

have skyrocketed, exceeding in just two months the previous

year's total sales."

The audience applauded, and the screen changed to a picture of

the Joey II sitting beside an ICP desktop computer.

"Today we have an announcement that will ensure that both Wallaby

and ICP continue to grow and profit together."

There was a dead silence, and a photo of William Harrell's

smiling face filled the overhead screen. "Now it's my pleasure to

introduce William Harrell, chairman of International Computer

Products."

A murmur ensued throughout the audience. Though Martin Cohn

usually started off the meetings, it was always to introduce

Matthew Locke.

Martin stepped aside, and William crossed the stage. The audience

applauded mildly and stopped once William arrived at the podium.

"Thank you, Martin. And thank you," William said, sweeping the

audience with a heartfelt smile. "I've always been envious of you

guys out here in California. I look out there and all I see are

T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers."

There was some mild laughter, and William knew the crowd was

probably a little thrown off by his being up here and not Matthew

Locke. He went right into his presentation.

"Maybe it's this kind of environment in which you work at Wallaby

that lets you create products as spectacular as the Joey

computer."

On the screen an older picture of the original Joey team

appeared, a younger Peter Jones kneeling in the center of the

group, his arms wrapped around a Joey poised on his knee. The

audience applauded with pride and appreciation.

"A few months ago, your company and ICP joined forces to work

together to offer our customers powerful hybrid systems. On that

day a dream came true for me. Finally, users of ICP's line of

computers had an easy way to access our difficult operating

systems, actually working smarter because of the Joey. Now,

that's a big deal to us starched shirts at ICP," he confided,

"because we've been playing catch-up with Wallaby, trying to

figure out how to build portable computers and personal

information assistant software as great as the Joey.

"You see, the truth is is I've always been envious of the Joey

and Wallaby. Jealous that we, the biggies, hadn't been the one to

invent an equally breakthrough design."

It was time for him to pull his prank, which he hoped would act

as the perfect segue to the real announcement. Pulling off his

tie, he stepped away from the podium and strolled to center

stage.

A strip-tease song started playing on the big speakers throughout

the auditorium, and the audience was mute with wonder as William

began unbuttoning his shirt. Next he unzipped his pants, and

dropped them to the floor. Underneath, he wore faded jeans. He

pulled off his shirt and flung it aside. He raised his arms, and

turned around so the audience could see the graphic on his back.

It showed the joey kangaroo as always, but this time the pocket

it climbed out of was embroidered with the ICP logo.

The audience applauded and cheered as he sauntered back to the

podium.

"Oh, wait a minute, I forgot something," he said, then crouched

behind the podium. A moment later his black wingtip shoes clunked

hollowly out onto the stage, and he produced a pair of worn-out

sneakers. Encouraged by cheers and laughter, he fumbled comically

with the running shoes and laced them up.

"Now, dressed like this, you'd think I could probably do some of

the thinking you guys do to make amazing computers, right?"

"Right!" the audience echoed, playing along with his skit.

"Wrong," he said. "To have the systems you folks have, guys like

me have to leave it to you, the experts."

Here goes. He felt his heart pounding wildly, and he took a deep

breath.

"What I'm about to announce may at first come as a shock to you,"

he warned, serious now, "but please," he said emphasizing with

his hands, "before you throw your chairs, give me a moment to

explain."

As he had feared, an anxious murmur started up in the crowd. He

had to act fast.

"Today," he said, raising his voice, "I'm very excited and proud

to announce the merger of Wallaby and International Computer

Products.

Mayhem exploded throughout the audience.

"Wait, please!" William shouted with raised palms, his voice

barely audible in the angry cacophony. "Wait. Please, let me

explain..." he said, moving across the stage, closer to the

incensed crowd.

* * *

The limousine driver collected Greta's Louis Vuitton suitcases

and boxes and bags and carried them to the car. He set them at

the rear for a moment then ran to open her door. She jumped in

and wiped the light drizzle from her face with a scarf.

The trunk slammed shut and the driver climbed in and started the

car. As they drove through the gate she looked over her shoulder

at the house. She thought of her house keys, which she had left

behind on the breakfast table. She would never need them again.

It was really ending. With her things packed and ready to be

shipped to France, there was no reason to ever come back. She

chased away any leftover sentiments, and thought only of

Jean-Pierre and their new ranch, their new lives.

Glancing out the window as they turned from the driveway onto the

road, she spotted Matthew's approaching car. What was he doing

back so soon? She turned her head away from the window and shut

her eyes. She did not want his face to be her last memory of her

life in California.

The driver switched on the radio, just as a news brief was being

announced. "...and in Silicon Valley this morning, in a coup that

has stunned the business world, International Computer Products,

the world's largest computer company, and Wallaby Computer, have

announced the merger of their two companies, as well as - "

"Shut it off!" Greta snapped, pressing her hands to her ears.

"Please!"

The looked at her in the rearview mirror and apologized. A minute

later they were bouncing along the ranch's bumpy dirt driveway,

and she directed the driver past the main house, to the cottages.

She smoothed her lavender Chanel dress over her legs and touched

the lapel of her Gucci raincoat.

Her heart stopped for an instant. Jean-Pierre's car was gone.

Of course, she rationalized, scolding herself for being so

anxious. He's probably arranged to have it shipped back to

France. Or did he say he was going to sell it? She couldn't

remember.

The driver stopped the car.

"We'll only be a minute," Greta said, pulling on her gloves as

she climbed out before the driver could reach her door. Ducking

in the light drizzle, she shrouded her scarf over her head and

went up the steps to his front door. She rang the bell, then

glanced back to the limousine for a moment.

Silence.

She pressed the bell again, once, twice, and at the same time

scanned the barn and the training ring for any sign of him. The

stable doors were shut. Could he have overslept? She checked her

watch then pounded the door, growing more worried with each

moment that passed without his answering the door. She had

planned for them to get to the airport early, and even if he was

asleep they could still certainly make their flight as long as

they hurried.

She turned and raised her hand at the driver, signaling for him

to wait. She hurried off the small porch and ran around to the

back of the house. She looked into his bedroom window. The bed

was made, and rising on her toes, she could see through the

bedroom door into the living room. He wasn't inside.

She climbed the small rear steps and frantically pounded her fist

against the door, oblivious to the pain she was causing herself.

"Jean-Pierre!" she called. "Open up! Jean-Pierre!"

She held her breath and listened.

More of nothing.

She felt a chilling wave of nausea and told herself not to panic,

that he was around here somewhere and tending to some last-minute

things.

Rounding the house, she wagged her finger at the driver again and

bolted for the barn, her raincoat whipping in the wind.

Maybe he was at Jennifer's house, she considered, saying good-bye

to his former employer. She would check that after she searched

the stable. Or was he with Mighty Boy? Yes, that was probably it.

He was probably saying good-bye to Mighty Boy for her, so kind of

him, because he knew that she could not face saying good-bye

herself because they were unable to transfer the animal to their

ranch.

She heaved the stable door open with a grunt and raced down the

center of the long and dark dirt throughway, shouting out

Jean-Pierre's name. As she neared the end, Mighty Boy whinnied.

She pushed the horse's head to one side and went inside the

stall, encountering only the animal. Did she really think he

would be in here with her horse? No, he had to be outside

somewhere. Her stomach tightened at the thought of missing their

flight.

She turned and started to run back up the throughway, when

suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks. There!

"Jean-Pierre," she cried, laughing now as she hurled herself

toward the shadowy, darkly-clad figure looming just inside the

stable.

She froze in her tracks when she realized her error.

"Oh!" she moaned.

Jennifer, the ranch's owner, pulled back the hood of her raincoat

and approached her cautiously. A bewildered expression creased

her face as she took in Greta's disheveled appearance.

"Mrs. Locke, my goodness," she said with a wary smile. "It's a

bit wet for a ride today, don't you think?"

"Where is he?" Greta demanded, her chest heaving. "Where is

Jean-Pierre?"

"Jean-Pierre? Why, he's gone." Jennifer wiped her brow with the

back of her hand. "Oh, it's getting ugly out there," she said,

wincing at the sound of the building downpour rattling down on

the metal roof.

Greta grabbed the older woman's raincoat sleeve and roughly spun

her around, screaming: "What do you mean he's gone?"

Jennifer leaped back with astonishment. "He's gone. He left, Mrs.

Locke. For France."

"No! That's wrong," Greta cried. That's not possible, I'm going

with him! Do you hear me? He can't be gone!"

Jennifer was mortified and hastily tried to explain. "Mrs. Locke,

I gave him a ride to the airport myself. Last night. He informed

me at the very last moment, yesterday afternoon, that he was

returning to France. With her."

"Her? Her who?"

"Why, his fiancee, Ms. Maupin."

Dear God, she thought, suddenly comprehending what Jennifer was

saying. He was gone. Gone without her. He had lied to her. Had

tricked her. It had all been a game. A scam. The girl had

probably been in on it all along. A double seduction. And they

had gotten away with the money. And with more than the money.

They had gotten away with the only happiness she had known in a

very long time. It was all coming too quickly, and she felt

suddenly faint.

Jennifer caught her by the arm just before she collapsed. "Mrs.

Locke, come inside with me. You're trembling. I'll make you some

tea and - "

"No!" Greta cried, shaking free. She stumbled in the dirt,

landing on her gloved hands. She unsteadily got to her feet and

fled from the barn. The driver leaped out of the car and rushed

to open her door. She had soiled her dress, and her face was

wild.

She dove into the back of the car and stumbled to the floor. She

managed to struggle up onto the seat and the driver closed the

door and climbed in up front.

"Ma'am?" he called gently through the open partition. She did not

reply, and he turned around in his seat to look at her.

She sat huddled with her knees drawn up, elbows pressed into her

stomach. Her face was hidden behind muddy gloves, and she made

noises like she was injured.

He started the car. "To the airport, ma'am?"

She began rocking back and forth against the door, facing away

from the ranch.

"Ma'am?" the driver asked again, braking as he came to the end of

the ranch driveway.

"Home," she whispered, and burst into tears.

* * *

William shouted into the microphone again, "Wait! Please! Listen,

please!"

The cacophony of protest continued. A pen flew by dangerously

close to his head. It was useless. There was no way he could get

them to settle down so he could explain the announcement. After

ducking another flying object, William turned and made for the

curtains. In just a moment the thing would fix itself.

The house lights went out and then a spotlight illuminated center

stage. The curtains parted.

And Peter Jones emerged.

The audience went wild.

Peter took a few steps to the edge of the stage, grinning from

ear to ear. The crowd whistled and cheered and rose all at once,

welcoming their champion with a standing ovation that lasted and

lasted, earsplitting in its intensity.

"Thank you," Peter said fanning his hands at the audience. "And

thank you, William," he said, looking offstage.

The audience returned to their seats, some still applauding, but

low enough so that he could be heard.

"It's good to be back," he said. This lifted the applauding

audience from their seats once more. He strolled to the podium,

wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and waited. When

the audience settled down he continued.

"Today," he said, his voice a little shaky, "I've become ICP's

newest employee, in their new subsidiary, Wallaby. I have to

admit," he said with a laugh, "it's kind of weird being re-hired

by the company you started!"

There was quick laughter, then rapt attention.

"When I left Wallaby, I had a lot of time to do some thinking. I

found a new friend, and we started working on a new portable

computer, one that stretched our imaginations to the limits.

Then, a few months ago, we were contacted by William Harrell. He

had heard that we were up to something really neat. We decided to

let him have a look at what we had come up with, and he loved it.

"At that point ICP became a silent investor in our computer,

which is called ISLE. We finalized our design and developed a

prototype. Now I'd like to show you your newest computer."

Peter stepped into the middle of the stage. A large, shrouded

table rolled before him, controlled remotely from backstage.

The lights intensified and the tabletop was projected on the

overhead screen, for all to see.

"This," said Peter, whisking the shroud from the bumpy shapes on

the table, "is ISLE." The prototype model was sleek and black, as

thin as a notebook.

The audience applauded wildly, then hushed when the computer's

screen came to life.

"Now I'd like to let ISLE show you what she's made of," he said.

The auditorium darkened. Two large projection screens, mirroring

the ISLE's screen on stage, lowered from the ceiling. Peter

picked up the prototype and gave a demonstration like the one he

had given to William several months ago. When the demonstration

was over the audience stood and cheered with thunderous applause.

"Thank you," Peter said. "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm

very happy about this merger of Wallaby and ICP," he said. "I'll

be working in the engineering and development labs, finalizing

the ISLE design, and overseeing its integration with the Joey and

BP systems.

"Earlier I mentioned a new friend, my partner, the man who helped

design the ISLE computer. Some of you may recognize his name

because he is the father of ICP's first mainframe computer. I've

also made two other very important friends. One is the inventor

of ISLE, and the other is its future.

"Please give a warm welcome to my friends Byron Holmes and Ivy

Green." Peter stepped away from the podium, and Byron and a

beaming Ivy emerged, cradling the baby Isle in her arms. Peter

shook Byron's hand and kissed Ivy on the cheek.

Byron took the microphone and greeted the audience. A chart

appeared on the overhead screen, and Byron explained the new

organization. When he finished, William Harrell returned to the

stage and conducted the remainder of the session - he also

announced Matthew Locke's decision to resign, for personal

reasons.

Backstage, Byron hugged his wife and Peter and Ivy and Isle all

in one cluster. "We did it!"

Isle yawned.

"You can say that again," Ivy said with a chuckle and kissed her

baby on the nose.

"Come on," Peter laughed. "Let's go home."

Chapter 23

The cyanide pill.

It was all Matthew could think of as he sat at the breakfast

table with his head in his hands. It was over. His work. His

love. His life. All gone.

Everything had been going according to plan. Or so he had

thought.

But in the final plan, Matthew had not been included. Once more

he replayed the scene that had taken place just an hour before.

Pulling into the Good Earth restaurant's parking lot, Matthew was

surprised to see an exact duplicate of his own car. Of course it

could be anyone's, but Matthew could not help but think that it

was Peter's black BMW coupe parked beside the limousine. What

were the chances of Peter happening to be here at the same time?

One in a thousand. And Peter Jones was the last person he needed

to see today. Matthew would simply ask the host to find William's

table, and ask him to come outside. They would take their

breakfast meeting elsewhere.

He parked his car at the other end of the lot and walked around

the back of the building. He went inside, looking around

cautiously. At first he had not really noticed the two Wallaby

security guards standing near the hostess station. Seeing him,

guards left the station and went into the restaurant.

Positioning himself out of sight of the dining room, he motioned

for the hostess

"I'd like to ask a favor, please," he said. "There's a man I'm

meeting here. His name is Mr. Harrell, and he's - "

Just then William appeared, the two guards flanking him on either

side.

"We can't stay here," Matthew said. "Peter Jones is in there

somewhere."

"Yes, I know."

"But I'd rather not see him. Today especially. I haven't seen him

since he left the company."

"Matthew," William said calmly, "please come inside."

Bewildered, Matthew followed.

"William, I'd much rather we go elsewhere," he said, then halted

abruptly when he saw Peter, dressed in an oxford shirt and jeans

and sitting in one of the booths. Seated beside him was an older

man wearing dark slacks and a tie.

William pressed him onward, directing him right toward Peter.

Peter looked up, and for the first time since the boardroom

showdown, their eyes met. His face bore no surprise, no

expression whatsoever.

To Matthew's astonishment, William led him right up to the booth

that Peter occupied. The older man rose and seated himself on the

other side of the table.

"Matthew, sit down please," William said, indicating the vacant

seat beside Byron.

Matthew looked at Peter uneasily, but Peter said nothing, he just

sat there quietly and watched Matthew.

Adding yet another element to Matthew's confusion, Hank Towers

materialized and joined the surprise party. Positively

astonished, Matthew turned to William for an explanation. "What's

going on? What the hell is the meaning of all this?"

"I'll get right to the point," William said. "Matthew, the

Wallaby board and the executive staff decided to vote on whether

you are suited to maintain your position at Wallaby."

Matthew struggled to keep his voice down. "What? This is absurd.

How could you do this?"

"Matthew, I did it," Hank said.

Matthew stared at Hank with disbelieving eyes.

"I initiated the vote," Hank said, "after several of the

executives and board members came to me with their concerns."

"Why?" Matthew said breathlessly.

"Because in your effort to make the company successful, you acted

with negligence and selfishness. What's more, you have no

long-term strategy for our product line. And in order for us to

survive and continue innovating our company must have a plan."

Instantly, Matthew put the pieces together in his mind. He turned

his blanched face to Peter and met the dark, unwavering eyes of

his nemesis with hateful resignation.

"So that's it. Now, after I've turned the company around, you

come back to run the show?"

Peter kept quiet.

"Not exactly," William said. "Byron Holmes here," he said,

indicating the man seated beside Matthew, "will temporarily take

over as Wallaby's president."

Matthew was deeply shocked.

William said, "Peter has decided to rejoin Wallaby in an at-large

position, working on our future products. However he'll only come

back if you leave." William produced a folded document from his

coat pocket. "I'm sorry, Matthew, but I have to ask you to

resign."

"I will not," Matthew protested loudly.

Several diners, most of them Wallaby employees, turned their

heads in the group's direction.

"Matthew," William said, his voice empathetic now, "I'm afraid

you have no choice." He unfolded the document and placed it

before Matthew. "We've put together a first-rate severance

package for you."

For what felt like a long time, Matthew was unable to do anything

but sit there and stare down at the document that spelled out the

rewards of his terrific failure. His brain sizzled as he

attempted to focus on the details. He saw numbers and lots of

parenthesized paragraphs. There was a long line at the bottom,

with his name printed beneath it.

He raised his head and looked across the table at Peter. "Why?

Why didn't you just agree with me when I suggested all this? It

would have had the same outcome."

"Sorry, Matthew, but it was never that simple."

But it could be now, Matthew thought, sitting there at the

breakfast table, clutching tightly in his fist the little

circular thing he had been hiding in his briefcase for so many

years.

He was completely spent, used up. Alone. There was no one for him

now. No one he could call on. William had informed him that

Laurence had arranged for a transfer to an ICP office in France.

And, effective immediately, Eileen, his former secretary, was

Byron Holmes's personal assistant.

And then there was Greta.

He opened his fist and looked at the gold object in his palm. It

rolled out of his hand onto the tabletop.

He twirled Greta's wedding band round and round with his

fingertip. On that awful day years ago, he had retrieved the ring

from the boat deck before kicking her severed finger into the

ocean. Unable to face the horror of what had happened to her, to

her hand, he had hidden the ring in his briefcase ever since.

She was the only person in the world who had ever truly supported

him, the only person who would know just what to say right now.

And she was gone. He had destroyed her, too, with his damnable,

selfish dream. A dream that had become a nightmare. One from

which there would be no waking. It was all over. Really and truly

through.

Ah, but the cyanide pill. It was his grandest plan ever. He wiped

his nose on his shirtsleeve and straightened, contemplating the

details of his new plan. Had Greta left anything in the medicine

cabinet? Sleeping pills? What about the garage, in that damned

car? He lowered his head to his folded arms again, considered his

options.

He was awakened by the sound of the doorbell.

As everything came back to him all at once, his first reaction

was paranoia. The press. Reporters and photographers. They had

scaled the gate, and they were coming for him, coming to mock

him.

"Go away," he shouted.

But instead of leaving him alone, they resorted to pounding,

screaming his name. They rang again, more pounding.

He called for Marie and ordered her to send them away. The

housekeeper came back a moment later and told him who it was at

the door.

He grabbed the ring and leaped up from his chair, tears finally

coming as he staggered down the foyer.

He twisted the lock and swung open the door.

And there she stood. A sobbing Greta, wearing, he noticed at once

and unmistakably, the very gloves he had bought for Laurence.

Pigskin, and fit for a queen. His queen.

Yes, she was wearing them now, and didn't that then mean that he

had bought them for her, really? That they belonged together?

Chapter 24

Peter sat on the rug with his legs crossed, Isle in a bundle

beside him, and together they listened to Kate's soothing voice

mingle with the sound of the light rainfall outside.

Ivy came into the room, humming softly.

"Is she asleep?"

"Not quite. I think she's sorta wired. She's had a tough day. You

too."

"You three," Ivy said.

Peter stood up. "Thanks for letting her stay here tonight. I'll

bring her over tomorrow afternoon, if that's okay."

"Sure," Ivy said. "A deal's a deal."

"Thanks."

Peter had offered to marry Ivy, but she had declined. In their

out of court settlement, Peter had agreed to child-support

payments, and Ivy had granted him visitation rights.

For the rights to her ISLE hardware and software design, ICP paid

Ivy six million dollars.

They hugged, and then she was gone.

He sat back down beside Isle and she stirred. He took her in his

arms.

"You miss Grandma Gracie and Grandpa Byron already?" he said,

pretending she understood every word. "Me too," he said.

Byron and Grace had left a few hours ago for Maine, to take care

of some things and plan their move west. They intended to find a

vacation home in California, where they would reside for however

long Byron managed Wallaby.

Peter's own home now felt like it used to, before Isle. Quiet,

empty. Yet at this moment, it was more full of life than ever.

But this, he had to keep reminding himself, was temporary. That

was the deal. But it was better than nothing at all. Better than

being completely alone.

The next song started playing on the disc player. Kate's voice

chased away the silence, replaced it with the missing element.

"When you're a little older," he told Isle, "I'm going to teach

you how to sing just like that."

"And who's going to teach you?"

Peter spun around.

Kate stood there in the doorway, smiling, wearing a raincoat and

carrying a garment bag.

"I let myself in," she said as he jumped to his feet.

"Hello, babies," she said, shrugging off of her wet coat. She

dropped her bag on the floor and set her purse on the coffee

table.

"I can't believe it's you," Peter said excitedly. "What are you

doing here?"

She bent, hands on her knees, and smiled brightly at Isle.

"Look at you, little girl. This is the first time I've seen you

in person." She looked up at Peter. "Hey, what kind of welcome is

that? I thought you'd be happy to see me."

"I am, I am!" he said touching her arm. "I just can't believe

you're really here."

"Congratulations," she said, retrieving a copy of the "Los

Angeles Times" from her purse. "And to you, too," she said waving

the front page of the business section at Isle. Beneath the

headline was a picture of Peter holding Isle, flanked by Byron

and Ivy.

"Back to Wallaby," Kate said. "Sure surprised me." She opened her

hands before Isle. "May I?"

"Of course," he said, placing Isle gently in Kate's arms. "Be

careful, you have to support her head. Like this," he said,

taking Kate's hand and carefully cradling it beneath Isle's neck.

"That's right."

For a few precious moments he let his hand remain beneath Kate's

before pulling away. Watching her holding the infant Peter felt a

swell in his throat, wishing it could be like this between them

again, always.

Kate sat down on the sofa.

"So, is it true?"

"Is what true?"

Freeing a hand, she picked up the newspaper and scanned the

article. "Here it is," she said. "Quote: 'I'm not going to work

as much as I used to. There are more important things in my life

now.' End quote."

"True," he said. "Totally."

"What about Ivy?"

He explained the arrangement they had made and the deal with ICP.

"Good for her. She's earned it."

Peter agreed, then sat quiet for a few moments, unsure how to say

what he wanted to say.

"What about us? You. I mean, is there any way I can earn you

back?"

Kate looked at him and smiled. She took his hand and held it in

her own, beneath Isle.

They sat there in silence for a while, adjusting to feeling one

another again after so long apart. After a minute or so it felt

to Peter as though they were breathing as one, the way they used

to, and along with this feeling his heart stirred, declaring

itself in an unfamiliar way, and he tensed.

"What is it?" she said.

"I'm scared," he said.

They kissed.