Chapter 11
Her tears had caused her mascara to run all over the pillow in black streaks. Applied two nights ago, the night of their anniversary, her makeup was all gone now from her puffy red eyes. She turned the pillow over, revealing more smears, then reached across the bed for one of Matthew's pillows, which she punched it into shape and stuffed under her head.
After rushing home from Jean-Pierre's cottage Saturday night, Matthew had noticed neither her absence nor her return. He had been in his office the whole time, and was still working when she went to bed, where she spent several restless hours alone. Finally, unable to lie still, she had gotten up and sat gazing out the window, across the pond, to the cottage. A few times she had actually considered going back to him, but she told herself that maybe Matthew would come to bed. Her imagination had ultimately forced her back to the welcoming pillows, and in a few moments Jean-Pierre had magically come to her, by way of her own sleight of hand, stroking her, yes, like that, then sweetness, and finally she was satisfied, and then sad, and then guilty. She had cried herself to sleep. A few hours later she was awakened by Matthew rustling with his jogging things and again, a little later, by the shower. She had pretended to be asleep while he dressed and packed for his trip to New York. She had heard the gate bell, indicating the arrival of the limousine that would take him to San Francisco International Airport. She waited, half expecting at any moment to smell his clean scent wafting near, a light kiss on her cheek. But there came no scent, no kiss. Just more of the same indifference, more hurt.
She had slept until noon, then gone downstairs, in her robe, and eaten the remainder of last night's dinner for lunch. She put her dish in the sink and pulled a clean champagne glass down from the shelf and snatched a bottle from the refrigerator. By two in the afternoon she was drunk in bed, and crying. She could not bring herself to call Jean-Pierre as she had promised, could not bring herself to dial the number she had by now committed to memory. She could only cry and doze, cry and doze, all through the afternoon. Once more, when it was dark outside, she ventured downstairs for something to eat. She found lasagna in the freezer, which she reheated in the microwave. Afterwards she washed down three Extra Strength Tylenol with champagne from the second bottle she opened. Retreating once more to her bed, she pulled the shades on her windows and climbed under the covers.
She had slept through most of Sunday night in drunken illness, and except for using the toilet and descending to the kitchen, had been in bed from Saturday night until now, early Monday evening. She wondered if she should get out of bed, or just go through the night again. Marie had knocked cautiously on her bedroom door earlier in the day, asking her if she was feeling ill. She had told her yes, and told her not to make dinner, that she would find something in the freezer.
She felt exhausted from thinking and dreaming and worrying about her predicament, which only seemed to tighten its hold on her heart.
How could she face Jean-Pierre? She wanted him, yes, but she had felt awful after Saturday night, struggling to understand her motivation, her fantasy of having him. Was she only reacting selfishly to Matthew's rejection? Perhaps. But that was what hurt the most, facing the fact that she had lost Matthew.
And every time she thought about this, she thought about her own very personal loss, and the irony of it all. It had been her upper hand, she mused, with which she had originally attracted Matthew, the young marketing manager on the rise among the ranks of International Foods.
After their initial meeting at ICP's Orange Fresh advertising photo shoot, Matthew had asked Greta to dinner, where he excitedly told her there was talk of his promotion. Yet, during dinner, his confidence seemed to weaken. When he told her about some of his ideas, she expressed genuine interest and fascination, to which he brightened. She could plainly see that he was a rising star, yet his mood had vacillated wildly between confidence and insecurity in the span of time between the first course and the dessert. After their first dinner date, a pattern then developed. As often as possible they would dine together, and sometimes he would invite her to spend the night with him. What she never seemed to notice was that he only asked her to stay during periods in his career when he was lacking in confidence about a particular campaign or promotion. It was during their evenings together that he had first introduced her to his unusual sexual tastes. Almost every time she would end up masturbating them at the same time, him with her left hand, and herself with her right. He always complained that he was too tired for intercourse, but if she wanted, they could do it that way, his way. He was a young, busy executive on the fast track, who had spent all of his prime years working hard at his career. Clearly he was going to be very successful, and if this was the price she had to pay, she concluded, then for the time being it was worth it. She wanted him.
A year later they married. She continued to pull him from the emotional fluxes that arose whenever he started to lose his nerve, especially when he was deciding whether or not to go to Wallaby, and then later, when he faced his first confrontation with Peter Jones. In the few of months that had followed Peter's ouster, Matthew had come to her less and less with his dilemmas, suddenly, miraculously confident in all aspects of his work.
As much as she wanted to deny it, she had finally, in the last twenty-four hours, forced herself to admit that the essential separation had happened the day of her accident onboard the yacht when they were celebrating the success of Orange Fresh.
And after last week's introduction of the new Joey thing, she had sensed the last of her power of persuasion slipping from her grasp. This past Friday night was the worst. He had gotten home later than usual, and when she had asked him how his day had gone, hoping for a hint of something special for their anniversary the following day, he had told her all about his meeting with his executive staff, that they had granted their support to work closely with ICP. This was just the beginning, he told her excitedly. How many times had she heard that? When the truth was that their marriage had ended long ago, when, drunk on the very potion that had earned him esteem, she had gone overboard, landing in the lagoon with a bloody splash. Yes, that was when she had lost him, lost them.
And that, she knew, was the real reason why she could not bring herself to call Jean-Pierre. Now, for probably the twentieth time, she picked up the telephone and merely stared morosely at the green digits glowing enticingly before her. She had memorized the phone number, not by digits, but by the pattern of tones that she played over and over with her index finger. Each time she pressed every digit in his phone number except the last, the six-note Touch Tone song deepening her dilemma because it reminded her of one of International Foods' stupid little commercial jingles for soda pop or corn chips. And, of course, the real reason was that when she dialed, she had to look at her hands, which, since the accident, had never been seen or held by another person unless they were gloved, and even then she would only offered the right one. She too had learned how to avoid seeing the left one. By diverting her eyes she only ever caught a flesh-colored flash, nothing more.
She tossed her head into the pillows. Maybe he would understand. Maybe it was not as grotesque as she imagined. Should she simply go to him, as she had the other night, and try to explain her problem to him?
No. She could not, not now. She was too drunk and tired, and had not showered in two days. But she could be with her fantasy of him, she thought with painful longing.
She turned off the bedside lamp and reached inside her robe, touched her breast. If she was going to consider herself grotesque, she thought drunkenly, she might was well begin to associate the act with the cause. That way, perhaps she would eventually banish him from her mind out of sheer disgust. As if to punctuate this point, she removed the gloves upon her retreat to bed on Saturday night, and for the first time she could remember, she had skipped her nightly ritual of creaming her hands with moisturizing lotion. Already, she told herself, she could feel them drying out. She switched hands and used the left.
Before she got any further, she froze.
A sound, outside.
She strained to listen…heard the wind through the trees, but nothing else.
Just when she was ready to discount the noise as her mind playing tricks on her, she heard it again. Closer this time, as though just outside on the ground level, below the terrace.
Except for the faint light from the downstairs foyer lamp that bled up through the open bedroom doorway, she was in nearly complete darkness. The lamp, she thought, turn on the lamp. Shakily, she stretched to her night table, and, unmindful of the champagne bottles, her hand blindly knocked one to the floor. It landed with a solid thud.
Silence.
She hunkered down onto her hands and knees beside the bed to retrieve the bottle. It was the empty one, and it gave her an idea. She hefted it in her hand, considered its weight. Could she use it to protect herself?
She heard the sound again, louder. Closer. A scratching noise, along on the side of the wall where the ivy clung to the trellis and covered the huge stone pillars supporting the terrace.
It was probably nothing, she tried to assure herself. A cat. Or just the wind, she ventured. But then why if it was only a cat, she asked herself, was she holding her breath and the neck of a champagne bottle so tightly in her fist? She crouched beside the bed and stared hard at the drawn cotton curtain hanging before the French doors. Silver blue moonlight shone through the sheer fabric, picking up the shadows from nearby trees that swayed to and fro in the easy breeze.
What to do, what to do, she wondered with growing panic. Run downstairs and get a knife from the kitchen? Call the police? Why didn't they have a gun?
Deciding on the second option, she reached for the phone. The number. What was the phone number? Drunk and scared, she struggled to remember the something-something-one number in her head, but no rhyme came. Instead, Jean-Pierre's phone jingle bleep-bleeped over and over in her mind.
The scraping sound again, much closer. As close as the edge of the concrete terrace wall.
The dial tone questioned loudly. She pressed the zero button and waited a moment before realizing her error. She remembered the number: 411. She smashed her thumb down on the disconnect button and redialed.
A large form settled heavily on the platform just beyond the door, a human form silhouetted against the curtain.
A voice from the handset: "What city please?"
Greta gasped and swallowed a dry lump in her throat as she realized her second error. Dear God, she had dialed wrong again. No, she had remembered wrong. Not 411!
"What city please?" the voice repeated.
Nine! 911! Yes! That was it, ask her to connect you -
But before she could speak the line click-clicked, disconnected.
"Wait!" she hissed, straining to be both heard and quiet at once.
Dial tone.
A soft knock on the French doors.
She punched the correct sequence into the phone.
The knock again, more loudly now.
She looked outside. The silhouette crouched.
"Woodside Police emergency services. Can I help you?"
"Greta?" His raspy French accent from the terrace.
"Oh," she murmured into the phone, snapping her eyes shut for a moment.
"Hello? Can I help you?" the phone voice repeated.
She placed the phone back on its cradle and breathed a fatigued sigh. She would have to make no decision now. He had decided for her. And it was the right decision. Clutching her robe tightly around her, she got to her feet and went to the closed door. All at once she halted, remembering that she had not showered or even brushed her hair. But her greatest negligence during her temporary invalidation was that she had even let her hands go unconditioned. And ungloved. She leaned closer to the drawn curtains.
"Jean-Pierre?"
"Greta. Yes." The shadow of his head leaned closer, just inches away. "Open the door."
"Jean-Pierre. I can't. I look just awful," she said. "You can't see me like this. I've been so upset. In bed for two days."
"Greta," he crooned softly. "You did not call me yesterday. Nor today. I have been waiting, but could wait no longer. I thought Matthew may have come home early, so I sat nearby and watched for a while. I know he is not here. Let me in, Greta."
The thought of Jean-Pierre sitting in his bedroom, or just outside the gate, watching for signs of Matthew being home made her feel suddenly roguish and sexy. Desired.
"Jean-Pierre, it's been so awful staying here. I wanted to come see you, but I could not bring myself to do it."
"I am here. I brought you something. Now let me in," he commanded, his voice much louder.
"Yes," she said and unlatched the door.
He stepped inside the room and gripped her shoulders. Night air and animal and maleness flooded her senses. She gasped all of it in, then her breath was cut off by his lips. He kissed her, hard, and snapped his head away. "Matthew. When?"
"He won't be back until tomorrow."
"Good."
"Yes." She looked past his shoulder, outside the doors, and began to cry softly.
He frowned and pulled her down beside him on the bed. "Greta, what is it?" He wiped her cheeks with his thumbs.
"I've been so upset and confused by everything. This is so hard for me." She closed her eyes and dropped her forehead against his shoulder. Her mind flashed with images of the first time he had kissed her, in the horse stall.
"You mustn't cry." He kissed her again. His hands touched just inside her soft robe. Lightly, down to her belly. Gooseflesh prickled her forearms, spread to her stomach, her loins. Her nipples felt pinched and hard, needed pinching.
"Wait," she said, squeezing his strong forearms. "I've been in bed for two days. I really must take a shower."
"Mmm," he hummed. "Never mind that." In one quick motion he slid the robe from her shoulders and undid the belt, parting the garment at her waist. Pushing her down, he crouched over her, facing her, supporting his weight on either side with his knees. His jeans-clad thighs rubbed lightly against her own. She had imagined and wanted this moment for so long. However she could not be with him here like this until she had a quick shower.
"Please," she said, squirming from beneath him. "I'll just be a few minutes," she said, and darted from his lunging grasp to the bathroom.
There, she looked at herself in the mirror. With horror, she remembered that her hands were ungloved. She let her eyes go first to her right hand, then the left. She forced her vision to stay there until she could breathe again. Yes, she would have to tell him. And show him.
A few minutes later she emerged from the bathroom wearing a towel around her midsection. Jean-Pierre was lying on the bed propped on one elbow, naked. Timidly, she proceeded to the bedside. He raised himself to his knees and placed his hands on her hips. Before she could take in the shape and size of his nakedness, he had her on the bed in one quick movement, the towel discarded with a flick of his wrist.
He breathed a lusty sigh and lowered his lips to hers. She felt his hard, blazing length along her entire body. She wanted to look at him next to her like this, but before she could take in their togetherness, he kissed her again, gently this time, teasingly. She expected that in any second he would enter her, have her.
But instead he gently clasped her hands in his own. "Your hands,
Greta, this is the first time I have felt them."
"Feel them. Both of them. Go on."
It took him a moment to register. "Oh, Greta. Is this why you have been afraid?"
She began to cry again. "It's so horrible. I was once a hand model, and then that happened. And everything ended."
He said nothing. He kissed her, told her softly to cry and let it out. "What happened, Greta? You must tell me. There is nothing bad about it to me."
When she stopped crying she wiped her eyes and sat up, allowing his hands to remain on hers through the entire story, which she recounted in a quiet monotone.
"We were on a yacht anchored in a windy lagoon, celebrating a new soda of Matthew's that was a huge success. I'd had a lot to drink. At one point I was standing off to the side all by myself. I was poking my ring finger in the little hole of an empty can, thinking about how Matthew and I were going to start a family. Apparently we were getting ready to sail some more. It was dark. I remember they were taking Matthew's picture just a few feet away. The flashes popped and at the same time a strong wind rocked the boat. I lost my balance and reached out to grab the rail but I was blinded by flashes and couldn't see. My finger was still in the can and I had no time to shake it off before grabbing on to stop myself from falling. I felt rope and metal and pain all at once. I had grabbed between the support line and the rail, and the can was caught between that and my hand. I think that was when I started to scream. I was leaning forward trying to free my hand when the boat lurched. I fell overboard. My finger didn't come with me. Matthew was standing at the rail of the boat, screaming hysterically. Someone jumped in. It was dark, but I saw the blood then, and when I reached for the life preserver I saw what had happened. The little white nub of bone. The rest of it gone. I passed out and woke up in the hospital. They said that the can with my finger and my wedding band had fallen overboard with me. They never found it. It's still out there in the ocean, lost, Matthew and I with it."
They were silent for a very long time. She did not cry anymore, she only lay there with her head turned on the pillow, eyes closed, waiting for him to let go of her hand. But he did not let go. Instead he kissed her right hand, then the left one, each knuckle. She was frozen in place as he did this, as he kissed between her pinkie and the middle finger, at the space where her ring finger once was. She gasped when she felt his tongue there.
Holding the hand, he leisurely traced along her breasts with her own fingertips. He trailed their course with his lips and tongue, taking tiny nips at one breast, then the other. He squatted over her, his knees on either side. His ponytail fell forward into her face and she let some of the gathered hair enter her mouth as he sucked her breasts with growing urgency. Her hips responded. She lifted herself against him, pressed his head harder into her chest. He held both of her breasts, licked beneath them. She felt a chilling tingle along the back of her neck each time the fine hairs of his buttocks brushed against her thighs. Gripping him beneath his armpits, she squeezed his strong chest between her hands and pulled him fully down onto her with all of her might.
"Slowly," he whispered, resisting her insistence. "There is no hurry."
"Yes," she moaned, nearly in tears. "Yes, hurry, I want you so bad." Never before had she been kept on edge like this, all of her energy wriggling beneath him, wanting him. It had always been Matthew wanting her when he needed, and she had always been there to service him. But this was not like that.
And then she felt a new emotion that was both exciting and frightening. "I need you," she mouthed without a sound into the pillow. Her inhibitions lifted and, as if beyond her control, she felt her entire self slacken, acceptance at last releasing her anxiety.
Sensing her sacrifice, he pressed his whole hard body against her, claiming her entirely from head to toe. His hot sex lay rigid between them, ready to consummate their bond.
With a lustful moan of anticipation he lay on his side and took her hand again. He kissed her wrists, her lips, her throat, traced her fingers along his ample sex, beneath his scrotum, which lay swollen over her hotness. She attempted to wrap her hand around it entirely, attempted to gently cup and fondle his testicles, but his control was beyond her own, and so she let him lead her maddeningly, pleasurably, on an erotic discovery of their bodies.
With his penis in both their hands, he played its tip along her folds, as far up to her navel, back again, and down and around the edge of her anus. In an instant he was inside her with his fingers. Then he removed his and encouraged hers in. At first she pulled away, her entire arm taut in his grip. He eased her resistance with a kiss that was both tender and probing, secure. "Shhh," he whispered, gently pressing her fingers inside her. She yielded, pressed a breast to his mouth as they alternated their exploration of her innermost region. Gently he withdrew his hand entirely, and watched her as she continued by herself, tuning in to her own rhythm.
"Yes," he said encouragingly, caressing between her buttocks with his hand. He changed position so that he could work his tongue between her fingers. She quickened her rhythm, squeezing his tongue with each press and flick. He followed her fingers inside with his tongue and she cried out his name when she felt it slide in the gap created by her missing finger. Her free hand flew to his hair and with a moan she freed his ponytail, wanting all of him inside her. His hands rolled and pinched her nipples in time with each lunge of his tongue, propelling her on mercilessly. She moaned deeply, and he pulled back when she drew close.
She pulled his head up by the hair and crushed his lips with a kiss. She opened her legs and slid them up, pressing her knees into his flanks. Then she led him in, pulling her hand from between them. He alternately kissed her and her hand, the stubby knuckle. With each of his thrusts he kissed her, and it felt marvelously good and wicked at the same time, feeling him inside her and holding her hand and kissing her. With each lunge he squeezed more tightly, as they inched closer, until his unflagging rhythm suddenly altered to forceful, jutting bursts. With each hot gush inside her, she cried out his name, her hand twitching spasmodically in his as she was overcome by wave after wave of irrepressible pleasure.
After their breathing returned to almost normal he took her in his arms, their steaming bodies sticking together as they lay entangled, too exhausted to move. Her head was spinning from the champagne and from their intoxicating lovemaking.
Never before had she felt like this, she thought, feeling him still inside her, softening. Matthew had always been the one to want, and she had always given to him, but now she understood all at once her desire to be given to.
Their hands remained clasped together as she drifted away from her thoughts, the tingling inside her turning to numbness as she cooled, cooled, then felt chilled, as though she were shaking.
Being shaken.
"Greta!" Jean-Pierre whispered.
"Mmm?" she moaned, disoriented.
"Matthew!"
Not Matthew, she thought half-consciously. No, not Matthew. Not for a while. Only Jean-Pierre now.
"Matthew!" Jean-Pierre hissed again, leaping from the bed.
She sat up, wide-eyed. It was dark in the room. She turned on the beside lamp. Jean-Pierre was hastily gathering his strewn clothes. No, he didn't understand. They were safe. Touching her hand to her head for an instant, she relaxed a little, felt a little laugh begin in her chest at the comedy of his panic. He must have heard Marie, because Matthew wouldn't be home from his New York trip until tomorrow afternoon.
But then she heard his voice, "Greta?," faintly, coming from downstairs.
Judging by the echo she guessed that he was in the kitchen - and only one minute away from making his way through the foyer, up the stairs, and into their bedroom. "My God!" she gasped, struggling with her robe. "Hurry! Leave!"
Jean-Pierre had managed to pull on his pants, shirt, jacket. Snatching up his shoes and socks and wristwatch, he stepped outside, onto the terrace. She gathered her robe and tied it closed as she rushed from the room.
"Matthew?" she called from the top of the stairs. "I'm up here," she said, composing herself as she descended quickly.
"There you are," Matthew said, his garment bag and briefcase in tow. He set down the briefcase at the bottom of the stairs and flipped through a few pieces of mail. Yes, she thought thankfully, take your time and read your mail, all of it. "I came back tonight instead. My meeting was shorter than I'd expected." He glanced at her.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he stopped going through the mail. He dropped it next to his briefcase and began climbing the steps. "Why is it so dark in the house? Are you in bed already?"
She stopped and raised her wrist to her head, fumbling with her words. "I'm not feeling very well," she said. She pulled a tattered tissue from her pocket, dabbed it beneath her dry nose, coughed. "Darling," she said, blocking his way, "could you please get me a glass of water?"
He stopped, eyed her with subdued curiosity. Then he let out an impatient sign and turned and started back down the steps. Just another minute, she thought, and Jean-Pierre would be safely gone.
But then Matthew stopped, turned around, and climbed toward her again. "There are cups in the bathroom," he recalled aloud as he passed her. She clutched the hem of her robe and lifted it and chased after him in hopes of getting to the bedroom before he did.
She didn't.
He flipped on the light switch, which lit up several lamps in the room all at once, and tripled its brightness. Now everything was fully illuminated, exposed.
She tried to see what Matthew was seeing: The bed was a shambles.
Sheets, pillows, and the comforter strewn across the mattress and
onto the floor. The two empty champagne bottles. One on its side.
The bath towel beside the bed. The unlocked terrace door.
He strode past the bed to his walk-in closet and hung up his garment bag, acting as though he did not notice the mess. Pulling his tie from his collar, he caught her earnest reflection in the full-length closet mirror. He turned around to take a closer look at her disheveled appearance, and for a moment his eyes fixed on the empty champagne bottle resting atop the night table. He graced her with a brief, condescending glance, then went back to undressing.
A chilly gust of wind blew open the terrace doors and lifted the curtains. He clucked his tongue as he crossed the room to close the doors.
"Oh" Greta said sharply, coming up quickly behind him. "I was so hot. I think I have a fever."
Ignoring her, he pulled the doors shut.
She angled her head to see outside. Jean-Pierre seemed to have gotten away safely.
Matthew twisted the lock and grabbed the curtains and started to slide them together. Suddenly he stopped and crouched a little. "What's that?" he said, squinting outside.
"What's what, darling?" Greta said, hearing her own voice crack as she rushed to his side.
Matthew stepped out onto the terrace.
"This." He bent over and picked something up. "It caught my eye in the light," he said. From his fingers he dangled a fine gold chain, with a sparkling gold object dangling from it. A charm of some sort.
She scrutinized the object for an instant, then broke into a wide smile. "Oh, there it is," she said, taking the chain in her hand and holding it up with a glad smile on her face. "I've been looking for this for days."
"Hmm. I've never seen that one before," Matthew said indifferently before disappearing into the bathroom.
And neither had she. Her heart was galloping in her chest. She sat on the bed and took a quick peek at the charm necklace in her palm. Then all at once she remembered Jean-Pierre saying, when he'd arrived, that he had brought her something.
The bathroom light went out, and she carefully tucked the object into her robe pocket. Assembling the bedclothes as best she could, she pulled the comforter over her legs, then shut off her night lamp.
Dressed in his pajamas, Matthew stood at the foot of the bed. "Since you're not feeling well," he said, glancing at the mascara-streaked pillows, "I'll sleep in the guest room." He shut off the remaining lamps as he left the room. When she heard his door close down the hall, she switched her night lamp on again and pulled the necklace from her pocket. She inspected it more closely under the light.
It was a tiny horseshoe charm. She squeezed the charm tightly between her palms, feeling him again. Then she clasped the necklace around her neck and turned off the lamp. She pulled the comforter over her body. "Good night, Jean-Pierre," she whispered. She kissed the charm, then squeezed it tightly in her left fist and held it against her breast.
As her thoughts swirled into pleasant dreams, her grip relaxed, then gently unrolled, and the symbol of Jean-Pierre's love slipped through her fingers, and she slept like never before.
* * *
After William finished reading through the binder Matthew had given him earlier in the day, he got up from his reading chair and stretched.
The strategy was perfect. Matthew had put together a plan that, after they announced the Joey II computer in about a year, would demonstrate that Wallaby had grown up and was venturing into the big-business world by working a strategic deal with ICP. Soon after that, before the stock had too much time to climb, Wallaby would be acquired by ICP and become a subsidiary of the huge computer giant.
William thought for a moment about Matthew and his manner. He seemed high-strung and edgy when they had met earlier in the day. When he had asked about Peter Jones, Matthew had turned defensive. Though William had every intention of following through with his plans to acquire Wallaby, he wondered if maybe his inquiry had caused Matthew to fear that he was losing confidence in him, and in Wallaby.
William was in fact more than mildly curious about what Jones had been up to over the past few months. Even though he was still on the payroll at Wallaby and officially an employee, after what Matthew had told him, William felt certain that there was little hope of Jones ever going back to Wallaby.
An unhappy thought, for, after all, it was Jones who had invented the Joey, and the older Mate, which was the reason he had even started formulating the secret acquisition plan a few years ago in the first place.
He wondered: Could Jones be a threat to ICP and Wallaby if he decided to resign and go it alone, perhaps competing head-on with his "old" company with a newer product, something more compelling than the Joey?
William knew that Jones had substantial financial reserves, and combined with the venture capital he could gather by simply picking up the telephone, he would easily gain the resources necessary to do something big. But in an industry dominated by only a few major players, even Silicon Valley's wunderkind would face obstacles at this stage of the game. And of course, William reminded himself, suddenly taking down his fear a few notches, the largest obstacle Jones would confront was Jones himself. Wasn't that why he had originally hired Matthew Locke? He was not an organization man, incapable of managing a large company. And that would hurt him. Thank goodness for small wonders.
With some amusement at the irony of this last thought, William placed the binder beside his Joey, with which tomorrow morning he would compose an e-mail message to Matthew, congratulating him on his work. He was too tired now, and his elation had turned to exhaustion. He needed a good night's sleep. He glanced at Martha's picture for a moment, then shut off his desk lamp.
The ring of the telephone startled him. He reached across his desk to answer it before the second ring, noticing the time on his wall clock. Quarter past midnight.
"Hello?"
"Billy, did I wake you?" a croaky voice asked.
"Who's calling, please?"
"I knew it! Working late as usual. How's the ol' boss?"
"Byron! I'm fine. How are you and Grace?"
"A-okay. We're staying for an extra while here in Maine.
Sailing's been good. Few more weeks left."
"Great to hear."
"I'm calling for a favor," Byron said.
"Shoot."
"I need some of my old stuff from my office there in New York."
As the most prominent inventor in ICP's history, Byron was granted lifelong privileges that included an office that was cleaned every day and kept in a ready state, should he ever decide to drop by and sit in, for whatever reason.
"Sure. What kind of stuff?" William said and smiled to himself. His honorable former partner was experiencing post-retirement pangs. He probably wanted to browse through his old journals, notes, take a trip down memory lane, as it were.
"On my shelf, right behind my desk, there's a binder called
'Advanced Network Agent Design.'"
William snapped on the desk lamp and wrote himself a note.
"I'll have Barbara send it to you. Anything else?"
"No. I mean, no, I don't want you to send it to me. I want you to send it to this address," Byron said.
William heard some papers shuffling.
"Here it is: 42 Inlet Drive, Camden, Maine, 04288."
"You got it, Byron. I'll have Barbara fetch it tomorrow and express it to you so you get it by Wednesday. Oh, wait a second, who's the addressee?"
"Peter Jones."
William's eyes shot to Martha's photo. He blinked rapidly and his lips parted. But no words would come out. He shut his mouth, took a deep swallow. Heard himself repeat the addressee's name, then for a few beats he heard his own blood pounding in his ears.
"Yep, new buddy of mine. You know who he is, right?"
William took a few seconds to answer. "Of course," he said, staring at his Joey. Then, struggling to sound as matter-of-fact as possible: "Why are you sending him this?"
"We're kicking around an idea we've come up with," said Byron, all snappy and playful.
"I see," William managed. "Byron, are the two of you thinking of starting up something new?"
"Hell, I don't know. It may be nothing. But it may be something, too. Listen, I don't want to talk your ear off. It's late, and you've got a real job to go to in the morning."
"It's okay. I was just reading."
"Well, if you've got a few minutes."
"I do. Really. The time doesn't matter," William said, and shakily seated himself in his chair. He reached over to the bookshelf and lifted Martha's photo. He placed it in his lap.
"Please, go on," he said, and for the next forty-five minutes, he listened.