Chapter 17
"That's a good girl," Peter said, cradling the tiny Isle in his arms. He checked her bottle. "Almost done."
For one and a half months she had been home with Peter, deemed well enough leave the hospital after a touch-and-go stay for the same length of time. She weighed a scant six and a quarter pounds. Her eyes were curious and alert, just like her mother's. Peter longed for her eyes to keep the clear sapphire color, a glittering reflection of Ivy. Isle's hair was beginning to outcrop in satiny brown whorls, the same color as her father's.
"Your little jewel," Grace said all smiles as she came into the living room. "Go ahead, I'll finish up with her."
"Okay, shrimp, over to Grace," Peter said, handing over the little pink bundle.
Peter stood beaming at his infant in Grace's lap, her tiny mouth puckering the nipple of the bottle, tiny hands clutching and uncurling, tiny stocking feet kicking. So fragile, yet strong.
"Petey!" Byron boomed from elsewhere in the house. "Let's go!"
"Better hurry before the bear comes out of his cave looking for you."
"Coming," Peter called, and hurriedly kissed Isle's fuzzy head.
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.