He felt something else lift, too. His mind's eye fixed on an image of the young and beautiful Laurence sitting at his desk, her hand clasped around his handset, her lips close to the mouthpiece, her words forging a new alliance between them. He focused on his memory of her hands. Was there enough time? He pressed his palm to his groin and considered opening his trousers and taking care of himself, as he sometimes did on his way home from work. Usually the act required about as much time as it took to reach the Palo Alto exit, but he had passed that turnoff miles ago and was nearly home. No, he would have to let his desire go unsatisfied…though instead of letting go, he indulged his imagination anyway, a little longer, fantasizing. Had she touched his computer while she sat there talking to him? Had she rested her soft, pretty hand on his mouse and slipped its pointer across the screen to his private folders, opened his files? The only other hands as lovely as hers were those of his wife…
Were.
And with that recollection, his daydream terminated. He had arrived at the beginning of the road that wound its way up to his home. The car's transmission automatically down-shifted as it climbed. And so did his mood. As if commiserating with the machinery that had helped him reach this point, Matthew let out an exhausted sigh.
On either side he passed huge concrete gates that fronted the estates of some of the most powerful entrepreneurs and business people in Silicon Valley, including Peter, whose home was only a half-mile from his own. It had been more than six months since he had been to Peter's home. And ever since Matthew's wife Greta had told him more than a year ago that she did not want Peter in her house again, Matthew and Peter spent less and less time together. Recently they had only seen each other in formal meetings. Looking back now, Matthew was actually appreciative for his wife's restriction. After all, had it not been for her, he might never have distanced himself far enough from Peter to get where he could realize his own power.
He made a mental note. When all of this was settled, he would do something nice for her.
* * *
Reaching for the door handle of the dark blue 500SL convertible, the parking attendant was momentarily struck with a small surprise: A rather gaudy but finely tailored purple gloved hand, wildly flapping at him like some exotic bird. Before he had a chance to open the door, the woman to whom the gloved hand belonged was climbing out of the car. She was dressed in black designer sweats and lavender sport sneakers. Purple sunglasses shielded her eyes, and a madras scarf protected her hair from the wind. As she turned and reached inside the car for her purse, the attendant understood at once, from this angle, that she was not wearing this outfit to pursue an athletic regimen. Still in his first two weeks of summer employment, he had begun to regard the ladies who shopped here with amusement and fascination. He paid special attention to mannerisms and hair color. The intended overall look sought by women like this one was, he had come to believe, that of carefree, understated elegance. Most of them pulled it off beautifully. But this one? Not quite. The gloves were definitely a first, and a definite give away. She wasn't the type, he was certain of it. Too unrefined.
Or so he thought, until she removed her scarf. He observed the loose chestnut ringlets of hair, which appeared to be her natural color. Pausing for a moment, she casually shook down the curls, which were surprisingly long and appeared soft to the touch. At the same time she pointed her face directly up into the shaft of sunlight cutting through the rows of large buildings on either side of the street, and with obvious pleasure basked in the warmth for an instant. The effect was striking, as though the rays somehow transformed her into something more attractive, which imposed a temporary snag in his analysis. Until she spoke.
"I'll be just a few secs," she said, gesturing at the store with her Chanel wallet. "I have to pick something up."
"Of course, madam," the attendant said, touching his hat. Indeed, the woman's tone was all wrong, too rough, as was her accent, or lack thereof. Yes, his initial estimation was correct. Her wealth was definitely nouveau. The worst wealth of all.