Undo Part 3

Tensions began to surface just six months after that cover shot appeared on newsstands, when after its introduction, the Joey personal interactive a.s.sistant met with only mild commercial success. Though the device won accolades from the industry for Peter and his team of engineers for its breakthrough technology, buyers were skeptical. The dream that Peter shared with Matthew in their first meeting was to make the Joey the hottest-selling portable computer device in the world, displacing market share completely dominated by Wallaby's biggest compet.i.tor, International Computer Products.

The dream was never realized. Though users of ICP's own best-selling portable computer admitted that the Joey was technically more innovative and expertly designed, there were few key software applications available for it at the time of its introduction. At the root of the delay was a frustrating paradox: While the Joey was by far the easiest to use portable interactive a.s.sistant, it was also the most difficult computer to develop software programs for. The Joey employed a radical new method of operation and many of the software developers had trouble learning the new system. As sales of the Joey dropped off, the pressure on Peter's team grew more intense. Enhancements that would make the Joey easier to develop programs for were behind schedule, and Matthew held Peter responsible for the delays.

During this precarious period, Peter ran for cover. Embarra.s.sed by his own shortsightedness, he left Matthew to contend with Wallaby's share-sensitive executives and board members. It wasn't unnatural for the president of a company to contend with its board of directors, but it was radically different from the way things had worked at Wallaby in the past. Peter Jones held a dual role as chairman of the board and vice president of the Joey division. Until the development dilemma, Peter had always been the primary voice in front of the board. So while Peter recovered from his temporary loss of balance, Matthew soothed board members' nerves by committing all of his energies to building a strategy that would move Wallaby back into a secure, high-sales position. He a.s.sured them that Peter was on track and would come through with the necessary improvements. He produced impressive development trend studies that described how it often took two years for a new product to gain market acceptance. His methodical East Coast style had an interesting effect on the anxious princ.i.p.als: They believed him. In the past, Peter has wowed them with his enthusiasm and technological prowess. There had never been cause to question the young man's business ac.u.men; the company was less than ten years old and had been profitable for just as long. But suddenly, Peter's pa.s.sionate efforts seemed empty; the numbers were declining. Those numbers needed turning around, and Matthew was the board's man. Now that he had their confidence, it was time to give them an ultimatum.

It was really quite simple. Matthew would propose that Peter be removed as the leader of both Wallaby and the Joey group. Matthew would personally oversee the accelerated development of the new Joey Plus, enforcing a strict schedule to complete its design and production in just three months. Matthew knew Peter that would be utterly shocked by his proposal at tomorrow's meeting. Though Peter would be stripped of all his power, Matthew hoped that after his feelings healed, the executive staff and board of directors would be able to persuade him to concentrate his visionary skills in a research capacity, which Matthew could draw upon when the core Joey technology began showing signs of obsolescence.

To fulfill his promise to fix the company's stalled position, Matthew intended to unify the engineering groups, ending the elitist conditions Peter had created when he began developing the Joey more than three years ago. Peter had chosen only the brightest, most proven people and moved his new team to a private building, which he had surrounded with tight security. Only the Joey team had been allowed to enter the building, a first in Wallaby history. Before the Joey project, employees had been free to enter every building. Most employees had no reason to enter buildings other than those in which they worked, but the freedom of being allowed to do so represented the company's trust in its people. Matthew, of course, was free to roam wherever he pleased, and he instantly understood the reason for Peter's rule the first time he entered the off-limits building. Peter had created a project-team paradise. The Joey engineers were supplied with exotic and luxurious amenities that Peter felt nurtured their creativity and rewarded them for their intense work.

Matthew intended to put an end to the Joey team's Club Med work environment by integrating it with the company's other engineering divisions. A newly consolidated engineering division would focus its energies on expediting completion of the Joey Plus.

In the quiet of his own car, the plan seemed logical and simple.

But as he thought about tomorrow's meeting and about the confrontation that would ensue, he became aware of the dampness under his arms and his flush face.

He changed lanes as he pa.s.sed the Woodside exit. High golden hills, peppered every ten or so acres with colossal mansions, pa.s.sed on either side as sidled to the right lane. Pa.s.sing the auto repair shop, he thought of Laurence Maupin. She had been hired into the newly created position as his personal public relations a.s.sistant one month ago. The timing was perfect for positioning her loyalties in his favor. He had revealed to her his plan for tomorrow's meeting, and asked her to secretly prepare his press statement under the a.s.sumption that everything would go perfectly. There was no guarantee that tomorrow's board decision would favor him over Peter, yet he was betting his career on his plan. He reminded himself of his discussion with Laurence a few minutes earlier, about the over-and-done-with tone of her voice as she read Matthew his statement on the other end of the line, speaking in a nearly conspiratorial tone as she sat in his office, holding his telephone in her hand. He felt his spirits lift.

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 pa.s.sed 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-s.h.i.+fted 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 pa.s.sed 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 sungla.s.ses s.h.i.+elded 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 a.n.a.lysis. 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.

A second attendant smiled as he opened the large gla.s.s door that announced Gump's, in gold leaf lettering. Removing her sungla.s.ses, she headed straight for the elevator. As she waited for its arrival, she lifted an antique hand mirror from a display. Taking in her own reflection, she shook her hair and checked her teeth. Her brown, Bette Davis eyes grew even more expansive at the discovery of a pinpoint blemish just above her eyebrow. She touched it and clucked. Swearing under her breath, she returned the mirror to the gla.s.s counter and replaced her sungla.s.ses. She had to get out of these bright lights.

A bell chimed, signaling the arrival of the elevator. Turning from the counter, she noticed a small, smiling elderly woman.

"Madam, can I show you some of our other fine silver mirrors?"

Greta Locke spun to hold the elevator door open. Wearing an expression intended to come off as playful, she turned back to the saleswoman. But when she noticed the woman staring at her gloved hand holding the jutting elevator door, Greta's response was anything but playful. "The last thing I need is an expensive silver mirror to remind me to stop eating chocolate."

She boarded the elevator.

"Why Mrs. Locke, what a pleasant surprise!" said the attractive salesman, all smiles, as Greta approached. He stood before the Steuben crystal room situated at the end of the mercifully subdued second level. Behind him there stood a row of ghostly illuminated gla.s.s cases containing spectacular pieces of some of the world's finest crystal. His modest platinum name badge said he was Mr. William Armond.

"Billy," Greta said, pausing one step before proceeding past him, "there's something I'd like to see in the Houston collection."

"Of course," Mr. Armond said, trailing her. He glanced at his a.s.sociate, Ms. Olson, whose territories were the Lalique and Baccarat rooms. Reluctant to catch his eye, she pursed her lips and busied herself at her desk, addressing small, golden catalogs.

Greta Locke was Mr. Armond's best customer, one of Gump's best customers, and everyone who worked there knew it. She had spent several hundred thousand dollars at Gump's in the two years Mr.

Armond had had the good fortune of knowing her. Last year she had arranged a deal between Gump's and Wallaby, Incorporated, to purchase corporate gifts at a special quant.i.ty discount. A discount of five percent can be quite sizable, she noted to her husband, when he purchased eight Steuben flower vases last year as Christmas presents for the wives of the Wallaby board members, at four hundred dollars apiece.

She removed her sungla.s.ses and studied the curves and artwork of a large bowl displayed in the gla.s.s case. She'd had her eye on it for some time now. It was a James Houston original, engraved with painstaking detail. Circling the bowl's rim were salmon swimming against an invisible current, surrounded by tiny air bubbles. The piece was breathtaking.

"Perhaps a closer inspection?" Mr. Armond said, producing a small ring of keys. But before he managed to insert the small key into the case's lock, Greta stopped him.

"Don't bother. I'll take it."

"A splendid piece, Mrs. Locke," he said. "May I have it gift-wrapped for you?"

"No," she said, "That's not necessary." Without removing her gloves, she deftly slid her credit card out of her wallet and handed it to him. "It's a gift to me. For all my hard work." She lingered behind him as he moved to his clerk's desk. "Anything new?" she asked, over her shoulder.

"There are some lovely new crystal animals," said Mr. Armond, indicating one of the other cases. The collection consisted of exquisite, palm-size creatures. A dog...a cat...a bird...a bear.

All resting peacefully on a black velvet blanket.

She seemed uninterested; she'd gotten what she came for. However, as she was exiting the parlor, a little farther along the display, she saw something, reclining on a green felt pasture, that captivated her attention. Larger than the other pieces, but small enough to hold in two hands, there lay a k.n.o.bby colt, its translucent mane flared back from its muscular neck, forever frozen in the wind. She thought of her own horse, a gift from Matthew when they had moved to California. Wouldn't this crystal beauty look wonderful beside her bed, on the night stand....

She remembered her car, double-parked out front. Another day perhaps, she decided, seating herself before Mr. Armond at an antique table while he called downstairs and instructed one of the vault attendants to have the piece brought to her.

"Billy, I've worked so hard," she said, fingering her forehead above her eyebrow. "This is my reward."

"Of course you have," Mr. Armond said. "The piece you have purchased is one of a limited number created by Mr. Houston.

He'll be pleased to know it will be enjoyed by you and Mr.

Locke."

"People just don't know how difficult it is being married to a successful businessman. It absolutely drains a woman. I swear, I feel like half the time I do his thinking." She removed her right glove and inspected her nails, and, as the credit card machine beeped twice, she casually turned hand over, palm up, to receive the sales slip.

Mr. Armond transcribed the approval code onto the form and handed her the pen. As she signed her name, he mentally calculated his five-percent commission on the sale: $1,200.

Ms. Olson, carrying the small catalogs in a stack that reached from her midriff to her chin, managed a polite nod as she pa.s.sed.

"Darling," Greta called, pointing in Ms. Olson's direction with her index finger.

As the saleswoman turned, her expressionless face metamorphosed into a struggled smile. "Yes?"

"Can I please have one of those?"

"Madam, I am certain you will receive one in the mail shortly,"

Ms. Olson said. She blinked delicately, twice.

"I want it now."