Part 5 (1/2)

Greta understood early on that Peter's attachment to Matthew could ruin everything her husband had so carefully planned before he accepted the job at Wallaby. Time was wasting, she observed; she knew that the stronger Matthew and Peter's friends.h.i.+p became, the farther Matthew would stray from the original plan. She had had to act swiftly, otherwise Matthew might have had a change of heart altogether.

To start the ball rolling, Greta had told Matthew that she did not want Peter in their home. How Matthew was to accomplish this without offending Peter was his problem; if he really cared about her, he'd spare her the company of the bratty wunderkind. She followed through by feigning anguish whenever Matthew mentioned Peter, and by pressuring him to get on with business: When would he tell Peter about the development strategy? Why was he stalling? She knew that once Matthew revealed his strategy, the young man would withdraw from her husband. And perhaps that was why he had taken his time - he was enjoying too much their friends.h.i.+p. Matthew's transformation plans were hideously contrary to Peter's renegade spirit. It had been painful to hound Matthew constantly, but she had no choice. He would never have dealt with Peter and put his plan back on track if she had not intervened. A few weeks was all it had taken to re-focus Matthew.

When he explained to Peter his hopes for the company - a profound strategy for leading Wallaby into Big Business - the two men had their first falling-out, which seriously upset their formerly flawless courts.h.i.+p. Matthew had persisted in attempting to sway the young founder into understanding his strategy, but each time he faced argument and resistance. Greta had forced Matthew to confess that as long as Peter was in control, the secret plan would never materialize. Finally, Peter expressed doubt in Matthew's overall vision and qualifications, saying he was personally hurt that Matthew could even hypothesize such a thing for Wallaby. That said, Matthew halted his friends.h.i.+p with Peter, and drew heavily from his wife's support to rebuild his confidence in the secret plan.

She felt wanted again. However, her expectation of spending more time with Matthew was unfulfilled. Instead of spending weekends with her, he spent more time than ever in his little home office, next to the library. And when he wasn't holed up in there, he was constantly reading about big computers and the latest technologies, his face often closer to the pages of a book than to his wife's face when they were in bed.

After tomorrow, after Peter was truly invalidated, she knew that Matthew would start spending more time with her. She had to believe that. After all, it was she he had to thank for rectifying his temporary shortsightedness. At least that was how she saw things.

Raising a gla.s.s of wine to her lips, she heard the automatic garage door open. He was home. She twisted the k.n.o.b of the recessed ceiling-mounted quartz lamp to full intensity. The salmon bowl sparkled.

He appeared at the living room entrance, hands at his sides. She pretended not to notice his arrival.

”Greta.”

”Oh, darling,” Greta said, pretending to be surprised.

Without remark, she quickly took in his tired expression. His eyes seemed half closed, as if the reflection thrown off by the glittering object were blinding. Studying him, she searched for the foundation of the man she had married, the man with the strong and sinewy build, the confident posture, the sharp aristocratic features. Today his cheeks appeared blanched, his stance tentative. With her gla.s.s of wine in hand, she strolled casually across the room.

”What's that?” Matthew said.

She pecked his impa.s.sive lips. ”That,” she said, toasting the bowl with her gla.s.s, ”is pure brilliance.”

”How much brilliance?”

”A steal, Darling. I got it to celebrate your success. Let me get you something to drink.” She left him alone with ”his” present.

He inspected her newest purchase. He had to admit, it was magnificent, and as he scrutinized it more closely, he began to forget about his labored day and the impending showdown. He studied one of the etched salmon that circled the bowl's rim. It swam against a powerful, unseen force, compelled onward with inner strength, driven by instinct to fulfill its obligation. It was that way in business, he reflected, one had to be driven by instinct and a sense of obligation, plain and simple -

But that word, simple, was like a hook that snagged his mind and reeled him from the peaceful waters that were his thoughts. Once more, his thoughts returned to the d.a.m.nable Peter Jones, his excited voice raiding Matthew's mind like an unwelcome visitor.

”'If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get the best thing G.o.d invents,'” Peter would wistfully recite, the poet Robert Browning's words, during design meetings. Forever distrusting complexity, Peter made it his utmost priority that Wallaby's products were unaffected in their design and easy to use.

Once more, apprehension washed over Matthew like a s.h.i.+fting tide.

If only he could convince himself that everything would go exactly according to plan. It would, wouldn't it? He felt as though his life depended on it. He just didn't feel one-hundred percent sure.

”Here,” Greta said, handing him a small bottle of Perrier. Taking the drink, he avoided looking at her bare hand...or at the other, which was concealed inside a silky white glove. He took a sudden and uncomfortable interest in the tiny bubbles that formed and rose in the bottle.

Greta sat on the flowery chintz settee and patted the cus.h.i.+on next to her. ”Come.”

Before joining her, Matthew twisted off the bright lamp.

Nighttime descended on the salmon, their struggle temporarily suspended. He sank into the softness of the sofa and rested his eyes.

”Well? Is everything all set?”

He nodded.

”Good, Matthew,” she said. ”I can't wait for you to be able to relax once this all settles down.” She thought of the time she would have with him after tomorrow's meeting and smiled, more at this thought than to comfort him.