Undo Part 38

"After the shower. I promise." She stood and unzipped her athletic top.

He tugged on his second boot. "It is just that they can be so pushy and overwhelming."

"He is a friend of ours, Jean-Pierre. Well, of Matthew's anyway.

But I trust he'll be straight with me," she said, sounding not totally certain.

"I am just trying to help," Jean-Pierre said, tucking in his shirt.

She slid her little horseshoe charm back and forth on its chain.

Should she call now? Perhaps with Jean-Pierre here it would be easier. And if she really was going to go through with this, she might as well do it with him here. He was, after all, the reason why she had made up her mind in the first place.

"Wait," she said, as he was zipping his suede jacket. "Pa.s.s me my little address book. It's over there next to my wallet." She flipped through the book and found the number she wanted and dialed the telephone.

Jean-Pierre stood with his arms crossed, broad shoulders pressed squarely against the wall. He gave her an encouraging look.

She turned her attention to her free hand, the left, which she had kept ungloved since she and Jean-Pierre had made love the first time. Somehow it seemed only fitting that she stare at where her finger once was while making this call. On the second ring a young woman's voice greeted her.

"This is Greta Locke," she said, and after a moment's hesitation, "Matthew Locke's wife." She met Jean-Pierre's intense stare. "I'd like to speak with Mitch.e.l.l, please." A pause, then: "Mitch.e.l.l, h.e.l.lo. Yes, he's fine, thank you." Her expression turned serious as she smiled through the last of the lawyer's greeting.

"Actually, Mitch.e.l.l, things aren't exactly perfect," she said, twisting the phone cord in her hand. Her eyes went to Jean-Pierre for a moment, taking him in from head to toe, his boots. The ranch, she reminded herself, boosting her courage. This was all for their ranch. She took a deep breath and plunged on. "I'm calling you, Mitch.e.l.l, because I want a divorce." Pinpoint dots of sweat had formed on her upper lip.

"I'm sorry?" she said, shaking her gaze from Jean-Pierre. "No, Matthew and I have not talked about it yet." Another pause. "No, I don't know if it's what Matthew wants. It's what I want." She swallowed a deluge of conflicting emotions, her eyes pleading with her lover for support.

Jean-Pierre dropped before her and rested his head in her lap.

"Yes, I will," she said, and placed her hand on Jean-Pierre's head. "Yes, as soon as he gets home from New York, yes."

Jean-Pierre lifted his face. He was silently mouthing a word, but she could not understand him.

"No, I can't think of anything. I'm sure by the time I call you back I'll have - oh, wait." She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece.

"Property," Jean-Pierre whispered.

"Oh yes, Mitch.e.l.l, I do have one question." She held the phone with both hands and looked out the window. "Mitch.e.l.l, I'm not clear on a few things in these matters. The property. The house.

a.s.sets. Those sorts of things."

Jean-Pierre held her around the waist with both arms. In the distance she could see his small cottage, the ranch, a few horses being led from the stable.

"It is half, then," she said softly. Her hand dropped to Jean-Pierre's head and slid down to his shoulder. She held on tight. "Half of everything," she uttered, feeling as if her lips were suddenly anesthetized.

"Okay," she said, her voice different now, smaller. "Thank you, Mitch.e.l.l. I'll contact you soon." She placed the handset on its cradle and closed her eyes.

Jean-Pierre seated himself beside her and wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He whispered to her soothingly, to breathe slowly, relax.

She opened her mouth, tried to form words, but they would not come. After a minute she regained some control. "My G.o.d, Jean-Pierre," she managed, hiding her face in her trembling hands. "That amounts to millions."

"Greta," he said, pulling her from him, "You have earned your share. You have worked for it."

"Yes," she said. "Yes," an emphatic whisper. "I have worked hard for it, haven't I?"

"Yes," Jean-Pierre a.s.sured her, petting her hair. He smiled. "You have indeed."

"That's right, as much of it as I can sell," Peter said into the telephone. With a disbelieving expression he shook his head at Byron, who crossed his arms and shot him a mildly disturbed look.

"Okay, Peggy, thanks," Peter said, then hung up the phone.

"You sure you want to do that?" Byron said carefully, turning his coffee cup in his palm.

"You bet I am! Byron, I can't believe this! I can't believe Matthew has formed an alliance with them!" Peter said, batting his hand at the "Wall Street Journal," whose headline announced, "ICP, Wallaby Announce Strategic Venture."

"Petey, don't forget that 'them' is where this old timer comes from."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean to disparage you, or where you're from. I'm just astonished Matthew has actually done what he was trying to get me to agree to do. To sell out Wallaby to ICP."

"He's not selling out, boy. He's upping Wallaby's market.

Probably triple it in a few years because of that two-step he pulled today."

Peter folded his arms. "All the more reason for me to sell my share in Wallaby and invest it in what we're working on. You know, I'm in the mood for a little shopping spree. I think my mind is made up about those couple of acquisitions we've been talking about. The net browser. The compression routines. And definitely that knock-out handwriting recognition kernel. Yes indeed, it's time to do a little spending."

The two men had turned the extra bedroom in Byron's Maine home into a lab and workroom. Scattered all around were diagrams of circuit boards, tools, and a.s.sorted computer and electronic parts. A flowchart of the software that Byron was engineering, based on the design the two men had come up with in the last four months, was spread out on the table before them.

"Well, that's settled then," Byron said. "Good. Now what do you say you wipe that little snarl off your face and we get back to work. Come on." He patted the stool beside him and Peter, still plainly agitated by the news, returned to his seat beside his partner.

"This is what I changed last night," Byron said, pointing at a series of boxes indicating the user interface portion of the code. "It's what's going to make this baby different from every other portable doohickey out there."

Peter leaned over the table, following Byron's finger. He shook his head. "No."

"No? No what?"

Peter roughly took Byron's hand in his. "This!" he said, encircling the entire drawing with the other man's finger and, in doing so, pulling Byron from his stool and practically stretching him across the table.

"Hey!" Byron yelled. "If you want to dance, just say so, but be careful, boy, I prefer the floor to tables!"

"I'm sorry," Peter said. He let go of Byron's hand, and gently patted it.

Byron tugged at his sweater sleeve and flexed his arm.

"But look at this," Peter said. "All of this!" he continued, gesturing in a frenzy now with both hands at the entire table, the scattered parts, the room.

Byron casually fished his tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket.

"Don't you see what's wrong with all this stuff you're talking about?"

"Why don't you tell me," Byron said. He crossed his legs and began packing his pipe.