Undo Part 54

"Mr. Jones, thank you for returning my call so promptly. I'm representing Ms. Ivy Green. She has hired our firm to reclaim her rights to Isle, which I believe is currently in your possession."

The room spun. Peter dropped down onto the sofa. "Wait a minute.

I thought she was still in detox? She's not fit to be a mother.

Not yet."

"Oh, Mr. Jones, no, no. There seems to be a misunderstanding. I apologize for not making the purpose of my call clear from the start. My client has not retained me to reclaim her child. It's the hardware and software I'm referring to. However, I believe my partner does in fact need to talk to you also, about another case."

Peter listened to what Mr. Phillips had to say, then, a half hour later, he was transferred to another Mr. Phillips, who, for forty-five minutes, discussed the child-custody case he had been hired by Ivy to handle. A h.e.l.l of a one-two punch.

By the time he hung up the phone he was numb all over. In just over an hour, his whole life, which he had managed to somehow get back on track, however shakily, had once again come undone. He felt like he was at the end of his rope, like he was cracking up.

And the only person who could ever help him through the really tough times was Kate. That was who he needed to talk to right now.

But how? How could he call her, when the reason he needed her was the very reason she had left him?

So instead of calling her he sat there alone, wondering if this was it, if this was the last of his punishment for his mistakes, or was there still more to undo?

"What are you doing?" Matthew said, finding Greta in the den, crouched among a scattering of cardboard boxes.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Packing."

"Bingo."

"Why?"

"Why?" she repeated, taking in his goofy expression. "Why do people usually pack, Matthew? Because I'm moving." She returned to her task of carefully settling a vase into a box.

He placed his hands on the box flaps, holding them down as she stretched a length of tape from a spool. "When?"

"Soon. And I can do this, thank you," she said curtly, holding the strip of tape over the box. He let go and dropped his hands to his sides.

"Greta, I'm sorry about today," he said, watching her work. "It's not what you think, though."

She stopped what she was doing for a moment and shot him a warning look. He had come to understand that look very well in the last few months. She went back to her business, placing the box atop a few others.

He shifted on his feet and then all at once his face brightened.

"Hey, guess what! We're back to our original plan!"

She settled an antique serving dish inside a new box. "Good for you."

"Didn't you hear me?"

She poured foam puffs into the box.

"Greta?" he said, gripping her wrists.

"Get your hands off me," she said calmly, wriggling from his grasp. The box between them trembled dangerously. She quickly righted it.

"Greta, please," he said. "What you saw today was just lunch."

"Horses.h.i.t," she said, getting worked up. Then she checked herself. She had no intention of getting into an argument with him after the s.h.i.t she had been through today. "Matthew, listen to me. I'm only going to spell this out once. I gave you the time you asked for. Now you've pushed me too far. Besides, it doesn't matter."

"It does," he insisted. "What I'm saying is, it's all over. ICP's going to buy Wallaby after all. And I'll become president of the subsidiary, just like we planned. And we can go back to New York if that's what you want. Or we can stay here. Or whatever.

Whatever you want."

"Ah, of course. You'll need a wife if you're going to be a big shot at ICP. Might as well stick with the one you've got, save yourself some money that way, and keep the young thing in an apartment." She offered a scornful chuckle. "Christ, Matthew. You still don't want to face it?" She shook her head sadly. "It's too late. We're through. Broken."

"But it's going to be easy from here on in," he pleaded, trailing her to a black lacquer display pedestal. "My job at ICP will be a cake walk."

"Cake? Darling, the only cake walk I see is the one between you and your little girlfriend." Enough of this nonsense. She had work to do. She wanted to have her most prized possessions safely packed, to give her a sense of a.s.surance that she was getting closer to her future with her lover.

Gingerly, she raised her crystal salmon bowl off its pedestal.

"Greta," Matthew cried, gripping the bowl.

She gasped in surprise, then shrieked, "What's gotten into you - let go!" The quartz ceiling lamp accentuated the bowl's precarious plight.

"Wait. Oh, Greta. Don't you remember the day you brought this home?" he said.

Her eyes fixed on his thumbs squashed white, firm and unyielding.

The piece was too valuable to risk losing. She gave in, and he carefully settled it back onto the pedestal. She stared at him with a resigned frown, catching her breath. He had nearly ruined it.

Matthew bent over, set his hands on his knees. "Look at it," he said, mesmerized by the engraved salmon fish swimming their final, predestined course.

"All right, Matthew, you've your look. Enough now. Please" She reached for the bowl.

He gripped too. "It's over," he said, his voice cracking. "Don't you understand? The struggle's over, Greta. Do you remember when you came home with this bowl, to celebrate our plans coming together? That was when it started. And now it's over. So you see? It all worked out. Everything is fine now. Fine."

She glared at him. "Let go of my bowl."

"Greta, please. It means so much to me. To us," he urged, tugging forcefully.

"No, d.a.m.n you. It's mine and I'm taking it with me."

"Where?" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Just where the h.e.l.l do you think you're going?" His neck was straining, and his knuckles were white around the bowl's rim.

"To France!" she cried. Her eyes glistened in the bright white light. "With Jean-Pierre."

He burst with laughter, and shot his face closer to hers, over the bowl. "The horse trainer? Oh, that's good, Greta. That's real good! The horse trainer! So I'm not the only one sleeping with the staff, am I?"

Her fingers hurt, and she could barely hold on any longer.

"Matthew, please," she begged, afraid. She was painfully close to letting go, and with this awareness came another, deeper understanding. That were it not for her missing finger, she would have possessed the strength to hold on tighter and harder and longer - No, that was not it, she realized with a cry, her understanding now complete. The truth was, was were it not for her missing finger, none of this would have ever happened. Tears streamed down her face and she begged him to please let her have her bowl.