Undo Part 7

"I could," she said, and stopped chewing. He caught her look, edged with some unknown meaning. "I mean," she went on, waving at the pot on the stove, "I could eat like this all the time, but who has the time, right?"

Peter just nodded. He took another bite of pizza. He was thirsty.

"Wine. That's what we need."

"Yes."

"White? Is that good for what you're making?"

"Red's better."

He went to the tall narrow wine rack hidden inside a cabinet. His fingertips lingered on the neck of a particular reserve, a special bottle. He deliberated for a moment, then selected a younger vintage. He opened it and poured them each a gla.s.s, handed one to her. There was an awkward moment, in which both stood motionless. He didn't know what to say and, gratefully, she made it easy for him.

"To new friends."

"New friends," he said, slipping in a small emphasis on the latter.

They touched their gla.s.ses together and Peter looked into his own to avoid her eyes as he sipped the wine.

"Come on," Ivy said, "let's eat." She went about filling two bowls with stew, while he sliced the crusty loaf of bread she'd set out on the counter. She carried the bowls into the dining room, and he followed with the bread and his gla.s.s of wine.

"Sit," she said, "I'll get the bottle."

He drank some more, and when she came back in he noticed her gla.s.s. She had filled it.

They ate in silence for a few moments. He told her the stew was delicious, and she said she was surprised, though she wasn't really.

"So, what made you choose Stanford?" he said.

"A course they had. It's called VTSS. Values, Technology, Science, and Society."

"I've never heard of it."

"It's been around for awhile. Interesting mix."

"Sounds like it. What interests you about it most?"

"Well, how they all overlap. One affecting and impacting the other, and so on. You sure know all about that."

"Me?"

"Sure, you." She snorted. "Come on. You know, the way the computers you invented have changed our society, that they're founded on science and technology. How they've affected people's values." She glanced up from her plate. "I mean, really, you've democratized computing power among the ma.s.ses, putting it in the hands of the people. Giving them a choice, an alternative to business as usual. No more Big Brother, brother." She resumed eating. "Anyway, that's what the course was about." She spoke with the easy, unaffected confidence one acquires with experience. Yet she was only twenty-one.

He realized that his spoon was halfway between his bowl and mouth. He did not know how long he'd been sitting there like that. He set it down and poured himself more wine. He looked at her over the rim of his gla.s.s, and felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was an agreeable feeling, and that in turn made it an adverse feeling. Thin ice ahead, if he didn't watch himself. Friends, he repeated to himself, and don't forget it.

"Did you hear me?"

Had she said something? "I'm sorry - you were saying?"

"I said, that's what the course was about. I dropped it."

"But you sound like an expert. Why the change of heart?"

"Nah. Music. This speech stuff. That's what I told you when I met you, don't you remember?"

In fact, he did not remember. What's more, he realized, was that he didn't know her last name either. Before he was aware of what he was doing, he asked her, "What's your last name?"

She was pouring herself more wine. She stopped. Was she hurt?

She grinned. "You got me."

His expression betrayed his confusion.

"I never told you my last name!" she said, as if that explained everything. Whatever everything was. "I see what you're getting at: How could I ask if you remember that I dropped that course to get into this linguistics programming stuff when you don't even know my last name. It's because I never told you."

He went to take another sip of wine, but then decided to hold off for a bit.

"It's Green. Ivy Green. Can you stand it?"

"It's certainly very Earth conscious."

"Very funny. The only green I think Rick and Jeannette had in mind when they named me was reefer."

He burst out laughing. "How come?"

"Oh, please. Don't you get it? I'm a Sixties baby, like, 'Make Love, Not War,' 'Give Peace a Chance,' 'If It Feels Good, Do It.'

Well, they did it. They met at Woodstock, no kidding, and, a few years later, they did it, made me, and got married and all. How it felt, I mean, good or not, I never asked. Quit laughing. They moved to California, lived right at the corner of Haight and Ashbury, and found peace and all that. Later, when my dad accidentally started his own herbal tea company - yes, it's the brand you've got on the shelf there in the kitchen - they moved to Mill Valley. That's where I grew up, with parents who told me to call them by their first names, so we'd get closer to where we visualized ourselves in the universe. Or some s.h.i.t like that."

"Sorry, I'm not laughing at the circ.u.mstances. It's the way you tell it."

"No problem. I'm still amused by the Rick and Jeannette Show."

From out of nowhere came a pout. Then: "But I'm not goin' to live my life like they did." She sniffed deeply. "Um, I'll be right back."

Had he offended her? He'd meant no harm in laughing. He was just amused by her deadpan delivery. While she excused herself, Peter got up from the table. Her talk about the Sixties had aroused some vague sentiment in him. Whatever. All of the sudden the place seemed too quiet. While she was away from the table he got up and loaded a compact disc into his stereo system. The first track was a folksy acoustic number.

Ivy returned to the table smiling. "Want more stew?"

"I'm stuffed," Peter said.

She sat down.

"Here." He poured more wine into her gla.s.s, trying for an apology if it was in fact called for. He had no idea.

The instrumental ended, then a lovely female voice filled the room with song. It was his absolute favorite. His eyelids lowered slowly, automatically, and a smile washed across his face. The artist's sensual voice had an effect on him that was like easing into a warm bath. He sat there like that for a little bit, forgetting Ivy and his dinner and everything else.

Ivy turned her head to the source of his evident pleasure. Her frown went unnoticed.

Peter had met the vocalist one afternoon at a Sierra Club luncheon thrown in his honor after Wallaby had donated several computers to the noted environmental organization. Kate McGreggor, the "softly outspoken" folk-rock star, was the keynote speaker. He tried to be attentive to her words during her speech, but he constantly found himself drifting, starting at her warm green eyes, sighing when she casually brushed aside her hair, dark brown with sunned highlights and occasional strands of gray.