Peter kept quiet.

"Not exactly," William said. "Byron Holmes here," he said, indicating the man seated beside Matthew, "will temporarily take over as Wallaby's president."

Matthew was deeply shocked.

William said, "Peter has decided to rejoin Wallaby in an at-large position, working on our future products. However he'll only come back if you leave." William produced a folded doc.u.ment from his coat pocket. "I'm sorry, Matthew, but I have to ask you to resign."

"I will not," Matthew protested loudly.

Several diners, most of them Wallaby employees, turned their heads in the group's direction.

"Matthew," William said, his voice empathetic now, "I'm afraid you have no choice." He unfolded the doc.u.ment and placed it before Matthew. "We've put together a first-rate severance package for you."

For what felt like a long time, Matthew was unable to do anything but sit there and stare down at the doc.u.ment that spelled out the rewards of his terrific failure. His brain sizzled as he attempted to focus on the details. He saw numbers and lots of parenthesized paragraphs. There was a long line at the bottom, with his name printed beneath it.

He raised his head and looked across the table at Peter. "Why?

Why didn't you just agree with me when I suggested all this? It would have had the same outcome."

"Sorry, Matthew, but it was never that simple."

But it could be now, Matthew thought, sitting there at the breakfast table, clutching tightly in his fist the little circular thing he had been hiding in his briefcase for so many years.

He was completely spent, used up. Alone. There was no one for him now. No one he could call on. William had informed him that Laurence had arranged for a transfer to an ICP office in France.

And, effective immediately, Eileen, his former secretary, was Byron Holmes's personal a.s.sistant.

And then there was Greta.

He opened his fist and looked at the gold object in his palm. It rolled out of his hand onto the tabletop.

He twirled Greta's wedding band round and round with his fingertip. On that awful day years ago, he had retrieved the ring from the boat deck before kicking her severed finger into the ocean. Unable to face the horror of what had happened to her, to her hand, he had hidden the ring in his briefcase ever since.

She was the only person in the world who had ever truly supported him, the only person who would know just what to say right now.

And she was gone. He had destroyed her, too, with his d.a.m.nable, selfish dream. A dream that had become a nightmare. One from which there would be no waking. It was all over. Really and truly through.

Ah, but the cyanide pill. It was his grandest plan ever. He wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve and straightened, contemplating the details of his new plan. Had Greta left anything in the medicine cabinet? Sleeping pills? What about the garage, in that d.a.m.ned car? He lowered his head to his folded arms again, considered his options.

He was awakened by the sound of the doorbell.

As everything came back to him all at once, his first reaction was paranoia. The press. Reporters and photographers. They had scaled the gate, and they were coming for him, coming to mock him.

"Go away," he shouted.

But instead of leaving him alone, they resorted to pounding, screaming his name. They rang again, more pounding.

He called for Marie and ordered her to send them away. The housekeeper came back a moment later and told him who it was at the door.

He grabbed the ring and leaped up from his chair, tears finally coming as he staggered down the foyer.

He twisted the lock and swung open the door.

And there she stood. A sobbing Greta, wearing, he noticed at once and unmistakably, the very gloves he had bought for Laurence.

Pigskin, and fit for a queen. His queen.

Yes, she was wearing them now, and didn't that then mean that he had bought them for her, really? That they belonged together?

Chapter 24

Peter sat on the rug with his legs crossed, Isle in a bundle beside him, and together they listened to Kate's soothing voice mingle with the sound of the light rainfall outside.

Ivy came into the room, humming softly.

"Is she asleep?"

"Not quite. I think she's sorta wired. She's had a tough day. You too."

"You three," Ivy said.

Peter stood up. "Thanks for letting her stay here tonight. I'll bring her over tomorrow afternoon, if that's okay."

"Sure," Ivy said. "A deal's a deal."

"Thanks."

Peter had offered to marry Ivy, but she had declined. In their out of court settlement, Peter had agreed to child-support payments, and Ivy had granted him visitation rights.

For the rights to her ISLE hardware and software design, ICP paid Ivy six million dollars.

They hugged, and then she was gone.

He sat back down beside Isle and she stirred. He took her in his arms.

"You miss Grandma Gracie and Grandpa Byron already?" he said, pretending she understood every word. "Me too," he said.

Byron and Grace had left a few hours ago for Maine, to take care of some things and plan their move west. They intended to find a vacation home in California, where they would reside for however long Byron managed Wallaby.

Peter's own home now felt like it used to, before Isle. Quiet, empty. Yet at this moment, it was more full of life than ever.

But this, he had to keep reminding himself, was temporary. That was the deal. But it was better than nothing at all. Better than being completely alone.

The next song started playing on the disc player. Kate's voice chased away the silence, replaced it with the missing element.

"When you're a little older," he told Isle, "I'm going to teach you how to sing just like that."

"And who's going to teach you?"

Peter spun around.