"We don't have an agenda to hand out today," Martin said with
uncharacteristic seriousness. "Let's begin." He nodded to
Matthew, then diverted his attention out the window, avoiding
Peter's puzzled expression.
* * *
Greta Locke awoke with no great desire to leave her warm bed. She had slept fitfully; Matthew had tossed and bucked through the night, and the few times she tried to soothe or comfort him, he had turned on his side with an irked sigh.
She wondered if the board meeting at Wallaby had started. It didn't matter really, everything was going to be just fine. Stretching, she sat up and adjusted her silk gloves. She leaned across the bed to the night table and opened its drawer, taking from it a fine Swiss biscuit that she unwrapped and bit into as she pulled the sheets from her body and got out of bed. She didn't feel like taking a shower, not right now, anyway. She took her silk robe from the door hook as she passed the bathroom.
Slowly she descended the stairs. With each step her mind turned over her options for the day ahead. Stanford Mall? Union Square again? Clothes? Gourmet food?
Her housekeeper, Marie, appeared at the bottom of the stairway. She was wearing rubber gloves and carrying a bucket filled with a strong-smelling ammonia solution. She greeted Greta with an obedient smile.
"Mrs. Locke, I cleaned the windows on the patio outside."
"Fine, I'll inspect them," Greta said, pivoting from the last step.
She strolled into the large black and white tiled kitchen and opened the refrigerator. As she reached for the pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, she noticed an open bottle of Mumm champagne resting on the back shelf. Why not a mimosa, she decided, to celebrate Matthew's success.
She tugged the elaborate silver stopper from the bottle. It popped weakly, and the champagne fizzed lightly as she topped off her half-full glass of orange juice.