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be nearly empty by now, and the executive staff secretaries, disguising their cravings by pretending to go to the ladies’ room, would pick over the remains once the boardroom door had closed and the meeting was underway. But today they could enjoy themselves in a leisurely fashion, for none of the board members seemed to have appetites.

The room fell from a fuzzy hum to heavy silence when Matthew entered. Immediately he saw that Peter had not yet arrived. He seated himself in one of two vacant leather chairs at either end of the long, black table. The room’s amenities and furnishings were simple and high-tech. Bleached wood paneling on one wall stood in stark contrast with the deep charcoal rug. On the wall opposite the windows, a series of segmented panels unfolded to reveal a massive rear-projection movie screen. At the other end, audiovisual equipment was stacked behind hinged, smoked-glass doors. Here, encapsulated multimedia performances, new product videos, employee interviews, research and development sneak previews, and live TV spots or teleconferences were viewed with the touch of a finger. Today, however, the equipment would remain silent and cool, the master of ceremonies unaided by electronic wizardry.

The room offered a panoramic view of the Santa Cruz Mountains, which rolled northwestward toward San Francisco. The five board members and a couple of Wallaby’s senior executives faced this view, while the less senior executives sat with their backs to the windows. Peter Jones had personally selected every person for his or her position in this room, most of them more than eight years ago.

Sitting here, waiting, Matthew Locke’s confidence began to falter. The expressions around the table were grim, as all were aware of the forthcoming conflict. Had Matthew inspected the trashcan beside the security desk in the building’s lobby, he would have found several discarded copies of the “Wall Street Journal,” each affixed with a small mailing label addressed to one of the persons seated around the table. Each would have read the article predicting changes in this very board meeting, and would know that the speculations were about to be substantiated. Like the emotionally battered children of distraught and noncommunicative parents, those in the room would have to choose to which parent they would commit their trust, to the man who could best repair Wallaby and lead the company from its stalled state to a prosperous future. While he had already gained secret votes of confidence from every person present, he was nonetheless struck in the pit of his stomach by a gross realization. Here he sat among men and women expressly chosen by Peter for their roles, in this room whose design Peter had personally approved, in this building that was only one of many representing the company that Peter Jones had founded, in this little town to which he had brought international recognition. Did Matthew really believe, as he sat here waiting, that he could actually unseat Peter from this very room? From this very legend?

With an imperceptible shudder, Matthew flung this thought from his mind and replaced it with memories of the time and energy he had invested in preparation for this day.

Seated to his right and facing the windows was Hank Towers, assistant chairman, and Wallaby’s primary investor. Over the past several months Matthew had spent a considerable amount of time with Hank, and he had agreed with most of Matthew’s ideas about how Wallaby should be managed. He had pored over the reports and strategies that Matthew collected, giving particular attention to a recent Harvard Business School study that described a phenomenon with which every successful company must eventually contend. It stated that by the time a business is ten years old, its original founders have left. There were exceptions, of course. The founding pair of Hewlett-Packard, for example, had remained with the company for several decades and both still held directorial roles. And, a little closer to the issue at hand was ICP, which was founded in the 1930s by Jonathan Holmes, who had stayed on for half a century before turning the business over to his son, Byron. But in most cases the departure of a founder was a natural occurrence. Typically, he or she left to begin a new venture, however the second most prevalent manner of departure was less amicable; the founder was forced out of the company because he or she was hampering rather than helping the company. If anyone could appreciate this it was Hank. Three years ago he had persuaded Peter to let him begin a worldwide search for a candidate who could take his place as president of Wallaby, managing its day-to-day operations. What’s more, it was Hank who had recommended Matthew after reading about him in “Business Week.” The story had commended Matthew’s successes at International Foods, noting that he was one of the youngest and most effective Fortune 500 presidents, and speculating that he was being groomed by International’s stuffy and conservative chairman, Rolland Worthy, to take the elder’s place when he retired.

But today his reputation as the once-mighty leader of a large food and beverage company gave him little faith in his strategy, which was beginning to taste more and more stale each passing minute.

The door opened and Peter Jones entered the room. All around the table the members rearranged themselves, sitting more erect, seeming to have acquired a sudden intense interest in the figures and data and notes piled before them - anything to avoid making eye contact with the newest and final arrival. Dressed in a faultlessly fitted Armani suit, crisp white shirt and subdued floral patterned tie, Peter gave the impression of a corporate messiah, capable of both vision and leadership. He appeared well rested and cheery as he entered the room, his eyes scanning the table warmly.

Matthew’s stomach flipped. No amount of planning or rehearsing could have prepared him for the aura of power emanating from his rival. Even after working with him for more than twenty-four months, Matthew still felt mildly intimidated in the young man’s presence.

Peter seated himself directly across from Matthew, twenty feet opposite, and opened his smooth, black leather portfolio. They exchanged an expressionless stare, which was broken when Martin Cohn, vice president of corporate development and liaison to the board of directors, began the meeting.

“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.

Give yourself a hand, she thought wryly, remembering back to the first time she and Matthew had toasted with drinks. This came to mind every time she had a fizzy juice cocktail. They had met at International Foods’ advertising agency. She had been hired as a hand model. It was what she, Gretchen Bonner, had done before she had met Matthew. In her lovely hand she had been holding a can of Orange Fresh, a new, all-natural carbonated orange beverage. While at the agency for another meeting, Matthew had dropped in on the shoot. His eyes had locked on the beautiful hand wrapped around his newest beverage invention. He followed the hand to the arm to the body to the face. Holding his creation perfectly still in her hand, the woman glanced at Matthew and smiled. She was perfect for the part, and when the shoot was over he offered her a glass of International Foods’ own brand of vodka over ice. She accepted the drink, warning him that she would become woozy if she drank it straight on the rocks. She poured Orange Fresh into the glass and took a sip. She said she liked it better that way, sweet. At that very instant, unknown to either of them, she had single-handedly invented a multimillion dollar market segment for International Foods, for which Matthew would later garner considerable praise.

Marie entered the kitchen. Forgetting discretion, the servant allowed her critical gaze to rest for a moment too long on the open bottle of champagne in Greta’s hand. Bad move.

Greta placed the bottle on the granite counter, set down her glass and, walking toward the long, sweeping kitchen windows, removed the glove from her right hand. “Marie,” she called.

Marie, who had gone back to her business, faced her employer. She brushed her hand across her blinking eyes, which showed the effects of ammonia vapors.

“I think these need cleaning too,” Greta said, running her index finger along the windows. She smirked.

“Of course, Mrs. Locke.”

“And don’t forget the outside,” Greta added, picking up her drink. She gulped down half of it, then poured the remainder of the champagne into her glass. She left the empty bottle on the counter, and opened the refrigerator again and searched its open shelves for breakfast. She took a plastic container and opened it. Inside were two slices of veal left over from last night’s meal. She ate one of the slices. The sauce was congealed and hardened, but the meat tasted good, and she licked the oily shine from her fingers. Her mood was returning to normal.

Greta exited the kitchen and stretched out on the couch in the sitting room. Her hand found the remote control between the cushions and she pointed the thing at the television and pressed its buttons, sipping her drink as the screen flipped through channels. Her mind flipped through its own channels, still contemplating what to do with her day.

She stopped on a commercial showing a young, laughing couple running along a beach hand in hand. It was interspersed with quick, one-second images of cocktails, dancing, dining. It concluded with the pair on horseback, galloping down the beach into the sunset, leaving her with the message: “Live again!”

She tucked the device between the pillows and set her empty glass on the coffee table; she had resolved today’s activity dilemma.

In the bedroom she tossed her robe onto the bed. Hesitating, she considered showering. She decided against it; she’d only get dirty again in an hour or so. She pulled on jeans, a rugged cotton shirt, and a scarf. From the closet she collected her riding boots