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to say before he seated himself.

“I gave Marie the rest of the afternoon off,” Greta said. “I fixed it myself.”

“It smells wonderful,” Matthew said, smiling but puzzled. They only ate in the dining room when entertaining guests. Why so formal all of the sudden?

She poured him a glass of wine and handed it to him, then lifted her own glass and held it out to him. But he had already taken a sip and was lifting the lid off of the covered dish. She hesitated, almost said something, and sighed instead. She tasted her wine and watched him for any sign of recollection, any hint of awareness.

Matthew placed the covered lid aside. “Wow, my favorite dinner,” he said.

“I know,” she said, clearing her throat.

He gestured for her plate and selected one delicate hen for her, two for himself. He ladled sauce over his birds and vegetables, took another sip of his wine, and dug in. Barely ten seconds into his meal, and Greta could see that his mind was already somewhere else.

No, she admitted to herself, he had not remembered. And with this knowledge came a strange aching feeling, a throbbing, in her left hand, where what had once symbolized their marriage used to be. The doctors had told her that that would sometimes happen. That at odd times it would feel as though everything were in its right place, like normal. The same was true, she thought in silent agony, of her marriage. At odd times it had felt as though it was all still there. But not now. Plain and painfully simple, he had forgotten.

After a minute or two, as if remembering that she was there, Matthew looked up from his dinner.

She sat staring at him with shimmering eyes, her utensils still resting untouched beside her plate. Before he could say anything, she spoke.

“Happy anniversary, Matthew,” she said. A weighty tear dropped down her face.

His body slackened. He set down his utensils. All at once he saw the brightness of her lips, the accents around her eyes, the fine, glimmering pattern in the silk dress. He became acutely aware of her perfume lingering among the aromas of the meal. Her tears were painting dark trails down her cheeks. He gazed down into his plate, their anniversary dinner, and let loose a guilty sigh.

“Greta, I’m sorry. I’m, so, so sorry. With all the work and everything…” He lifted his hands a bit. “I just, well, I just forgot.”

She reached her gloved hand across the table and touched his wrist. “It’s all right, Matthew,” she said with a resigned smile. She wiped her cheek with her napkin and lifted her fork.

“It is delicious,” Matthew said enthusiastically.

She speared a few vegetables, chewed slowly, put down her fork, and took a long drink of wine, all the while watching her husband’s hurried consumption.

“Matthew, can you slow down? Please, can’t we enjoy our dinner together tonight?”

“I’m sorry, honey. It’s just that, you see, I’ve got more work to do,” he said, then tentatively added, “for the trip.”

“What trip?”

“Tomorrow. New York. I told you I was meeting with Harrell on Monday, didn’t I?”

“No, Matthew, you did not.”

“Hmm. Funny, I thought I said something. Sorry. See what I mean. I’m so overwhelmed these days.”

“Matthew, you’re changing in unpleasant ways. And there’s nothing funny about it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“However selfish you were before getting rid of Peter Jones, you were at least considerate and apologetic. Genuinely. Or so you seemed.”

“I said I was sorry about forgetting. You’re upset, and you’re basing your criticism on that.”

“No, Matthew. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. This new way you’re behaving. You say you are meeting with ‘Harrell’ - whatever happened to ‘William,’ your friend?”

“He’s not my friend, Greta. He’s a business partner.”

“Oh, of course. Pardon me. And is that what we are too, Matthew? Business partners?”

He shook his head as if to say he’d had enough. In fact, she thought, that was what was wrong, that he’d had enough of them, of the dead end that their marriage had turned into.

With an disgusted huff she poured herself more of the good French wine, held the glass beneath her nose and she gazed out the window at the reflecting pond beyond the foot of their estate.

“Maybe, Matthew, we should talk. Don’t you think, especially since tonight is our anniversary, that we should talk? What’s happened to us?”

“Dear, I can’t,” he said, pausing to wash down a mouthful of food with a swallow of wine. “I’m going to be up until six in the morning as it is. And I’ve got an early flight. I’ll just be able to jog and shower.”

He ate and she drank in silence for a few minutes, until she could stand it no more.

“Matthew, is it going to stop? Is it going to change? Ever?”

“What, honey? Will what stop?”

Any remorse he may have felt for forgetting their anniversary was obviously gone now she could see, forgotten with everything else, as if a switch had been thrown, his mind saturated once again with his work. “Matthew, do you understand that you are obsessed with Wallaby? Really, you are worse than Peter ever was.”

“It’s not an easy job,” he said, wiping a piece of bread in the last smear of sauce on his plate. “Replacing him.”

“We never see each other anymore. Even when you two had your falling-out, you saw him more than you see me now. Every morning you’re up at five-thirty, then you’re at work all day, and I never talk to you - “

“Meetings.”

“Then you come home and gobble down your dinner, barely a word between us, or if you do have anything to say it’s about that damn company, then you’re off into your library until late at night until you come to bed and fall asleep.” Her breathing had become panicky.

“Look, I’ve got to do my job,” he said, irritated now.

She leaned forward with her hands flattened on either side of her full plate. She didn’t care that her gloved left hand was there for him to contend with. Maybe that was the problem, that she had never really forced him to deal with it.

“Matthew, I’m all alone. You’re all I’ve got. It’s not that I mind being here all day, but when you come home, it’s worse because then you’re here but we’re still not together, and on the weekends, like today, you work all day in the library.”

She intended to force him into battle if that was what it took. But what he did next completely disarmed her: He placed a hand over hers, the left one, and met her eyes with compassion. She felt suddenly hopeful. She had finally gotten through to him.

“Greta,” he said gently, “everything I’m doing is for us. The things I’m making happen at work are very complex and important, and these things will change our lives forever.” He patted her hand and smiled. “Soon it will slow down a little,” he said, tossing down the rest of his wine.

But his words sounded shallow and condescending. Her hopes of understanding disintegrated and the throb in her left hand returned with renewed force. She snatched her glass and finished her wine in one quick swallow. She poured another. Was there no way to get through to him? To make him see how close he was coming to destroying them? “Matthew, it’s ruining us, and you’re letting it happen.” Nothing. She went for broke. “Don’t you see, I’m trying not to let anything bad happen to us.”

He seemed undaunted by her warning. Wiping his lips with his napkin, he got up, walked around behind her chair and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Darling,” he said, “I have to get back to work now. Nothing bad will happen to us. I won’t let it.” Then he kissed the top of her head and left the room.

She turned her head and looked out at the pond again, and whispered to her reflection in the window.

“Then I will.”

 

*

 

“Poppyshit!” Byron shouted, waving his glass at Peter, who sat across the table. “The problem with kids today is their parents!” He set his glass down firmly as if challenging anyone to dispute his opinion.

“Dear,” Grace interrupted, gently touching her napkin to her upper lip with raised eyebrows at her husband.

“What? Huh?” he mumbled, confused. “Oh,” he exclaimed, dabbing his lips with his napkin, wiping away a small piece of sauerkraut.

Grace smiled and shook her head, her grin spreading wider when Kate smiled back.

Peter had chosen the subject of children to start the table discussion. “I don’t think that’s a fair judgment, Byron,” Peter said. “I think it’s more than just what goes on in the home. It’s everything, all of society. Kids are hardly given a good example by their parents, their friends. Movies. Television,” he said. “It’s like they’ve turned into MTV lemmings.”

The foursome ate at an antique Shaker table, situated near the living room hearth. The home was decorated in simple and warm country style. A charming, homey combination. Like Byron and Grace Holmes themselves.

Kate and Peter had both felt instantly comfortable when they arrived a few minutes late wearing jeans and sweaters, which fit in nicely with Byron’s work shirt and khakis, and Grace’s simple cable-knit sweater and flannel slacks. Dock lamps dotted the inlet outside, and boats bobbed silently in the bay, glowing with a fuzzy luminescence in the moonlight. Peter and Kate’s own vacation home was situated a few hundred yards down the inlet. Their dock was similar to the Holmes’s, though they did not own a boat.

“We had primarily invented the Mate computer with no one in mind but ourselves, computer guys,” Peter said. “But within a short time, parents were buying them like crazy for their kids.

“We want,” he started, then paused for an instant to correct himself, “wanted computers to be especially great for kids, to lure them away from the TV set. When some of the software developers created really great learning games, it all took off from there.” His eyes were shining with the clarity that comes when you talk about something you deeply care about.

They were silent for a moment then Byron looked up from his plate with a frown. “That’s all well and good. And you’re right about it, that children especially benefit from computers, and not by television. Now,” he said, pointing to Peter’s plate with his mustard-smeared knife, “how about you eat that bratwurst before it gets cold.”

Grace broke the silence. “They have a computer at the foster home where I volunteer a few hours a week, one of yours I think,” she said, smiling at Peter. “Those little kids, and the bigger ones too, they sit there for hours and play games on it, and do homework, and talk about all sorts of things I don’t understand, in a language all their own. It’s lovely how such a thing could bring these children together and give them a family of sorts.”

The discussion carried on some more. Peter had not resumed eating, so Grace got up and began to clear the table.

“Let me help you,” Kate said.

“You get no dessert if you don’t finish your meal, boy,” Byron said. He rubbed his hands across his chest in post-Thanksgiving dinner fashion.

“Everything was delicious, Grace,” Peter said. “It’s just that I haven’t had a very good appetite lately.”

“That’s all right. You can take home leftovers if you’d like.”

“Too late,” Byron said, spearing the remaining half of sausage from Peter’s plate.

When Kate and Grace were out of earshot, Byron leaned across the table. “You’re a lucky fellow,” he