Hot Shot (34 page)

She was crying openly now, but she couldn't let him go. If she held on just a little longer, it would be all right. It was Christmas. If she held on just a little longer, there would be no more angry words between them. "Daddy—" Her voice broke on a sob. "Daddy, please don't hate me. I can't come home, but I love you."

Nothing happened for a moment, and then she heard a soft click. In that moment she felt as if the remaining fragile link between father and daughter had been broken forever.

In the kitchen at Falcon Hill, Paige held the receiver tightly to her ear and listened to the click as her father hung up the telephone on her sister. She replaced the receiver on the cradle and wiped her damp palms on her apron. Her mouth was dry and her heart pounding.

As she returned to the stove, she refused to give in to the memory of herself standing in a dingy hallway with a dirty telephone cord wrapped around her fingers while she tried to pry some words of tenderness from her father. She refused to feel sorry for Susannah. It was simply a matter of justice, she told herself as she turned the heat down under the vegetables and pulled the turkey from the oven. She had spent last Christmas stoned and miserable in a roach-infested apartment. This year Susannah was the outcast.

The servants had the day off, so she was responsible for Christmas dinner. It was a task she had been looking forward to. The turkey finished baking in the oven along with an assortment of casseroles. The counter held two beautiful fruit pies with an elaborate network of vines and hearts cut into the top crusts. In the past seven months she had received a surprising amount of pleasure from simple household tasks. She had planted a small herb garden near the kitchen door and livened up the corners of the house with rambling, old-fashioned floral displays, instead of the stiff, formal arrangements Susannah had always ordered from the florist.

Not that her father ever noticed any of her homey touches. He only noticed the jobs she forgot to do—the social engagement she had neglected to write down, the closets she hadn't reorganized, the plumber she had forgotten to hire—all those tasks her sister had performed with such relentless efficiency. As for the latest Ludlum thriller she had left on his bedside table, or the special meal waiting for him when he got back from a trip—

those things didn't seem to matter.

"Do you need some help, Paige?"

She smiled at Cal, who had poked his head into the kitchen. She knew that Cal was an opportunist, and she doubted that he would have proven to be such a good friend if she hadn't been Joel's daughter. But he understood how difficult Joel could be, and he listened sympathetically to her problems. It was wonderful to feel as if she had someone on her side.

"Let me just set the turkey on the platter, and you can carry it in," she said.

Since there would only be the three of them for dinner, she had decided to forgo the huge, formal dining room with its long table for a cozy cherry drop-leaf set up in front of the living room fireplace, where they would be able to see the Christmas tree through the foyer archway.

When all the food was in place, she seated herself and removed the red and green yarn bow from her napkin. The center of the table held an old-fashioned centerpiece she had put together the day before with evergreen bows and small pieces of wooden dollhouse furniture she had unearthed in the attic. It had amazed her how many of her childhood toys had survived, even a few sets of tiny Barbie doll shoes. She couldn't believe those little plastic shoes hadn't been lost over the years, until she remembered how careful Susannah had always been with their toys.

While her father carved the turkey, old memories slipped over her. She saw Susannah's auburn hair falling forward in a neat, straight line as she dug out a tiny Monopoly house Paige had lost in the thick pile of her bedroom carpet. She saw Susannah in spotless yellow shorts stooping down on the brick terrace to rescue crayons her sister had left in the sun. Paige wouldn't use the crayons once the sweet, sharp points had worn off, but Susannah used them forever, patiently peeling back the paper until only a waxy nub was left. Unexpectedly, Paige felt a hollowness inside her.

Despite her careful preparations and Cal's attempt at conversation, the meal wasn't a success. Joel seemed tired and said little. Her own conversation was stiff. Paige didn't blame Cal for taking his leave not long after they had finished dessert. When she walked him to the door, he gave her a sympathetic glance and a friendly peck on the cheek. "I'll call you tomorrow."

She nodded and returned to the living room. Joel had seated himself on the couch with a book, but she had the feeling he wasn't really reading it. She felt even more lonely than when she was by herself.

"I think I'll go clean up the kitchen," she said abruptly.

Joel slapped down the book and jabbed his hand toward the remnants of their Christmas dinner. "I can't imagine what possessed you to crowd us around that ridiculous table when we have a perfectly good dining room that cost me a fortune to build."

Paige could barely keep herself from lashing out at him. She struggled with her hurt.

"There were only three of us. I thought it would be cozier in here."

"Don't do it again. Susannah would never have—" He broke off abruptly.

She went cold all over. "Susannah isn't here anymore, Daddy. I am."

He seemed to be waging some kind of internal war with himself. It was the first time she could remember her father looking uncertain, and she felt a queer stab of fear prick at the edges of her hurt.

He rose from his chair and said stiffly, "I know you think I'm unreasonable, but I'm accustomed to having things done a certain way. I realize that may not be fair to you."

It was the closest she had ever heard him come to an apology. He began walking toward the door. Just as he passed her, he reached out and gave her arm a single awkward pat.

At least it was something, she told herself as she watched him disappear. She went back over to the window and looked out on the immaculate December gardens of Falcon Hill.

An image formed in her mind of another sort of Christmas Day. She saw herself wearing blue jeans instead of a silk dress, and standing next to a Christmas tree decorated with construction paper chains rather than an-tique Baroque angels. She saw noisy, rumpled children tearing at wrapping paper, a long-suffering golden retriever, and a faceless husband in a sloppy sweatshirt pulling her into his arms.

Angry tears stung her eyes. "Fucking Norman Rockwell," she muttered in disgust.

)

Chapter 18

"We can't afford it," Mitch protested, dropping a heaping teaspoon of sugar into his coffee.

"We can't not afford it," Susannah countered.

Sam grinned, thoroughly enjoying having someone besides himself deal with Miss Appearances-Are-Everything for a change.

It was March, and they had been in their new offices for nearly five months. The three of them were sitting in a booth at Bob's Big Boy, where they had gotten into the habit of meeting for breakfast most mornings so they could coordinate their activities for the day.

Sam took a swig of Coke. "You might as well save your breath and give in, Mitch.

Susannah's still a socialite at heart. She's almost always right about this crap."

"It's not crap," she said, planting the heels of her hands on the edge of the table and getting ready to dig in. "The two of you think anything that's not immediately quantifiable is unimportant. That's the problem with you technical types. You're either punching calculators or walking around with your head in the clouds."

She settled back in the booth and waited for her jibe to pierce through their early morning grogginess. Neither man was at his best until ten o'clock. She, on the other hand, jumped out of bed full of ideas.

"You've got to control her better, Sam," Mitch said earnestly. "There's a definite pattern developing here. Have you noticed how she always picks mornings to attack?"

Susannah gave Mitch a smug smile and turned to her husband. "He's joking, Sam. The way we know that Mitch is joking is that his jaw is in its unclenched position. God knows, if we waited for the man to crack a smile, we'd be here forever."

Mitch shook his head sadly over his coffee cup. "Vicious personal attacks at seven-thirty in the morning."

"Stop distracting me," she said. "You know I'm right."

Mitch grunted and took another swig of coffee.

They had decided to unveil the Blaze at the First West Coast Computer Faire to be held next month at San Francisco's Civic Auditorium. This trade show, capitalizing on its California location, promised to be larger than the one in Atlantic City, although no one was exactly certain how many disciples of small computers would attend.

Unfortunately, the Blaze wasn't ready. They were still having difficulties with the power supply, and Yank wasn't satisfied with the cassette tape version of BASIC that would be used to operate the machine. In addition, the cases for the two models they intended to have on display had been delayed. And they were nearly broke.

Susannah had done her best to push the large, unsolvable problems to the back of her mind and focus on those she could solve. Foremost in her mind was making certain that the launching of the Blaze wasn't overshadowed by all the other products that would be on display at the Faire.

She picked up half a slice of toast that Sam hadn't eaten and renewed her attack. "This is going to be a huge show. Our booth is impressive, but the Blaze could still get lost. To make sure that doesn't happen, we invite the press and the most important members of the trade to a private party the night before. They'll all be in town for the Faire. We'll give them something to drink, some food, and we'll show them the Blaze then instead of waiting for the next day."

"Sorry to side with the enemy, Mitch," Sam said. "But I like Susannah's idea. We'll be able to jump start all the competition."

Susannah was grateful for Sam's support. She never knew which side of an issue he would come down on. But then, Sam was unpredictable about everything. Being married to him was like existing on a constant adrenaline high. Although it was frequently exhausting, she had never felt so alive in her life. Alive, but on edge, too. He wanted something more from her, something that she wasn't giving him. But she couldn't imagine what it might be.

Mitch threw up his hands. "All right. I admit it's a good idea. But you know our financial picture as well as I do, Susannah. You have to do everything on a shoestring."

"A thread," she promised, crossing her heart. "I'll do it on an absolute thread."

Susannah arrived early at the downtown restaurant where they were holding the party to launch the Blaze. Her clothing budget still limited her to shopping at Angela's outlet stores, but she wasn't displeased with her inexpensive black crepe trousers and the tunic top she had spruced up with a sequined applique' from a fabric shop. Her hair was pulled away from her face and confined at the nape of her neck with a silver metallic scarf. She was alone. The men had been working on the software and she hadn't seen them since early afternoon.

She paused just inside the doorway of the private party room to take in the effect of the decorations. Bunches of balloons in lipstick red and lacquer black—the colors of the new Blaze logo—gave everything the festive atmosphere of floral arrangements, but without the expense. At one end of the room, a dais dramatically displayed the only two fully assembled Blaze computers in existence.

Behind the computers hung an enlarged reproduction of the spectacular new logo. The Blaze name, in curving letters that were black at the bottom and gradually turned into hot red at the top, rose in a stylistic pyramid of flames with the central A forming the apex.

SysVal was neatly printed beneath.

Walking forward, she stopped in front of the machine that held the key to all of their futures. The physical design of the Blaze had been Sam's. From the beginning he had known what he wanted—something small and sleek that would look comfortable in people's homes, a friendly machine with rounded edges instead of sharp corners and a soft ivory-colored case that didn't fight its surroundings.

As Susannah gazed down at the Blaze, she saw the embodiment of Sam's dream. The computer and the keyboard were one harmonious unit. Instead of duplicating the shape of a typewriter, the Blaze keyboard was wide and shallow with keys contoured to fit the fingers. She ran her hand over the flat top that housed Yank's genius compacted onto only sixty-six chips, an incredible engineering feat.

Someone entered the room behind her. "Hi, baby. It's beautiful, isn't it."

She turned, then sucked in her breath as the man she loved walked toward her.

"Oh, Sam… What have you done to me?"

His beautiful hair was gone—that wild black biker's hair she loved to crush in her hands when they made love, the long, dark strands that sometimes slipped between her lips when he drove high and hard inside her, his rebel's hair, the hair that had snapped in the breeze like a pirate's flag the day he had stolen her from her father's care.

It still hung bone-straight, brushed away from his ears, but the back didn't even reach the top of his white shirt collar. White shirt collar, dark blue necktie, sport coat. Each item was more loathsome than the last. Those were Cal's clothes, her father's clothes, not the clothes of a blue-skies thinker who dreamed of changing forever the dying days of the twentieth century.

Only the jeans were familiar, but even they weren't right. The denim was new, the seams dark and tightly stitched instead of soft and frayed. The stiff zipper lay nice-boy flat over his crotch, the prim new denim de-sexing him.

She hated it. She hated every bit of it. Her eyes returned to his hair. It swept back from his temples, revealing two ordinary ears unadorned by a swaying silver Easter Island head. They were the respectable ears of an IBM salesman, of an FBT vice-president.

How could those ears belong to a small computer evangelist who sold the future instead of bibles?