Once more, apprehension washed over Matthew like a shifting tide.
If only he could convince himself that everything would go
exactly according to plan. It would, wouldn't it? He felt as
though his life depended on it. He just didn't feel one-hundred
percent sure.
"Here," Greta said, handing him a small bottle of Perrier. Taking
the drink, he avoided looking at her bare hand...or at the other,
which was concealed inside a silky white glove. He took a sudden
and uncomfortable interest in the tiny bubbles that formed and
rose in the bottle.
Greta sat on the flowery chintz settee and patted the cushion
next to her. "Come."
Before joining her, Matthew twisted off the bright lamp.
Nighttime descended on the salmon, their struggle temporarily
suspended. He sank into the softness of the sofa and rested his
eyes.
"Well? Is everything all set?"
He nodded.
"Good, Matthew," she said. "I can't wait for you to be able to
relax once this all settles down." She thought of the time she
would have with him after tomorrow's meeting and smiled, more at
this thought than to comfort him.
Matthew frowned. "He says I don't know what I'm doing. That I
don't have a clue." He stared into the bottle. "He says I don't
have instinct. No vision, guts. Unless I'm wrong, I don't think
he realizes what's going down tomorrow.
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