"
"Think so?"
Byron winked. "I know so," he said, patting Peter on the leg.
"Now come on," he said, rising to his feet. "Let's go get us a
slice of that apple pie."
* * *
She set the dirty dishes in the sink, wrapped the leftovers in
foil. On the counter, there sat a cranberry and apple crumble she
had made for dessert. The bourbon sauce, which was to be warmed
and drizzled over the piping dessert, sat in a saucepan on the
stove, a gloppy mess. She dumped it down the drain and left the
dishes in the sink for Marie to deal with in the morning.
Matthew was back in his office working, and Greta stood with the
last of the wine in her glass gazing out the kitchen window at
the valley beyond.
When was it going to end, she had asked him. But she knew the
answer to that question. There were two answers, really. The
first was that it was never going to end, and the second was that
it already had. She had tried - for the last time? - to break
through the wall he had over the years erected between them. But
she knew now, after tonight's dinner, that the wall would only
grow higher, thicker. After Matthew turned Wallaby into what he
wanted, then sold it to ICP, it would be no different when he was
promoted to a higher rank within ICP, perched atop his
ever-growing blockade. Maybe they would stay in California, but
probably they would have to go back to New York, to ICP's
headquarters.
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