Undo Part 24

"Thank you. But you deserve some of the credit. Your coaching has been a great help."

"That's my job," she said. "Eileen said you have no other meetings this afternoon."

"None. I didn't know how long this would take."

She returned the slides to the manila folder, then circled her hands around the neck of the overhead projector. "Then how about lunch?"

"Good idea."

"Great. What do you say to San Francisco? I've got to run a few errands, and you can drop me off at home later in the afternoon since I don't have my car. It's being serviced."

He hesitated, then shrugged. "Why not. I think I deserve the rest of the day off. And I haven't been to the city for lunch in a long time." He had forgotten that she lived in San Francisco.

Lunch, then a ride home.

They gathered his materials and in a few minutes were on the highway and heading for the city.

He felt relaxed in the car with her. With absurd clarity it occurred to him that while they had worked together almost constantly for several months, everything they had discussed pertained to business. How could he have been so focused on his work and not gotten to know her better? Now, he decided, was as good a time as any.

"How are you adjusting? This being your first full-time job and everything?"

"Excellent. Of course, working with you has made it all worth it."

He had hired her fresh out of school, graduating with a communications degree from Villanova. The previous summer she had been an intern, working in the public relations department as an apprentice speech writer. On two occasions she had a.s.sisted Matthew in preparing his speeches. The impression she had left him with was so positive that he had had his secretary contact Laurence as she neared graduation, to ask if she would be interested in working for him as his personal press a.s.sistant.

Although she was inexperienced, she really had helped him.

Enormously. Not only where his public image was concerned, as when she had smoothly handled the press for him after Peter Jones's departure, but also with his self-image, the hours they spent together in coaching sessions, counseling him on his manner and style, reinforcing his self-confidence. He felt as though some transformation was about to happen between them, some new level of communication.

"...right there," she said, pointing to the high hills and valley a half-mile in the distance, to the east.

He had been daydreaming. "I'm sorry?" he said.

"My horse. That's where I keep my horse."

"At Woodside Ranch?"

"Yes."

"That's where my wife keeps hers, too." He remembered Greta for the first time since leaving the house that morning.

"They have a new trainer who recently came to the States to start a new polo club. He's fabulous."

"Maybe that's Greta's trainer."

"It is," Laurence said, then, quickly: "I mean, he knows her, mentions her horse. He said Mighty Boy is the most beautiful horse he's ever seen."

"He's something, all right," Matthew said, changing lanes.

"I'm happy to be riding again. I've missed it so. In school I rarely got home to see my parents in Los Angeles. My father sponsors polo players, did I already mention that? I'm sorry, I'm rambling."

"Not at all. I want to know more."

"Well, a couple of years ago my father spent a year in North Carolina, opening a new company. While he was there he got hooked on polo. That was just when I had gone east for school. I felt like I needed a break from La-La Land, and Philadelphia seemed like as good a place as any, and the school was one of the best for liberal arts. Anyway, I'd fly down to see dad every now and then while he was in the South. We went to a couple polo tournaments together. By the time he went back home he was a member of the Equestrian Center in Griffith Park, in LA. I was quite taken with the game myself, the valiance."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Matthew was enjoying himself immensely. In the distance the city came into sight. Seeing the tall buildings, the two magnificent bridges, the bay, he experienced a sense of newfound being. He thought of Greta, and how, in all the time they had lived here and she had had her horse, Matthew had never been the least bit interested in her hobby. Yet when Laurence spoke of it, he was intrigued. The Valley felt well behind him now. Before him lay a completely different world, and his insides stirred with the same excited nervousness a schoolboy feels on a cla.s.s trip. "I don't come to the city often," he said, "so I'm at your mercy."

"Don't worry, you're in good hands. How about Union Square for lunch? It's near the shop where I have to pick up something."

"Sounds fine," Matthew said.

They pulled off the highway and wound their way through the busy city streets to Union Square. He pulled up in front of the Campton Hotel, and the attendant took the car.

"Can we shop first?" Laurence said. "I'll just run in and tell them we'll have lunch around two o'clock."

With an appraising eye, the formally dressed door attendant held the door for her. After she vanished into the lobby he stole a cursory glance at Matthew, the man so lucky to be with such an exquisite woman. The other man's envy brought a smile to Matthew's face. A minute later she was back.

"All set," she said, then frowned. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he said, overshooting his innocence. "I'm just happy.

I feel like I'm playing hooky," he said honestly.

"Come one," she said, tugging playfully on his arm. She led them into oncoming traffic and, with city-smart agility, navigated them to the other side of the street. They strolled past the Hyatt and turned onto Post Street. The sun shone brightly on Union Square, and a cable car bell rang out on Powell Street. He fell back a step behind her when they crossed the street to admire the way her wavy hair bounced on her shoulders with each determined step. His eyes trailed to her waist, so perfect and slender, then lower, to the lovely curves of her bottom. She stopped so suddenly he almost crashed into her.

"This is it," she said, standing before an old shop. "It's like a toy store for me," she added, pressing through the doors. For an instant he had the pleasure of seeing the flat of her hand pressed against the gla.s.s. Even after they were inside, this image lingered bright in his mind's eye like sunspots on the eyelids.

"Come on," she said, tugging his arm again. She led him to an open stairway that rose to the second floor. He saw various equestrian products as they climbed the stairs. Saddles hung over the rail encircling the upper level, and rows of boots lined the wall, with riding crops, helmets, and a.s.sorted garments displayed throughout. He trailed after her as she strode to the rear wall and stopped before a case of leather riding gloves. She spun, hands at rest behind her on either side of the display case. "Do you know about Swaine Adeney?" she said, playfully affecting a British accent. "It was founded in London in 1750. They are the exclusive suppliers of fine equestrian products to the royal family."

"May I help you?" asked a young, dark-haired woman wrapped tightly in a tweed outfit.

Laurence turned serious. "I'd like a pair of these gloves." She tapped her finger on the gla.s.s in front of a simple brown pair.

Matthew swallowed. Gloves. The thought of Laurence hiding her beautiful hands inside a pair of gloves p.r.i.c.kled his skin with a sensation that was very close to terror. He thought of Greta. Her gloves, so many gloves. Leather, wool, and cotton. Suede, cashmere, and silk. Oh, he thought with dread, those especially, which she had worn to bed every night since the accident...

"Do you like them, Matthew?" Laurence said, flexing ten delicately gloved fingers before him.

"Yes," he said, forcing a smile. "Very much."

"These are our finest pigskin gloves," the sales clerk informed them.

"I'll take them."

"Very good," said the woman, accepting the gloves from Laurence.

She closed the cabinet and locked it, and they followed her back down to the lower level. Before Laurence could withdraw her charge card from her wallet, Matthew reached for his own.

"Wait, Lauri. I want to buy those for you."

"Don't be silly."

"Please. A small token of my appreciation," he said. "Please?"

The clerk accepted his credit card.