As he stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower, he reminded himself that Sam Gamble hadn't been his only kidnapper. His mouth tightened with displeasure as he thought of Susannah Faulconer. Of all the women Sam could have taken up with, Susannah Faulconer had been the worse possible choice. Mitch knew from experience, since he had married a woman just like her. Susannah and Louise even looked a little alike. Both were tall and slender. They had discreet private-school voices and carried themselves with that special air of composure that only those born into privileged families seem to possess. And both obviously got a kick out of slumming with men who were their social inferiors.
He had even considered warning Sam about Susannah, but Mitch hadn't listened to Woody, and Sam wouldn't listen, either. Only experience would teach Sam that women like Susannah Faulconer were dilettantes. They were fascinated by men who weren't part of their upbringing, but that fascination faded in the day-to-day drudgery of living.
"I'm tired of being married to you, Mitch," Louise had said one evening a month ago, when he'd come home from work. The sight of his cool, sophisticated wife sitting on the couch toying with a set of car keys was imprinted on his mind forever.
"We don't have anything in common," she had gone on. "You like to work. I like to go to parties. I want to have fun some place other than in the bedroom for a change."
Mitch had refused to admit even to himself that he no longer loved her. Their marriage had its roots in a youthful attraction of opposites instead of commonality of interests, but it was too late to remedy the mistake. They had children, she was a good mother, and marriage was forever.
"If you're unhappy, we'll make changes," he had said immediately. "We're a family, Louise, and we made vows to each other. If we have problems, let's get some counseling to help us work them out."
"Why bother?" she had retorted. Then she had told him that she had already taken the children to her mother's and she was on her way to join them. Picking up her purse, she had left the house without another word.
And that was what he couldn't forgive. She had simply walked out, abandoning a seven-year marriage without making any effort to solve the problems between them.
Mitch understood bored socialites like Susannah Faulconer. He knew what they could do to a man, and he pitied Sam Gamble for what lay in store for him. But at the same time, he couldn't stop thinking about the excitement taking place in that Silicon Valley garage.
Chapter 15
Susannah was sitting at the assembly table soldering some connections on the board she had just finished stuffing when Mitchell Blaine walked back into her life. It had been nearly a month since he had returned to Boston, and although he and Sam had talked on the phone a number of times, Mitch had shown no signs of changing his mind about joining them. Now, as he gave her a coldly courteous nod, she experienced an uneasy combination of hope and dismay.
Sam was obviously glad to see him, but he refused to give anything away. His lip curled as he surveyed Mitch's conservative navy-blue suit and maroon tie. "Somebody die? You look like a fuckin' pall bearer."
"All of us don't have your flair for fashion." Mitch gazed with distaste at Sam's ragged jeans and a faded T-shirt that was stretched nearly to transparency over Sam's chest.
Sam grinned. "So what are you doing out here?"
"I had an interview this morning. I thought I'd stop by to invite you and Yank for dinner. There's a French place in Palo Alto, or we could go into the city if you prefer."
Susannah's grip tightened on her soldering iron and she glanced sharply at Sam to see how he would react to the fact she had been neatly cut from the picture.
Once again Sam let his eyes rove over Mitch's business suit. "Let's make it Mom and Pop's."
She waited for him to say more-to mention her-but he didn't. Mitch agreed to Sam's choice of restaurant. They chatted for a while and looked over the latest work Yank had done on the prototype.
Susannah confronted Sam as soon as Mitch left, but he shrugged off her indignation. "Give him time," he said. "Once he gets to know you, he'll change his mind. You're too sensitive." He reached for her, ready to quiet her protests with kisses, but a new stubbornness took hold of her, and she resisted him. For some unfathomable reason Mitch disliked her, and he was giving no indication that he intended to change his mind. Getting up stiffly from the table, she went into the house so she could collect her thoughts. Sam didn't follow her.
That evening, she took her clothes into the bathroom and got dressed. She told herself she wouldn't let them dismiss her without a fight, but courage still didn't come easily, and she fumbled with the button at the waistband of her skirt, and then snagged her hair in the inexpensive loose-knit mauve sweater she had bought at Angela's favorite outlet store. Brushing her hair to the nape of her neck, she tied it back with a scarf. Angela came into the bathroom and fluffed the curls that had formed around her face.
"Don't let them push you around, Suzie," she said, attuned as always to what was happening around her. "Stick to your guns." She clipped a pair of beaded pink and purple triangles to Susannah's lobes. "I won fifty dollars at the slots when I was wearing these in Vegas last June. They'll bring you luck."
Susannah smiled and gave her a fierce, impulsive hug. She felt closer to Sam's mother than she had ever felt to her own.
Yank and Sam were both in the kitchen. Sam looked surprised when she walked in, as if he hadn't expected her to come with them. The sharp corners of the pink and purple triangles banged into the hollows beneath her ears.
"I don't know why you're making such a big deal of this," he said defensively. "It's just a meeting."
Instead of replying, she walked out to the car.
Mitch was already at the restaurant when they arrived. He had traded in his suit for dark brown slacks and a gold sport shirt. A Rolex gleamed in the sandy-brown hairs at his wrist. He stood as she approached, but made no attempt to hide his displeasure at her appearance. The men slid into the booth on each side of him. She took the seat on the end, keeping her back as straight as Grandmother Bennett's yardstick.
"This is supposed to be a business meeting, Sam," he said, nodding in her direction.
"That's why I'm here," she replied before Sam could answer.
The jukebox began to play a Linda Ronstadt hit. "Roberta isn't coming," Yank said abruptly.
Susannah gave him a sharp glance. Yank was hardly given to idle chatter, so he obviously wanted to make a point, but she had no idea whether he was indicating that she shouldn't be here either or whether he was making a distinction between the two women in her favor.
He began to draw an abstract figure in the moisture on the beer pitcher-another one of his diagrams. Did he design circuitry even in his sleep? she wondered. For the moment, it was easier to watch Yank's finger than deal with the tension that permeated the booth.
A circle appeared. A transistor maybe?
Two dots. A curve.
Yank had drawn a happy face.
"So… did you take a job with IBM yet?" Sam's voice snapped with sarcasm.
"I've been asked," Mitch replied as the waitress approached with the pizzas he had ordered. "Actually, I've had a number of interesting offers in the past few weeks. A lot of high-tech companies, naturally, but Detroit, too. And the soft drink people have been pretty persuasive." As they ate, he detailed several of his offers, including one from Cal Theroux at FBT.
Sam listened with increasing impatience, then pushed away his pizza and leaned back in the booth. "Sounds safe. Safe and predictable."