mother, the day hit her hard. Not to mention her holiday article. God! He’d forgotten the article! She had E-mailed the draft to him and it was really good, but you never knew what it would look like when it was published in the Times. He’d been so busy today, he hadn’t had a chance to get the paper or even to look at a copy. He’d better do it on his way over to Java, The Hut.
Actually, work was the only part of his life he had under control. Unlike Tracie, he had a successful career, liked and respected his boss, a wild woman who’d been in on the start-up of UniKorn. Bella was great, his staff was great, his job was great, and the money was great. Now he’d been given control of the p. 53 Parsifal project, and if he made it happen, well, the sky was the limit. And he could make it happen. Parsifal was the code name for the project Jon had fought for since he’d joined Micro/Con almost six years ago. He was trying to bring together convergent wireless technology for a laptop/TV/phone product so advanced, he wasn’t allowed to let his right department know what his left department was doing. It would make him or break him, and it was certainly taking up every minute of his time. But if Parsifal worked, no one would ever buy a TV or phone from Panasonic again.
It was just that in the last three or four years, there’d been no time for a social life, and when there was . . . well, it was safe to say it was very definitely less than great. He thought again of his bad Friday night, followed by a worse Saturday evening, and winced. Maybe his reasoning was faulty. He rationalized his lousy social life because of his demanding career. But perhaps one of the reasons he worked all the time was because it was easier than going out. When he tried, as he had this weekend, look what happened.
Jon groaned aloud and sank deeper into the chair —such as it was. The beanbag cupped him at just the right tilt. He didn’t feel like thinking anymore, nor did he want to sign on and see how many urgent E-mails he’d gotten in the last twenty-four hours while he bombed out with women and took care of his mothers —both step and natural. There would be mounds of work. Jon took a deep sigh. Every one of his p. 54 employees thought that their problems were the most difficult and impossible for them to solve without either his help or his praise. He sighed again. He loved his work and he’d do the E-mail now, for half an hour. One less thing to do tomorrow morning. But he’d be sure to leave by eleven-thirty. Seeing Tracie was the high point of his whole week.
Chapter 6
Java, The Hut was just one of the 647 coffee shops in Seattle, but to Jon it seemed different from all the others. It was suffused with memories of the hundreds of Sunday-night “breakfasts” that he and Tracie had shared, fifty-one weeks a year for seven years. From the time they met in French class and crammed together until today, the two of them had bitched, studied, laughed, chewed each other out, and even cried (he briefly only once, she at great length more than a dozen times) over mochaccino at Java, The Hut. Jon sat there now, finished with all work and all mothers for the time being. He waited for Tracie to show up.
He had the Seattle Times spread in front of him and was shaking his head as he read the p. 55 hatchet job that Marcus had made of Tracie’s article. “You look like my Lab when ’e’s got water in ’is ears,” Molly, their usual waitress, said to Jon. Molly was a tall, slender blonde in her early thirties. A transplanted East Ender from London, she’d worked at the café since Jon and Tracie had begun coming there. Word was that she had been a rock bitch, one of those “successful groupies” who actually toured and slept with two important rock idols. Molly never spoke about it but Jon had heard she’d been with someone from INXS. Tracie claimed that after it Molly had made someone from Limp Bizkit hard.
Actually, work was the only part of his life he had under control. Unlike Tracie, he had a successful career, liked and respected his boss, a wild woman who’d been in on the start-up of UniKorn. Bella was great, his staff was great, his job was great, and the money was great. Now he’d been given control of the p. 53 Parsifal project, and if he made it happen, well, the sky was the limit. And he could make it happen. Parsifal was the code name for the project Jon had fought for since he’d joined Micro/Con almost six years ago. He was trying to bring together convergent wireless technology for a laptop/TV/phone product so advanced, he wasn’t allowed to let his right department know what his left department was doing. It would make him or break him, and it was certainly taking up every minute of his time. But if Parsifal worked, no one would ever buy a TV or phone from Panasonic again.
It was just that in the last three or four years, there’d been no time for a social life, and when there was . . . well, it was safe to say it was very definitely less than great. He thought again of his bad Friday night, followed by a worse Saturday evening, and winced. Maybe his reasoning was faulty. He rationalized his lousy social life because of his demanding career. But perhaps one of the reasons he worked all the time was because it was easier than going out. When he tried, as he had this weekend, look what happened.
Jon groaned aloud and sank deeper into the chair —such as it was. The beanbag cupped him at just the right tilt. He didn’t feel like thinking anymore, nor did he want to sign on and see how many urgent E-mails he’d gotten in the last twenty-four hours while he bombed out with women and took care of his mothers —both step and natural. There would be mounds of work. Jon took a deep sigh. Every one of his p. 54 employees thought that their problems were the most difficult and impossible for them to solve without either his help or his praise. He sighed again. He loved his work and he’d do the E-mail now, for half an hour. One less thing to do tomorrow morning. But he’d be sure to leave by eleven-thirty. Seeing Tracie was the high point of his whole week.
Chapter 6
Java, The Hut was just one of the 647 coffee shops in Seattle, but to Jon it seemed different from all the others. It was suffused with memories of the hundreds of Sunday-night “breakfasts” that he and Tracie had shared, fifty-one weeks a year for seven years. From the time they met in French class and crammed together until today, the two of them had bitched, studied, laughed, chewed each other out, and even cried (he briefly only once, she at great length more than a dozen times) over mochaccino at Java, The Hut. Jon sat there now, finished with all work and all mothers for the time being. He waited for Tracie to show up.
He had the Seattle Times spread in front of him and was shaking his head as he read the p. 55 hatchet job that Marcus had made of Tracie’s article. “You look like my Lab when ’e’s got water in ’is ears,” Molly, their usual waitress, said to Jon. Molly was a tall, slender blonde in her early thirties. A transplanted East Ender from London, she’d worked at the café since Jon and Tracie had begun coming there. Word was that she had been a rock bitch, one of those “successful groupies” who actually toured and slept with two important rock idols. Molly never spoke about it but Jon had heard she’d been with someone from INXS. Tracie claimed that after it Molly had made someone from Limp Bizkit hard.
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