Undo by Joe Hutsko (best book club books of all time .txt) 📖

“Ladies and gentlemen, please find your seats,” the announcer’s voice boomed through the bustling auditorium.

The seating was already jammed to nearly full capacity as thousands of Wallaby employees filled the auditorium. A few front rows remained vacant, reserved for VIPs and the press. The stage was illuminated with a bright circle of light focused on an empty podium.

Backstage, William Harrell parted the curtain an inch and peered out at the gabby crowd. Hank Towers squeezed in beside him and also surveyed the crowd.

“I’ve never given a speech to so many people dressed like that,” William remarked.

Beyond the first few dark rows, wave after wave of bodies clad in T-shirts and jeans stretched all the way to the back of the auditorium.

William stepped away from the curtain and rearranged his tie.

Hank patted him on the shoulder and laughed. “You look like you’ve gained twenty pounds,” he joked privately.

“They’re going to witness the world’s fastest weight-loss program,” William said with a cunning grin, referring to the surprise he had prepared for today’s announcement.

“Get ready, William,” Martin Cohn said, gesturing for everyone to move away from the curtains.

The announcer’s voice filled the auditorium: “Ladies and gentlemen, vice president and general counsel, Martin Cohn.”

Amid quick applause and murmurs, Martin greeted the audience. The Wallaby logo appeared, projected brightly behind him on a huge screen hanging above center stage.

“This day will mark an important juncture in Wallaby’s history,” Martin said. “A few months ago we announced a strategic alliance with International Computer Products, the world’s largest manufacturer of computer products.”

The ICP initials materialized beside the Wallaby logo.

“As a result of our announcement, sales of the Joey II computer have skyrocketed, exceeding in just two months the previous year’s total sales.”

The audience applauded, and the screen changed to a picture of the Joey II sitting beside an ICP desktop computer.

“Today we have an announcement that will ensure that both Wallaby and ICP continue to grow and profit together.”

There was a dead silence, and a photo of William Harrell’s smiling face filled the overhead screen. “Now it’s my pleasure to introduce William Harrell, chairman of International Computer Products.”

A murmur ensued throughout the audience. Though Martin Cohn usually started off the meetings, it was always to introduce Matthew Locke.

Martin stepped aside, and William crossed the stage. The audience applauded mildly and stopped once William arrived at the podium.

“Thank you, Martin. And thank you,” William said, sweeping the audience with a heartfelt smile. “I’ve always been envious of you guys out here in California. I look out there and all I see are T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers.”

There was some mild laughter, and William knew the crowd was probably a little thrown off by his being up here and not Matthew Locke. He went right into his presentation.

“Maybe it’s this kind of environment in which you work at Wallaby that lets you create products as spectacular as the Joey computer.”

On the screen an older picture of the original Joey team appeared, a younger Peter Jones kneeling in the center of the group, his arms wrapped around a Joey poised on his knee. The audience applauded with pride and appreciation.

“A few months ago, your company and ICP joined forces to work together to offer our customers powerful hybrid systems. On that day a dream came true for me. Finally, users of ICP’s line of computers had an easy way to access our difficult operating systems, actually working smarter because of the Joey. Now, that’s a big deal to us starched shirts at ICP,” he confided, “because we’ve been playing catch-up with Wallaby, trying to figure out how to build portable computers and personal information assistant software as great as the Joey.

“You see, the truth is is I’ve always been envious of the Joey and Wallaby. Jealous that we, the biggies, hadn’t been the one to invent an equally breakthrough design.”

It was time for him to pull his prank, which he hoped would act as the perfect segue to the real announcement. Pulling off his tie, he stepped away from the podium and strolled to center stage.

A strip-tease song started playing on the big speakers throughout the auditorium, and the audience was mute with wonder as William began unbuttoning his shirt. Next he unzipped his pants, and dropped them to the floor. Underneath, he wore faded jeans. He pulled off his shirt and flung it aside. He raised his arms, and turned around so the audience could see the graphic on his back. It showed the joey kangaroo as always, but this time the pocket it climbed out of was embroidered with the ICP logo.

The audience applauded and cheered as he sauntered back to the podium.

“Oh, wait a minute, I forgot something,” he said, then crouched behind the podium. A moment later his black wingtip shoes clunked hollowly out onto the stage, and he produced a pair of worn-out sneakers. Encouraged by cheers and laughter, he fumbled comically with the running shoes and laced them up.

“Now, dressed like this, you’d think I could probably do some of the thinking you guys do to make amazing computers, right?”

“Right!” the audience echoed, playing along with his skit.

“Wrong,” he said. “To have the systems you folks have, guys like me have to leave it to you, the experts.”

Here goes. He felt his heart pounding wildly, and he took a deep breath.

“What I’m about to announce may at first come as a shock to you,” he warned, serious now, “but please,” he said emphasizing with his hands, “before you throw your chairs, give me a moment to explain.”

As he had feared, an anxious murmur started up in the crowd. He had to act fast.

“Today,” he said, raising his voice, “I’m very excited and proud to announce the merger of Wallaby and International Computer Products.

Mayhem exploded throughout the audience.

“Wait, please!” William shouted with raised palms, his voice barely audible in the angry cacophony. “Wait. Please, let me explain…” he said, moving across the stage, closer to the incensed crowd.

*

The limousine driver collected Greta’s Louis Vuitton suitcases and boxes and bags and carried them to the car. He set them at the rear for a moment then ran to open her door. She jumped in and wiped the light drizzle from her face with a scarf.

The trunk slammed shut and the driver climbed in and started the car. As they drove through the gate she looked over her shoulder at the house. She thought of her house keys, which she had left behind on the breakfast table. She would never need them again. It was really ending. With her things packed and ready to be shipped to France, there was no reason to ever come back. She chased away any leftover sentiments, and thought only of Jean-Pierre and their new ranch, their new lives.

Glancing out the window as they turned from the driveway onto the road, she spotted Matthew’s approaching car. What was he doing back so soon? She turned her head away from the window and shut her eyes. She did not want his face to be her last memory of her life in California.

The driver switched on the radio, just as a news brief was being announced. “…and in Silicon Valley this morning, in a coup that has stunned the business world, International Computer Products, the world’s largest computer company, and Wallaby Computer, have announced the merger of their two companies, as well as - “

“Shut it off!” Greta snapped, pressing her hands to her ears. “Please!”

The looked at her in the rearview mirror and apologized. A minute later they were bouncing along the ranch’s bumpy dirt driveway, and she directed the driver past the main house, to the cottages. She smoothed her lavender Chanel dress over her legs and touched the lapel of her Gucci raincoat.

Her heart stopped for an instant. Jean-Pierre’s car was gone.

Of course, she rationalized, scolding herself for being so anxious. He’s probably arranged to have it shipped back to France. Or did he say he was going to sell it? She couldn’t remember.

The driver stopped the car.

“We’ll only be a minute,” Greta said, pulling on her gloves as she climbed out before the driver could reach her door. Ducking in the light drizzle, she shrouded her scarf over her head and went up the steps to his front door. She rang the bell, then glanced back to the limousine for a moment.

Silence.

She pressed the bell again, once, twice, and at the same time scanned the barn and the training ring for any sign of him. The stable doors were shut. Could he have overslept? She checked her watch then pounded the door, growing more worried with each moment that passed without his answering the door. She had planned for them to get to the airport early, and even if he was asleep they could still certainly make their flight as long as they hurried.

She turned and raised her hand at the driver, signaling for him to wait. She hurried off the small porch and ran around to the back of the house. She looked into his bedroom window. The bed was made, and rising on her toes, she could see through the bedroom door into the living room. He wasn’t inside.

She climbed the small rear steps and frantically pounded her fist against the door, oblivious to the pain she was causing herself.

“Jean-Pierre!” she called. “Open up! Jean-Pierre!”

She held her breath and listened.

More of nothing.

She felt a chilling wave of nausea and told herself not to panic, that he was around here somewhere and tending to some last-minute things.

Rounding the house, she wagged her finger at the driver again and bolted for the barn, her raincoat whipping in the wind.

Maybe he was at Jennifer’s house, she considered, saying good-bye to his former employer. She would check that after she searched the stable. Or was he with Mighty Boy? Yes, that was probably it. He was probably saying good-bye to Mighty Boy for her, so kind of him, because he knew that she could not face saying good-bye herself because they were unable to transfer the animal to their ranch.

She heaved the stable door open with a grunt and raced down the center of the long and dark dirt throughway, shouting out Jean-Pierre’s name. As she neared the end, Mighty Boy whinnied. She pushed the horse’s head to one side and went inside the stall, encountering only the animal. Did she really think he would be in here with her horse? No, he had to be outside somewhere. Her stomach tightened at the thought of missing their flight.

She turned and started to run back up the throughway, when suddenly she stopped dead in her tracks. There!

“Jean-Pierre,” she cried, laughing now as she hurled herself toward the shadowy, darkly-clad figure looming just inside the stable.

She froze in her tracks when she realized her error.

“Oh!” she moaned.

Jennifer, the ranch’s owner, pulled back the hood of her raincoat and approached her cautiously. A bewildered expression creased her face as she took in Greta’s disheveled appearance.

“Mrs. Locke, my goodness,” she said with a wary smile. “It’s a bit wet for a ride today, don’t you think?”

“Where is he?” Greta demanded, her chest heaving. “Where is Jean-Pierre?”

“Jean-Pierre? Why, he’s gone.” Jennifer wiped her brow with the back of her hand.