Learning Curve (10 page)

“Alison, baby, I love you. You are a true patron of the arts. And just think about what we'll be able to do after your big event.”

“Yes. Yes indeed.”

She heard the dresser drawing opening. “Okay baby,” said Dale. “I've got to get back to my writing. Have a safe trip.”

“Thank you. Good luck with the writing. I love—” but the call had already ended. Alison carefully removed her headset, wrapped it in its cord, and returned it to her purse. Then she sat back in her seat and folded her arms across her breasts.

After a few minutes, she felt a hand brush her shoulder, and turned to find Jenny looking at her. Alison smiled wistfully and shrugged. “Boyfriends.”

Jenny, who had been married twice, shook her head. “Alison, there are good men and there are bad ones. I saw that photo and I heard some of that call. And I've seen the way you've come to work some mornings. Are you really sure this guy is worth it?” Jenny glanced back at the men, making sure they were asleep, then continued.“With all that's coming, are you sure you trust this guy to own a piece of you?”

Alison looked at Jenny for a long time. Finally, in the rote tone she'd polished over the last week, she pronounced, “I'm afraid I'm not in a position to answer that question at this time. I'll get back to you.”

Jenny chuckled softly and nodded. Then she reached up and turned off her light.

Alison looked out the window. The edge of the dark ocean was now outlined by a delicate pink and orange light, spread across the length of the horizon. As she watched, sleepiness began making her bones feel heavy.
Thank God our presentation isn't until tonight,
she thought as the light slowly grew to a band of brilliant gold. Beside her, Jenny had slowly slid over against the arm rest, her open mouth now puffing out a single strand of black hair with each breath.

Abruptly making up her mind, Alison sat up, tapped the space key on her laptop to reawaken it, and called up Dale's text address and began typing slowly.

Dale, I've done a lot of thinking. We're done. It's over. I want you moved out by the time I get home on Thursday. Good luck with your writing career—I'll be cheering from afar. Alison

She paused, her fingers poised over the keys.
Ah.

P.S. Take all of the money in the dresser. And take the car and keys. I'll leave the signed title with the eTernity receptionist for you on Friday. Don't come up. A.

Alison reread the note three times, fixing it in her memory. Then she hit the SEND key.

Everything changes now. Everything.

T
he black Lincoln Town Car pulled up to the entrance of Manzanita Capital. “Shall I wait, Ms. Prue?” the driver asked as Alison gathered up her coat and briefcase and opened the door.

“Um, no, Shamir,” she told him. “This could take all morning, Maybe all day. Just be where I can call you if I need you.”

“I will. And, Ms. Prue, good luck today.” Shamir read the papers too.

She nodded at him. “It'll be luck. Because there's nothing left to do.” As she climbed out, the sprinklers were still going, and the streetlights along Sand Hill Road were still on. In the distance, the rising sun was just beginning to illuminate the tops of the green hills of the Coast Range. Alison took a deep breath.
Remember this.

Inside, the lobby of Manzanita Capital was still dark and deserted, but she could see brilliant yellow light and hear men's voices down the hall in the conference room. She was reminded of her last visit to that room, three months before. Then she'd been the target, the odd “man” out. Now—with luck—she was about to be the Belle of the Ball.

Most of the board of directors and representatives from the major investors were there, gathered in knots, shaking hands and chattering in excited voices. It was the same crowd as last time, but now they showed relaxed, happy, confident faces.

The room had also been transformed: plasma displays and television monitors had been set up on a pair of long tables against the far wall. Some tables held rolling Quotrons, others cable news; one held a live feed from Times Square with its camera aimed at the window of the NASDAQ display. Another table bore two large platters, one filled with sweet rolls, croissants, fresh fruit, and yogurt, the other covered with a sheet, and no doubt carrying sandwiches and other luncheon victuals. Throughout the room there were coffee urns, buckets of soft drinks on ice, and stacks of plates and coffee cups. Next to her, beside the door, was yet another small table, this one stacked with copies of the
San Jose Mercury-News, New York Times,
and the
Wall Street Journal.

“Ah! There she is!” said a deep voice. It was Arthur Bellflower, wearing a vested suit with a red carnation in his lapel. “The Lady of the Hour!” Leaving his group, he raced over to her and kissed her on the cheek. “Are you ready, my dear?” he whispered in her ear. He put his arm around her shoulder and faced the crowd. “Gentlemen. It may be a long day—and with luck, we'll end it with one hell of a celebration. But now, before we're distracted by unfolding events, let us take a moment and recognize the extraordinary job done by this young lady and her team. They have shown remarkable skill, poise and—one might add—
endurance
over the last three months. Today, we are all about to become the… beneficiaries… of their good work. Let's show our appreciation.”

There was hearty applause. The response was just as one might expect, Alison thought wryly, from wealthy men who were about to become even more wealthy, and to have
their
own brilliance validated.

“Thank you,” she said to the crowd. “It's hard to believe this day has finally come. Let's hope for a strong market to float us up.”

There was a chorus of “Hear Hear!” Arthur gave her shoulder another squeeze. “From your lips to God's ear,” he said, smiling. The crowd laughed.

When the coffee urns were nearly empty twenty minutes later, one of the investors, Ramesh Vempala of Sequoia, announced, “Market's opening!” Cups and saucers were dropped on tables as the attendees rushed to the screens. The room went silent.

Alison made her way to one of the Quotrons, where she was flanked by Bellflower and Ed Lessing, both with their arms folded and their jaws set. These were the moments they lived for—the payoff, not just for their own efforts, but for the investors in their funds. Every successful IPO, like eTernity promised to be, made up for a half-dozen bad investments in failed or failing companies and camouflaged any number of smaller mistakes. A great IPO, which eTernity might be, all but guaranteed that the fund would turn a profit… and improved the odds that the next half-billion dollar fund would be fully subscribed.

“Here we go,” said one of the men. Everyone leaned forward. The symbol ETY appeared on the screen and began to trail across. Behind it was the number
31 1/2
.

The room erupted into cheers. “Yes!” someone shouted, and more than one fist pumped into the air. Arthur Bellflower reached over and squeezed Alison's arm. He spoke into her ear over the cheering. “It's going to be… no, it already is… huge. Historic. You've just become a very famous and wealthy woman.”

Alison never heard him. In her ears, the roar of the room had receded. There was only the screen and its unmistakable number. For her, its crawl across the screen had slowed almost to a halt. She found herself remembering being a little girl, driving with her parents on a vacation down the California coast just a year or two before their divorce and her father's fatal heart attack. They had driven down Highway 1 through Big Sur and along that wild, beautiful coast. They'd stayed the night at Highlands Inn, where her parents had spent their honeymoon years before.

In the morning, her father had promised Alison she was going to see something special, “a tycoon's home.” She didn't know what a tycoon was, but she got the idea it was someone very, very rich. Like Scrooge McDuck. As they'd climbed out of the car in the parking lot of the visitor center, Alison's father had pointed up the hill to a pair of domed towers, beautiful and white in the distance, like the castle of a great king. “It's called San Simeon,” he'd told her. “It's Hearst's Castle.”

Suspended in time, the symbol and number finally completed its trek across the screen and disappeared. An instant later, it appeared again on the other side, moving smartly from right to left. But this time, the number that accompanied it was
32 1/8.
Someone in the crowd whistled his approval.

“I'm not sure my old heart can take this,” said Arthur Bellflower. But he leaned closer towards the screen.

ETY had crossed the screen forty more times, its steady climb by eighths punctuated only by an occasional pause—never a loss—when it reached
37 7/8.
“I think we should sit down and have a good breakfast,” said Bellflower, turning away. “It's going to be a long, draining day.” In a daze, Alison followed him.
Rosebud
, she thought to herself, not knowing that she had just laughed out loud.