by Sarina Bowen
Honestly, if Mrs. Gray hadn’t taken him to task, I might not have even noticed Nate’s distraction. His mind works on a different plane from everyone else’s. He can carry on a lunchtime conversation with me and simultaneously rewrite a bit of code that’s been troubling him.
“Bec, what’s that busy doctor’s number?”
“Hold on.” I dig out the card and put it on the table. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting your appointment date changed.” He taps the phone.
“How are you going to…?”
“Yes,” Nate says into his phone. “I think you can help me. This is Nate Kattenberger calling for Dr. Armitage. Could you let him know that I’ve just donated $50,000 to the Concussion Legacy Foundation? It’s my gift to honor the doctor’s work with athletes. If he’d like to discuss the matter further, I’m available at the following number…”
“What on earth?” I ask when he hangs up the phone a moment later.
“Don’t get all stressy, Bec.” Nate puts down the phone looking pleased with himself. “I like that charity. Dr. Armitage chose well when he got involved with them. And, hey, professional sports teams are too cavalier about head injuries. I should have given them money a long time ago.”
“But…”
Nate’s phone rings on the table.
“That was speedy. Hello?” He answers the phone. “Yes, Doctor, this is he. Indeed I did. You’re right, I do own a hockey team… That’s the one! Concussion research is very important to me. Seemed like as good a time as any to make a contribution… Right. It’s such an important topic. More so now than ever.”
Nate winks at me, while my head threatens to explode. Fifty thousand… What?
“I’m with you, a hundred percent,” Nate says, oblivious to my shock. “In fact, there’s someone sitting here beside me who really needs some assistance with a head injury. We’d like to see you sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, your front office thinks that a June appointment is the best you can do.”
Nate smirks into the phone, and I try to picture the doctor’s face as he realizes he’s just been outmaneuvered.
“Oh, terrific. That’s perfect,” Nate says a moment later. “Sunday morning at ten, then. The patient’s name is Rebecca Rowley. She’ll be there. Thanks very much. Bye now.” Nate hangs up looking exceptionally pleased with himself. “The good doctor is seeing you on a Sunday! Now that’s service.”
I’m momentarily stunned into silence. That did not just happen. “Tell me you didn’t shake down the specialist to get me an appointment time?”
Nate’s forehead wrinkles as he considers the question. He reaches for his diet soda. “Nah. I’m pretty sure a shakedown would be if someone took his money. This was, like, the opposite of that.”
“Fifty. Thousand. Dollars? I cannot believe you just gave that away…” My voice actually cracks on the last word. It’s a huge sum of money.
“Well, technically I didn’t yet.” He grabs his phone again and taps the voice memo application, which he uses frequently. “Robert—this is Nate. Please donate fifty-thousand dollars to the Concussion Legacy Foundation before the close of business today. This is from the personal account—not the corporate foundation. Thanks, man.”
“Nate!” I gasp.
He drains the soda. “It’s a good cause, Bec. The best. The owner of a hockey team is supposed to care about concussion research. And you need an appointment with him. It’s a win-win.”
“Oh my God.” I put my forehead into my palms and massage my brow bone, because my headache has just come roaring back to life. It’s bad enough that the earth beneath my feet has developed the awkward habit of tilting when I least expect it. Nate has just made me even more stressed out.
Not a half hour ago he convinced me that he wasn’t in a huge hurry to get me back to work. That the world won’t end if it takes more time to heal. So why the hell did he just drop fifty large on a doctor’s appointment?
Who does that?
“Hey.” Nate’s voice grows soft, and he rises to stand behind my chair. A big hand lands on top of my head. “Becca. Everything is going to be okay. You know that, right?”
Nope. “It’s sort of hard to picture,” I admit.
The big hand slides down my hair, landing at my neck. Nate rubs the muscle at the base of my skull with strong fingers. It feels so freaking good that I let out an unladylike moan. Everything tingles.
He chuckles, then adds his other hand and squeezes my shoulders. “You’re so tight. Jeez.”
I can’t even speak right now because it feels so good. It’s been a seriously long time since anyone touched me with kind hands. I’ve forgotten how good this feels. Nate just fed me, bribed a doctor to see me, and now he’s digging his thumbs into the achy spots at the back of my neck.
He’s taking care of me. It’s so trippy. My job, more or less, is to take care of Nate’s hockey team. And sometimes Nate. So this turnabout is confusing. I don’t know what to think, and I can’t think anyway, since I have a head injury and his hands are turning me into a little blob of mindless goo. “Thank you,” I slur, my head heavy like a rag doll’s.
Nate gives one last squeeze at the base of my skull. “Let me show you upstairs real quick. You need to know how everything works.”
I stand up slowly, which is a new habit of mine. I used to leap out of chairs and bound across rooms. Now I move around like my granny.
Nate leads me back through the parlor, with its antique settees, back to the grand foyer, and up the stairway. The ornate bannister is carved from mahogany, and the marble steps beneath my feet are covered by an ornate carpet runner.
I’ve never been upstairs before, but I’ve always been curious.
We climb for a while because the ceilings are so high, especially for a home built before the Civil War. The staircase turns to the left. At the top, Nate leads me into an arched hallway, from which two doors open. “Down there is my room,” he says, pointing to the one at the end of the hall. “And you’ll stay in here.”
I follow him into a big bedroom with a four-poster bed. “Wow, Nate. This looks like Her Royal Majesty’s chambers.”
“Which Royal Majesty?”
“The Queen of France. Duh.” Nate’s place is like the Met Museum after business hours. Big and empty. From the bedroom, I can see into the en-suite bathroom, which sports an enormous clawfoot bathtub. “This room is crazy.”
“I don’t want to put you on the third floor. You shouldn’t be climbing too much if you’re unsteady. And this is a nice room. My parents stay here when they visit.”
I can climb stairs, I want to argue. But a half hour ago I nearly crashed in the tunnel at work. So I just sigh instead.
“Now let me show you the den. It’s my main living space, and you can make yourself at home.” I follow him back the way we came, past the staircase.
We enter a room that’s long and low and paneled in oak. There’s a marble fireplace on one of the long walls. But it’s more comfortable than the fancy parlor downstairs. At one end of the room sits a pair of comfortable chairs beside an enormous, curved bay window. At the opposite end there’s a TV setup and an L-shaped couch. Several KTech reports are spread out on the coffee table.
There are bookshelves lining the wall opposite the fireplace. They stretch from floor to ceiling, and there’s even one of those rolling ladder things that libraries on Pinterest have, for reaching the top shelves.
“Wow,” I say stupidly. Because how could I not?
“This is my favorite room in the house.”
As soon as he speaks, a small screen blinks to life on the coffee table. “Hello, Nate,” says a disembodied voice. “Can I help you?”
“Not now, Hal,” Nate answers.
“That was…?” I stop.
“Not a real person,” Nate says with a grin. “Hal…”
“Yes?” the machine asks immediately.
“…Is the voice of a product I’m testing,” Nate says. “I’m trying to impr
ove on the quality of smart speakers. They all suck, but Hal uses deep learning to quickly become more conversant.”
“Deep learning,” I say slowly. “Like, AI?”
“Exactly like AI,” he says, giving me the well done smile. “He’s a secret, by the way. Hal is one of the things covered by the specs of your KTech nondisclosure agreement. Yada yada yada.”
“Got it,” I say. Hanging around with Nate means always being in the presence of heavily guarded corporate secrets. I’m used to being mindful of inside information.
“The products on the market right now are all pretty dumb. But Hal is pretty sharp. So if you ask him for something and he doesn’t respond correctly, just try again with slightly different words. And don’t hold back on the slang because I want him to learn how people really speak.”
Seriously, there are tech journalists who would sell an organ for a few minutes alone with Hal, whatever he is. “Wait—you gave him the creepy computer voice from that Space Odyssey movie, right?”
Nate looks abashed. “Just having a little fun. But he can do any kind of voice. How do you think the butler should sound?”
“Like a Jane Austen character. Charming and solicitous.”
Nate taps his chin. “Like—what’s-his-name, the Colin Firth character? Darcy?”
“No way. Darcy didn’t like to talk. You need the other guy—Bingley.”
“Fine. Hey, Hal?”
“Yes, Nate,” the voice drones.
“Your new name is Bingley.”
“Bingley at your service,” the creepy voice says.
“And I want you to use a different voice. Male. British accent. Blueblood. That means well-educated. Incorporate the sentence structure of Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen.”
“Certainly, sir!” the device says immediately, with an uppercrust accent. “How may I be of service?”
“Say hello to Rebecca.”
“Greetings, fair one! Let me hear your voice.”
Nate nudges me. “He needs to hear you so he’ll know to obey when you speak.”
“Uh. Hi, Bingley.” It’s hard not to giggle. “I’m Rebecca Rowley.”
“At your service, miss! You may ask anything of me.”
Nate tips his chin toward the device on the table. Go on. Ask him.
“Um, what is the capital of Burkina Faso?”
“Ouagadougou.”
“Too easy,” Nate scoffs. “Even Siri could get that right.”
Fine. “Who makes the best pizza in Brooklyn?”
“If you are feeling peckish,” Bingley says at once, “Grimaldi’s is seven-tenths of a mile away, with a very high rating. Diners tend to recommend the white pie with garlic or the Buffalo chicken pizza.”
“No,” I say. “Buffalo chicken on a pizza is just wrong.”
“I will make a note of it,” Bingley replies immediately. “Miss Rebecca does not prefer spicy chicken on pizza.”
Nate looks very pleased with himself. “Bingley—Rebecca will be staying with us a while to recover from a head injury,” he says. “If she asks you to keep silent, please don’t speak until she calls you by name.”
“She’s feeling ill? Heavens! Take care, Miss Rebecca. I shan’t be a bother!”
“Thank you, Bingley,” I say, biting back a smile. I can’t imagine where Nate finds the time to dream this shit up. But talking to Bingley in Nate’s mansion is more fun than I’ve had in a while.
“So.” Nate rubs his hands together. “Bingley controls the security system. Tonight, when Mrs. Gray leaves, all you have to do is ask him to lock the place up. He’ll take care of everything. And if you leave the house, he’ll let you back in. Bingley—take Rebecca’s fingerprint, please.”
The screen lights up. “Miss Rebecca, deign to place your fair finger on the screen.” There’s a glowing circle in the middle of the screen to guide me. I put my index finger there, and Bingley makes a noise of approval. “Please choose a four-digit number, miss.”
“7854,” I tell him.
Bingley repeats it back to me, and Nate smiles. “Something to know—the keypad on the front door uses both your fingerprint and the number code. The fingerprint is sufficient, but if anyone is watching you enter the code, he won’t know that the fingerprint matters.”
“We can’t have highwaymen snatching you off the street for your fingerprint,” Bingley says with more glee than a computer should be able to manage.
“That’s disturbing.” Nate flinches. “Quiet, Bingley.”
“Nate, we don’t have to do this,” I argue. “I can just go home and…”
“Hey!” he holds up a hand to stop me. “Let’s just try it. You need the rest. Don’t argue or I’ll upload Bingley to your phone and get him to nag your family into giving you more peace.”
Knowing Nate, he’d actually follow through. “But I don’t have my things here…”
“It’ll be taken care of.” He heads toward the door. “I’ve got to run or Lauren will flay me alive for fucking up the afternoon schedule. Mrs. Gray will make you dinner before she leaves. Later!”
“Goodbye, Nate,” Bingley calls. “You’re a prince among men! You’re smarter than Bill Gates!”
I choke out a goodbye as well, but I’m not sure Nate can hear it through my laughter.
After he leaves, I kick off my sneakers and sit down on the big L-shaped sofa to try to think. Staying with Nate isn’t a viable option. I don’t want to impose.
The sofa is super comfortable, though. It’s upholstered in a deep red velvet, and the seat is so generous that my feet don’t touch the floor.
I tuck my legs up under me and consider my options. This takes about thirty seconds, since I don’t have many options. 1. Stay, and do everything Nate says, so at least he knows I’m not trying to be such a helpless dope. 2. Go home and recommence trying to pretend that my whole world isn’t crumbling right to the ground.
I’m not used to feeling so scattered. Yet there’s no need to stay at Nate’s. I’m not Jane Bennet in Pride and Prejudice, swooning at Netherfield for days and days because of catching a cold.
Usually I’m the sort of girl who handles whatever life throws at her. When my father died suddenly, I dropped out of college and took a job at Nate’s fledgling company. I helped my mother cope with her sudden widowhood. And just when she started doing better, my sister had some issues. I’d helped her pay for the college education that I never got to finish. And then, when she had a baby and lost her apartment, I stepped in again.
That’s how I’m supposed to be. The kind of person who just handles things. But I’m not handling this. It’s not going well. I don’t know what to do, and the constant worry has gotten me nowhere so far.
The old Rebecca wouldn’t be sitting here curled up on the sofa, my head growing heavier with exhaustion. I’ll just close my eyes for a moment. The house is so quiet. Nate was right about that.
Somewhere downstairs Mrs. Gray is whistling to herself. It’s the last thing I hear before sleep takes me.
5
Six Years Earlier
Kattenberger Technologies is a peaceable kingdom. Mostly.
Fair Rebecca quickly becomes the de facto ruler of the castle, while our prince is busy reinventing the mobile web for the twenty-first century.
Rebecca’s job is to provision the fiefdom, which now spans an entire renovated floor of the midtown office building. It is she who orders the ergonomic office chairs for each new employee. (And there are many of these.) She makes the travel arrangements and keeps the espresso machine stocked with high-quality coffee products.
She’s hung a sign on the wall over the machine, too: LIVED ON DECAF, FACED NO DEVIL. It is a palindrome, of course. Nate beams when he notices it. “You are priceless,” he says, and she glows, because not many people impress Nate.
Sure, any asshole can do a web search for palindromes and memorize: Not a banana baton! The real style points are earned from sneaking them into conversation.
In addit
ion to organizing their fiefdom, Rebecca is also Nate’s sentry at the gate. Everybody wants a piece of the boy wonder—financial gurus, corporate titans, Nobel Prize-winning innovators. She guards his calendar and his sanity. Only then can our prince have the peace he needs to reign over the digital world.
Our Rebecca is not a ruthless taskmaster. She knows when to use swordsmanship and when to be the court jester. One Friday afternoon in March, Rebecca patrols the borderlands, making sure all is well in the kingdom before the weekend officially begins.
“Hey, Stewie.” She raps on the CFO’s desk with her knuckles. “If you still want those presentations printed up in color for Tuesday, I’ll need the file by noon on Monday.”
The young corporate officer winces. “Right. Sorry. You’ll have them over the weekend.”
“No problem, honeybunch.” She gives him a wink and moves on, reminding the code monkeys to shut out the lights if they work late, and to put their Red Bull cans in the recycling bin.
As the day draws to its end, there is only one more employee left to be managed.
Rebecca marches into Nate’s office unannounced, as usual. He is hunched over an ergonomic keyboard she’s found to relieve pain in his hands. He sits in front of the largest computer monitor sold in stores. Business is booming, and KTech software runs on more than half the mobile devices in North America. In two years, Nate will roll out the first KTech phone, catapulting the company’s reach into hardware as well as software.
But first, a few sharp words for our hero.
Nate stares at the code on his computer screen, his full mouth pulled into a contemplative frown. Rebecca has long ago packed away her inconvenient crush on him. These days when she squints at Nate, it is only to try to gauge her odds of getting his attention. “Yo, bossman,” she says now as an opening gambit.
He grunts. That’s a good sign. The man has selective hearing when he’s really deep inside his own head.
“You will call the CEO of ArtComm back on Monday,” she announces. “I need you to stay on top of your calls for the next two months. Otherwise my life will be hell during your honeymoon.”
