The Start-Up Page 5

“Sure,” Tom offered. “Working for yourself is great. Set your own hours, make the decisions. It can be a lot of pressure, though,” Tom said, half listening as he looked past T. J.’s head to the television.

  T. J. laughed. “Oh, I think I can handle the pressure. I had a project last summer where I had forty-eight hours to finish a one-hundred-fifty-page pitch deck for a critical client meeting. I literally slept for four hours over two days—didn’t leave the office, didn’t shower, had all my meals delivered to my desk—but it went off without a hitch.” The TV cut off right as the lion was closing in on the herd, snapping Tom back to the conversation. “What’s a pitch deck?” Tom glanced at the waitress, then at the television, indicating she ought to turn it back on, which she did, as T. J. continued. “A pitch deck is something you make in PowerPoint, then print out and bind and give to clients. It explains the costs and benefits of a deal. So, there are a ton of charts and graphs explaining everything.”

  “So, you came up with one-hundred-fifty pages of charts and graphs in forty-eight hours?” The adult elephants saw the lion and started to charge, the mother placing herself between the lion and the baby but—it cut out again. Dammit!

  “Oh, no. I checked the spelling and the alignment and made sure there weren’t any typos. The charts and everything are pretty standard for the company and just have to be updated and pasted into the deck.”

  “Ah.” Tom beckoned the waitress. “What’s going on with the television?”

  “I’m not sure, Mr. Fenway. Let me check to see why it keeps cutting out.”“Thanks, love.” Tom smiled and looked back at T. J. “Here’s the thing, T.

  J. I think there are a lot of people who think they want to be entrepreneurs, but they don’t really. I mean, starting a company is tough. You have to put your life and reputation into your idea, to live and breathe it all the time.

  And no matter how great you think your idea is when you start out, you question it sometimes. It can be easy to get sidelined by people who tell you it’s impossible.”

  T. J. smiled. He’d heard this before. “I totally understand that. I think growing up in Silicon Valley has given me a great perspective on the commitment it takes. And having been through two corporate internships, I know I have the motivation to stick with it.” Tom nodded. This kid was obviously bright and polished, but he didn’t have the spark. It wasn’t his fault—most kids didn’t. “So, what’s your idea?”

  “My idea?”

  “Yeah. You want to join the incubator, so what business idea are you working on?” The TV flickered back to life. Now the lion was devouring the baby elephant. The rest of the herd had vanished.

  “Well, I don’t actually have an idea yet. I think that’s what’s so great about the incubator. It gives you time to really think about an idea.” Tom chuckled at this. “Oh, I don’t know that sitting around in an office on Sand Hill Road is going to suddenly inspire an idea!” Again! The TV cut out. What was going on? Tom sat forward in his chair and looked around the room. Was anyone else seeing this? A girl at a table in the corner was holding—was that a remote? No, it was her phone, but she was pointing it at the television. What was she doing? “Excuse me a second, T. J.”

  Tom stood up and walked over to the girl. “Excuse me, Miss?” The girl, a pretty young thing who was obviously shy, looked up anxiously from her computer at the man standing over her.

  “May I ask you a question, Miss . . . ?”

  “Oh . . . uh, Dory. Amelia Dory,” she said, not used to being approached by strangers.

  “Well, Miss Dory, may I ask you a question? What were you just doing with your phone?”

  Amelia blushed from behind her glasses. “Oh, I—I’m so sorry. Were you watching?”

  “I was,” Tom said. “And I completely missed the slaughter because someone kept turning off the TV”

  “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was watching and I—well, I just really hate those programs. I mean, the baby elephants are always so helpless. But I can’t keep from watching them. They just totally suck you in.”“So, you stole the television remote?”

  “No, I,” Amelia paused. “Well, I used my phone.” Tom smiled. “And how, exactly, did you use your phone to turn off the television?”

  Amelia blushed. “I actually . . . Well, I wrote a little program linking the phone signals with television and radio frequencies, so I can control them with my iPhone. It’s like an eye. The program is, I mean, in that it can see other devices and access their frequencies.” Tom looked carefully at her for a moment, studying her face, her demeanor, the shyly proud excitement in her voice as she admitted her invention. This girl had it.

  “No one’s done that before. It’s like your iPhone sends out a ripple in still water.” Tom reached out his hand. “I’m Tom. Tom Fenway. I think your invention is very clever. Do you have a minute?” Tom sat down in the chair across from her. “Actually, I’m working on a paper. I missed class the other day and have this new assignment and I—” Tom interrupted. “I promise I’ll let you get back to your assignment, but first I want to make you an offer. I’m starting an incubator on Sand Hill Road and I’m looking for smart people like you to come and use their skills to start companies. I’ll put the money in.” Amelia’s jaw clenched and she looked back towards her computer. The conversation earlier with Adam was still fresh and she was still upset.

  “Was it something I said?”

  “No. I’m just . . . I’m not interested.” Tom paused, mouth still open. He’d never been rejected so abruptly.

  “Do you mind if I ask why not?”

  “I don’t want to start a company. I like programming. I love programming. And I have no interest in making money off of it.” Tom leaned back and smiled broadly. Oh, she was so it. She was the real deal. “Trust me, I completely understand why you feel that way, but if you approach it the right way, you can have both,” Tom said.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m really not interested. And I have to get back to this paper.”

  “Well, Amelia, I admire your conviction and your invention.” Tom took out a pen. “And I’m giving you my contact information in case you change your mind.”

  “Hey,” she protested as he scribbled onto the inside cover of her notebook, which was sitting open on the table. “Take care, Amelia.” Tom returned to the table with T. J. “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “Not to worry,” T. J. said.

  Tom pulled two fresh twenties from his wallet and put them on the table, a sum that was fifteen dollars more than the cost of the meal. “I don’t want to take up your whole afternoon, T.J. It was great meeting you, and congratulations again on graduation. Have a blast with the rest of your senior year.”

  “Thanks. Should I also . . . about the incubator . . . ”

  “Oh yeah, I’ll let you know how it’s going. It doesn’t sound like it’s going to be very useful for you at this point, but if you come up with an idea, be sure and get in touch.”

  T. J. didn’t understand what had happened. He thought he’d gotten a job and now Tom was leaving and implying that there wasn’t a spot for him. He scrambled to think of a way to get Tom to sit back down, but he was waving to the waitress.

  “See you around, T. J.” Tom reached out his hand and T. J. instinctively shook it.

  “Yeah, see you around. I’ll . . . I’ll e-mail you with an idea.”

  “Sure thing, buddy.” And Tom was out the door.

  Chapter 8

  Sunny Afternoons in Atherton

  According to the Google Maps app on his phone, it would take Adam an hour and ten minutes to walk from campus to Atherton, where his bike was still parked at the elementary school down the street from the Bristol house. This was not an area meant for walking. Everyone had luxury cars that transported them neatly from home garage to office garage, so sidewalks weren’t in demand. Adam trudged along the asphalt shoulder, listening to Arcade Fire through his phone, sweating from the scorching hot day. Why hadn’t he left earlier th
is morning before it got so damn hot?

  He was still frustrated with Amelia and her resistance to his idea about the company. He was looking down at the pavement, deep in thought, when he sensed a car cruising alongside him. Startled, he looked through the rolled down window of a Lexus Hybrid SUV and pulled out his earphones.

  “Hey, Adam! Do you need a ride?” It took his eyes a moment to adjust as he peered through the window at—could it be?

  “Lisa! Hi! Uh, yeah, a ride would be awesome.” She stopped the car and he climbed into the passenger seat. “I’m just going down to pick up my bike. I left it at the elementary school the other night after the party.”

  “Oh, sure. No problem.”

  Lisa looked even more beautiful than she had at the party. She’d obviously just come from the pool. She was wearing tiny white shorts and a pink halter-top that had turned dark from the still-wet bikini top underneath. Her hair was damp and clipped back in a sloppy bun.

  “Sorry,” she smiled self-consciously, noticing him looking at her. “I just came from the pool. I’m a total mess.”

  “No, not at all. I mean, don’t apologize. You look . . . great.” Lisa blushed and smiled without opening her mouth as she pulled the car up to the bike rack in the school parking lot. “That it?”

  “Yeah.” Adam started to thank her, but he didn’t want this moment to end. She didn’t either. “Want to come have a glass of lemonade or something?

  It’s so hot out there. You’ll burn up if you try biking all the way back to Stanford in this heat.”

  Adam smiled. “That would be awesome.”

  Adam hopped out of the car, put his bike into the trunk of the SUV, and they drove back to the Bristol house.

  Lisa pulled a pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge and poured them both large glasses.

  “I’m just going to run up and take off my wet bathing suit. Make yourself at home,” Lisa said, as she pointed to the living room.

  Adam watched her skip up the stairs, her shorts accentuating the perfect roundness of her butt. “Focus,” he told himself, trying not to think about her changing upstairs.

  He walked into the living room and studied the bookshelf. Family photos in polished silver frames balanced out rows of color-coded antique books. Adam looked at the smiling faces—T. J., Lisa, and their parents, all tan and gorgeous. In one photo they were dressed in black-tie attire in front of a castle somewhere, in another they were bundled in ski jackets on top of a snowy mountain, and in another they were in bathing suits on a yacht in front of a white cliff (Greece, maybe?).

  “Want to see more?” Lisa had crept up behind him. She smelled like lilies and he noticed she’d put on lip gloss, which shimmered pink against her tan skin.

  Adam blushed. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

  Lisa pulled a stack of albums off one of the shelves and led Adam over to a big white sofa next to the window. When she opened the first album, her face lit up. “Look at these. From the Beijing Olympics. We were in the front row for the opening ceremonies. And here—afterwards we met the President of China at this super-fancy dinner on some swanky rooftop where they launched fireworks while we all drank champagne. It was so much fun.”

  She turned the page. “And these are from Christmas. The year we rented that beautiful Swiss chalet in Chamonix. You could ski straight out the back door onto the mountain and, afterward, end up at the most ridiculous après ski parties.”

  Adam was enthralled with the pictures. He couldn’t believe she’d been to all these places. But he was even more enthralled with Lisa’s smiling face as she looked at the photographs. He was watching her—a strand of hair had fallen tenderly down the side of her face—when she opened a second album and, for a split second, her cheeks went pale. Quickly, she flipped to the next page.

  “Here!” she pointed to a picture of her younger self on top of an elephant. “We rode elephants in India. T. J. was terrified and refused to do it.” She giggled. “Oh, he’d die if he knew I told you that!” Adam smiled. “At least you’re not showing me his baby pictures. I bet those are really incriminating.”

  She giggled again. “Oh, they definitely are!” She opened a third album.

  “Look at this one.” She pointed to a picture of T. J. as a toddler, naked, sitting in a diaper covered in brown goo, crying with a look of pure anguish on his baby face.

  “Oh my God, that’s not his—”

  “Ha ha, no. It’s chocolate pudding. Apparently he got upset while his nanny, Odelia, was making it, and he splashed the whole bowl all over himself.”

  Adam smiled. “How about your baby pictures? I bet you were really cute.”

  Lisa got quiet and looked down at her purple polished toes. “Those aren’t out. I mean, there aren’t many.” She hesitated. “There aren’t many pictures of me when I was a baby.”

  Adam grimaced. It was going so well and now he’d upset her! “Oh, that’s cool. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. I just don’t really like the earlier memories, that’s all.”

  “Is that why you skipped the page before?” Lisa looked up at him, her eyes peering deeply into his, as though she was searching for a sign that she could trust him. He could lose himself completely in those eyes.

  “Yeah, it is,” Lisa said. She fiddled with the corner of the second album and then, as if deciding that Adam was someone she could open up to, turned back to the page she’d skipped.

  The photo on the page showed a smiling toddler, pudgy with a head of blond curls, holding the hand of a younger Mrs. Bristol, who was grinning as she led the girl up to the front door of the house they were now in. The door was covered by balloons and a sign with a painted clown and the words, “Welcome, Lisa! We love you!”

  “I don’t understand,” Adam said.

  “I was—I mean, I am— adopted,” Lisa said quietly.

  Instinctively, Adam reached for her hand. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Lisa.” He wanted to hug her, to hold her and press her head against his chest and kiss away her tears.

  “I know. It’s just—well, I think I always feel guilty, like I don’t really deserve any of this. Like I’m an outsider.” She looked up at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears, but she smiled through them. “I don’t know that I’ve ever admitted that to anyone.” Adam smiled warmly back, his gaze meeting hers. “I think it makes you deserve it even more. And I think it makes you even more incredible.” Lisa blushed and forced a laugh to try to lighten the mood. “I can’t believe I told you all that. I just met you, like, a few days ago. I don’t know what it is about you. I guess I just really feel like I can trust you.” Adam’s heart was beating so fast he worried she’d hear it. “You can.” She smiled back at him and squeezed his hand, which still rested on hers. Just then they heard the back door open and Maria, the housemaid, called out from the kitchen. “Miss Lisa, are you home?” Lisa stood up as she called back. “Yes, Maria, I’m in here,” she said, and then turned to Adam. “Can I drive you back to campus?”

  “No, no, I can bike back. I think I’m ready to brave the weather now.”

  Chapter 9

  Poached Salmon With A Hint of Blackmail

  Every Sunday for as long as she could remember, Patty’s family had gathered for Hawkins family dinner. The dinner was mandatory for any Hawkins within a fifty-mile radius, and often included close family friends.

  Tonight’s dinner was going to be awkward, and there was no way around that. Patty’s sister Shandi was home from college, Shandi’s fiancé Chad was joining the dinner, and Patty could still feel Chad’s hands on her body. So, yeah. Awkward. Mrs. Hawkins had texted Patty earlier to let her know that she’d invited T. J. Bristol to make up for the fact that they’d been out of town for his graduation party and did she want to text him about sharing a ride from campus? No, thank you, Mom, she thought. I don’t share rides with people trying to blackmail me.

  The dinner was going to be so awkward, in fact, that Pa
tty was trying to think of it as a sitcom she was watching, rather than one she was a part of.

  Don’t get emotional, she told herself as she drove her red-and-white striped Mini Cooper Convertible from campus to Atherton. Just be an observer, like they teach you in yoga.

  She got to the house at six o’clock and snuck in through the kitchen door, giving a big hug to Felicia, the Puerto Rican cook who had been with the family since Patty was in preschool.

  “Everybody here?” she asked Felicia as she poured herself a glass of pinot grigio. She immediately took two huge gulps.

  “Mr. Hawkins and Miss Shandi are in the living room. Mrs. Hawkins is still upstairs getting ready, yeah, yeah, yeah.” Felicia waved her hand as if to say “You know Mrs. Hawkins is always upstairs getting ready.” She went back to furiously mixing sugar in a bowl.

  “What are you making?” Patty asked, stalling in order to finish her wine.“Ice cream. Vanilla mint with a touch of lavender.” Patty reached out her finger to take a taste, but Felicia batted it away.

  “No, no, no! It’s for the baby shower your mother is hosting on Wednesday for Mrs. Jacobson.”

  Patty gave Felicia a pouty face until she conceded. “I’ll save you a bowl and put it in the freezer. But don’t tell your mother. And get in and say hello to your sister already.”

  Patty nodded, satisfied, and downed her wine. “Thanks, Felicia,” she said, as she skipped through the swinging door to the living room.

  “Hello, family!” she exclaimed with sarcastic enthusiasm as she entered the room. Mr. Hawkins and Shandi were deep in conversation, seated on plush armchairs in front of an antique coffee table. When Patty entered the room, they both looked up. Mr. Hawkins smiled and got up from his chair, embracing his younger daughter and kissing her on the forehead. “Hello, my dear! You’re looking lovely!”

  Shandi remained seated, propped on her left hip, her slim legs crossed at the ankles, a champagne flute elegantly suspended between three fingers.

  She looked like she was posing for an oil painting. She was wearing a simple silk purple slip dress and gold sandals with turquoise stones at the toe strap; her long brown hair fell in gentle curls down the front of her shoulders and her two-and-a-half-carat, princess-cut engagement ring sparkled obnoxiously atop the thin finger that could barely support its weight.