Chapter Two: No One is an Island

He had to admit, as he walked through the gleaming chrome doors, that the new offices of Freedom Energies were impressive. Tracy Walker had put almost obsessive thought into the redesign of the building, from ergonomics to aesthetics to the etched roses that adorned the frosted acrylic windows behind the receptionist's desk. Simon smiled to the young woman behind the shining black reception desk, mostly because he couldn't remember her name. She was just another in a long string of receptionists who tried to fill Gertie's shoes—the fourth since the venerable old dame had retired amidst much fanfare a year earlier. The young blonde was cool and professional, just like the new offices, and Simon found himself longing for the old days when they were less streamlined and more fun.

"Good morning, Dr. Fullerton," the receptionist said with a practiced smile. "Do you need help with those?" She nodded to the tray of coffee cups and the bag of Danishes he'd balanced on top. "Ms. Walker gave me some files for you to review before the meeting, but I think you've got your hands full."

"Just have them sent to Tracy's office. How is the boss lady this morning?" he asked, shaking off her offer to help with the coffees.

The receptionist—Becca, that was her name!—Becca grinned at him. "Type A, all the way. She was here before I arrived, and even the janitors aren't here before I arrive."

Simon shook his head. "Do me a favor, Becca," he said, relieved when she nodded in recognition. "If we're not out of here at 11:00, pull the fire alarm. Call 911, do something. Because as God is my witness, that woman is having lunch today. Out of the office," he added.

"Do you want me to make a reservation for you somewhere? She really likes Farinelli's…"

"Nah, too many temptations there. She'd be doing business before they even brought the breadsticks. No, Becca, I'm just going to have to rough it with her—take her down to Pike Street and force her to relax."

"Good luck," Becca said as he winked and headed for the gleaming chrome elevators. "I'll have those files sent up to you asap."

He balanced the coffees against the wall of the elevator as he leaned forward to press number 16. The doors closed on the daylight, and Simon held his breath. He hated enclosed places, and it took everything he had to stay standing every time he went to Tracy's office. He had to. She'd consulted him on the choice of buildings for the renovation, just like she'd done for everything else since they'd met back in the 80s. He knew if he'd told her about his thing with elevators, she'd have taken it into consideration. But that would have meant admitting to her that he was phobic, and you never admitted weakness to Tracy Walker. Not that she would have said anything or done anything to make him feel less of a man. But she tended to inspire people to her own psychotic level of perfectionism, and Simon couldn't bear to let her down.

The elevator opened with a soothing chime, Eastern and melodic. It set the tone for the corporate offices of one of the most innovative alternative fuel developers in the Western hemisphere. Chrome and acrylic and curved modular cubicles gave the place an almost ethereal feel, made warm and comforting by the spectacular view of Puget Sound through the bank of windows that lined the outer walls of the building. There were more roses, gently curved rosebuds etched strategically into the acrylic partitions, shadowed into the cream colored walls, adorning the desks of most of the employees who buzzed about in a perfect symmetry of professionalism and creativity.

Freedom Energies was The House That Tracy Built, and Simon had to admit he was proud of her. Nobody worked harder or longer than she did, nobody poured more of their own spirit into the company than the woman who had rescued it from near bankruptcy over two decades ago. She was a powerhouse of energy, ambition, innovation, and determination, and nobody who worked for her could say a single bad thing about her professionally, including him.

Simon hurried towards the corner office, stopping to put a mocha down in front of Tracy's admin, Chelsea Hartford. The forty-something year old woman looked like his fourth grade math teacher, without the sex appeal, but she was probably the only person on Earth he trusted to take care of Tracy in his absence. She looked up from her computer monitor, dark-rimmed glasses only serving to emphasize her too-narrow features and pale skin. "You're late," she said without preamble, taking a long sip of the coffee after blowing on it first.

"Had to stop by the University," he said, reaching in to the bag to give her a cheese Danish. "I still have a day job, you know."

"Well, I hope your day job provides mental health benefits, because it's your turn now. She's been driving me crazy all morning."

"Sorry," he said, and steadied himself to walk through the door. Greeting Tracy in her own domain could be intimidating, even after all these years. There was something that took over her when she worked, something trancelike and primal, a fierceness that he never understood although he considered her his closest friend in the world. It was like she was always proving something, every minute she was at work, and it was never enough. It was worse now that she was sober, although he'd never admit it to her. It was as if all those three-martini lunches had provided her a balance, and now there was nothing to divert her from her own ambitions.

He walked into her office unannounced, as he had done since that very first meeting back in '82 when she'd called him in from Seattle University to help with an environmental issue they were having in one of their plants. She'd blown him away from the very start. No dilly-dallying with euphemisms; she insisted he talk to her in the terminology of the chemistry they'd be dealing with. When she didn't understand something, she methodically asked questions, opening her mind and wading through the often dry explanations until, after a while, she knew almost as much about the chemical side of the business as he did. That didn't stop her from putting him on the payroll as a consultant and working him almost as much as the University did. He was a professor emeritus now and only taught when he wanted to. Freedom Energies, however, did not allow him as much leeway.

"You're late," she said, without even looking up from her computer. "We have a one o'clock with the EPA, and you need to get those HazMat forms in order."

"Good morning, Tracy," he said, crossing the considerable distance from the door to her desk. Tracy's office was like the rest of the building—bright and clean, with enormous windows overlooking the waters. Tracy herself was the picture of corporate cool. Her hair was honey brown this month—he never got over how often she changed it—and cut short around her shoulders. She was tailored and professional in a sleek white pantsuit, high buttoned and flattering in its simplicity. She wore wire-rimmed glasses, having given up contacts long ago during the worst of the drinking years. The glasses rested lightly on the edge of her nose as she continued to read. "I brought coffee and Danish."

"Gimme." She reached out a hand, her fingers already curved into the shape of the cup he placed there.

"Careful. It's hot." He pulled out a pastry and placed it on the desk in front of her.

She ignored him, putting the coffee to her lips and wincing as it burned her. "Ow!" She finally dragged her eyes from the computer to glare at him. "That's hot!"

Simon laughed, pulling her glasses off her face and brushing his fingertips against her graceful cheekbone. "Good morning, Tracy," he repeated gently, catching her gaze finally and holding it for a long moment. "Good morning."

She sighed, a frustrated smile triumphing in the face of her rampant workaholism. She snatched the glasses back from him and put them back on. "Good morning, Simon," she said reluctantly. "Thank you for the breakfast," she added. It was a small thing, but for Tracy, it was the small things that counted. "You cut your hair," she added without inflection. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Excuse me?" He took the Danish from off her desk, opening the plastic and nibbling a corner before handing it to her. "Eat something. And why shouldn't I have cut my hair?"

"We have too much going on for you to risk a bad haircut."

"I never have a bad haircut. I've had the same hair cut for the last thirty years." Simon brushed his hands through the neatly-trimmed layers of silver hair. It wasn't fancy, but it served him well. "You're losing it, Ms. Walker," he observed as he walked around her desk to sit in the slender metallic chair Chelsea used when she took dictation. "It's one thing to obsess about tax structures and marketing strategies. But when you start worrying about how a chemistry teacher wears his hair…"

"You are the face of Freedom's science team," she purred, blowing on her coffee before taking another sip. "You can't look scruffy when you're representing one of the fastest-growing companies in the country." With her free hand, she leaned forward and gently mussed his hair. Simon fought it, but couldn't quite ignore the shot of adrenaline her touch caused. It was stupid, of course, because she'd set the rules straight with him years earlier. No romance, no sex, no intimacy closer than friendship could ever exist between them—for the sake of the company, of course. Once, fresh out of a bad marriage and more insane than in love with her, he'd threatened to resign on the spot if that meant he could have her.

It had backfired, of course, even though he'd only been partly serious. Tracy had a way of slamming down walls between herself and other people when things got too personal, and that hormonal little stunt had led to almost six months of cool distance between them before she relaxed and began to feel comfortable with him again. It had been a hard lesson to learn, but Simon had learned it. He knew he'd always be a little bit in love with Tracy Walker, but that was as far as it would ever go.

She didn't want anyone in her life that way. She was her own woman, and beware any man who tried to breach that barrier she held so tightly around herself.

"The face of Freedom's science team," he repeated with a scowl. "I'm not the face of anything, and you are certainly no one to talk. Are you planning on gracing the paparazzi at Saturday's event?" He chuckled as she scrunched her nose defiantly and took a huge bite of the pastry. "I thought not. I think a woman who hasn't let a single picture of herself be published in the last twenty-five years has no room at all to talk about the image I present for the company." He took the pastry from her hands and ate the last bite. "All I care about is how you like it," he added with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"You're absolutely gorgeous," she said perfunctorily, although there was a strong streak of humor in her lack of inflection. She leaned forward on the desk, affecting a look of dewy-eyed admiration. "You're like Frankie and Annette, all rolled up into one dreamy package."

Simon laughed out loud, tapping the tip of her nose with his finger. "Did you sleep last night?" he asked bluntly. She didn't have to say a word; he knew the answer from the way she tried not to show any response at all. "More nightmares?"

"I regret ever telling you about them," she said plainly and turned back to her computer. As she began to type hastily, she added, "It's just stress. Nothing to be worried about."

But Simon knew she was worried. Over twenty years had taught him that survival in TracyLand meant being able to define her emotions, even when she was hiding them. Especially when she was hiding them. "Have you seen your shrink?"

"My shrink told me to tell you to leave me alone and forget I ever told you about the nightmares," she said in a bored tone as she reached for the mouse.

"No, she didn't, and we can call her to confirm that if you want."

Tracy sighed, stretching her neck slightly as she reached up to remove her glasses. She lay them down on the desk and rubbed her eyes furiously. For the first time since he arrived, Simon was able to see clearly the dark circles that her expertly-applied makeup couldn't fully conceal.

"It's about more than the IPO, isn't it?" he murmured, reaching out to take her hand.

She looked at him with that look she got when he was pushing too hard, when he was getting too close to breaching that seemingly-impenetrable barricade between them. It was equal parts ice and lava, and its sheer incomprehensible force did the trick. As it always did. Tracy didn't want Simon to pry, so Simon backed off. Like he always did.

And Tracy held it in, like she always did.

Simon started to say something, but the door opened to admit Chelsea, who was bringing in the files that had just arrived from reception. When she left without a word, the moment had passed and Tracy was herself again—oblivious to everything but her work. Simon watched her for a moment, fighting the feeling that she was holding something too big, too overwhelming for any one person to carry. But there was nothing he could do about it, no question that would not be met with icy silence, no concern that would not be tenderly ridiculed, and no fear that would not remain unresolved as he waited for the inevitable explosion to come. It was an explosion he'd been waiting for for over twenty years.

And he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it, because it was only a matter of time before her own silence caught up to Tracy Walker. So Dr. Simon Fullerton did the only thing he could do. He went back to work.

Coming in Chapter Three: The Airwaves Crackle with Unspoken Accusations