Ken Grimwood by Replay

New York?"
    "You have your own building, on Park Avenue. That's nice." She wasn't looking at him anymore, was drawing daisy-petal curlicues in the sand around the beer bottle. Jeff remembered a day, months before they were married, when she'd shown up unexpectedly at his door with a bunch of daisies; the sun had been behind her hair, and all of summer in her smile.
    "Well, it's … taken a lot of effort," he said. "So, what do you plan to do when you get out of school?"
    "Oh, I thought maybe I'd buy a few department stores. Start small, you know." She folded her towel, began gathering her belongings from the blanket and stuffing them into a large blue beach bag. "Maybe you could help me get a good deal on Saks Fifth Avenue, hmm?"
    "Hey—hold on, please don't go. You think I'm putting you on, is that it?"
    "Just forget about it," she said, cramming her book into the bag and shaking sand from the blanket.
    "No, look, I'm serious. I wasn't kidding around. My company's called Future, Inc. Maybe you've even heard of—"
    "Thanks for the beer. Better luck next time."
    "Hey, please, let's just talk a little longer, O.K.? I feel as if I know you, as if we have a lot to share.
    Do you know that feeling, like you've been with someone in some previous life, or—"
    "I don't believe in that kind of nonsense." She threw the folded blanket over one arm and started walking toward the highway and the rows of parked cars.
    "Look, just give me a chance," Jeff said, following alongside her. "I know for a fact that if we just get to know each other we'll have a lot in common; we'll—"
    She wheeled on her bare feet and glared at him over the sunglasses. "If you don't stop following me I'm going to yell for the lifeguard. Now, back off, buddy. Go pick up somebody else, all right?"

    "Hello?"
    "Linda?"
    "It's Jeff, Jeff Winston. We met on the beach this afternoon. I—"
    "How the hell did you get this number? I never even told you my last name!"
    "That's not important. Listen, I'm sending you a recent issue of Business Week. There's an article about me in there, with a photograph. Page forty-eight. You'll see I wasn't lying."
    "You have my address, too? What kind of stunt is this, anyway? What do you want from me?"
    "I just want to get to know you, and have you get to know me. There's so much left undone between us, so many wonderful possibilities for—"
    "You're crazy! I mean it; you're some kind of psycho!"
    "Linda, I know this has started badly, but just give me the opportunity to explain. Give us the leeway to approach each other in an open, honest manner, to find—"
    "I don't want to get to know you, whoever the hell you are. And I don't care if you're rich, I don't care if you're goddamn J. Paul Getty, O.K.? Just leave … me … alone!"
    "I understand that you're upset. I know all this must seem very strange to you—"
    "If you call this number again, or if you show up at my house, I'll call the police. Is that clear enough?"
    The phone slammed loudly in Jeff's ear as she hung up.
    He'd been given the chance to relive most of his life; now he'd trade it all for another shot at this one day.
    The Mirassou Vineyards teemed with pickers working the slopes southeast of San Jose, great buckets of fresh green grapes atop their heads as they wound their way like harvest ants down to the crusher and the presses outside the old cellar. The hills rippled with wide-spaced rows of trellised vines, and here among the masonry buildings the oaks and elms were a splendor of October colors.
    Diane had been angry at him all day, and the bucolic setting and arcane intricacies of the winery had done little to appease her. Jeff never should have taken her along with him this morning; he'd thought she might be fascinated, or at least amused, by the two young geniuses, but he was wrong.
    "Hippies, that's all they were. That tall boy was barefoot, for God's sake, and the other one looked like a … a Neanderthal!"
    "Their idea has a lot of potential; it doesn't