D
anny had been late with the tuition once before: last semester, in fact. But the bursar’s office had let him slide for a few weeks. They must have gotten marching orders from the administration to be compassionate, since Abby’s mother had died over the summer.
But Lyman’s compassion apparently had its limits.
He had no pull at the school. The guy whose foundation Sarah had worked for, who’d been chairman of the Lyman board, had died of a stroke a couple of years ago.
So he decided to go straight to the top.
“I’m having sort of a silly little problem I thought you might be able to help me with,” he told Lally Thornton when he finally got her on the phone. “Seems I’m a bit late with this semester’s tuition—it’s mostly a matter of liquidity. Moving money around and such. But I should have it cleared up in a week or so.”
He paused, waited for her to say something reassuring. But there was only silence. Then she said, “And?”
Finally, he went on: “I thought you might be able to reassure the bursar’s office for me.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“You know, we got a form letter about Abby having to leave Lyman if the bursar doesn’t receive a check by Friday or whatever. They’re being pretty hard-line about it.”
“Well, I’m not sure I understand why you called
me
, Mr. Goodman. This is a matter for the bursar’s office. Not for the head of the Upper School.”
“I’ve already spoken with them—”
“So I understand.” Her tone had become downright icy. “You’re not asking that an exception be made for you, I trust.”
“Not an exception per se, but—well, a little leeway is all. A little compassion, really.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Goodman. I wish I could help. Please ask Abby to send me a note once she’s settled at her new school, tell me how she’s doing. I really am so fond of her.”
• • •
Even if he could bring himself to ask Lucy to lend him money, he knew she didn’t have it to lend. She was barely getting by herself. So that was out.
His parents, Helen and Bud, lived modestly and always had, in the same small house in a development in Wellfleet, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod, where Danny had grown up. His dad was a contractor and a finish carpenter and a decent man, but he was irascible. He was a man who didn’t take guff. He was always pissing people off. At the same time, he was a good person; he always paid his construction crew better than anyone else. Whenever any of them ran into trouble, he’d bail them out, lend them money and not keep track of what he was owed.
When he retired, he had hardly any savings. He and Danny’s mother lived off Social Security.
Danny had no one to borrow the money from. At least, no family or friends.
He tried to remember why he was so uncomfortable about accepting a loan from Thomas Galvin for the Italy trip. Pride? That didn’t seem like such a compelling reason anymore. He imagined a balance scale with his pride on one side—looking like some raw, shapeless, pulsing, purplish internal organ—and Abby’s happiness on the other; he imagined Abby as a chubby, laughing baby wearing only a diaper. The chubby baby easily outweighed the pulsing blob. What had he been thinking? If he had jewelry to pawn, or anything of value to sell, he’d do it in a split second. If he knew a Vinny Icepick, he’d borrow sixteen large.
He had to find some money somewhere, somehow . . . and soon.
T
he town of Weston, ten miles west of Boston, was where a lot of the really rich Bostonians lived. Some of the houses out there were true McMansions, but the biggest ones were hidden from view by great swaths of forest, marked by nothing more than a street sign or a mailbox.
Danny drove past the entrance to Galvin’s property three times without seeing it. There were no lights or stone columns or pillars or plaque. Just a simple aluminum mailbox with a number painted on it, not particularly large.
He turned down an unmarked road and followed its winding path through the woods until a set of tall wrought-iron gates, filigreed with ornate scrollwork and attached to tall stone columns, appeared in a clearing. He came to a stop. The gates were closed. Mounted to a column were a call box and a CCTV camera.
He cranked down the car window and pressed the
CALL
button. After a few seconds, a woman’s voice crackled over the intercom, “Please come in.”
The gates swung inward as low lights came on, illuminating another stretch of driveway, here paved with cut stone. The road curved gracefully around until suddenly an immense house loomed into view, like a castle appearing out of the mist.
It was Georgian, built of fieldstone with a slate roof. Its façade was perfectly illuminated by floodlights on the ground. It had graceful lines and was three stories high and almost half as long as Danny’s block on Marlborough Street. Danny had been expecting a gaudy McMansion. But Galvin’s house, though vast, was actually beautiful.
Off to one side was a full basketball court. Danny remembered clearly the day his father had installed an in-ground basketball hoop on a pole next to the blacktop of their driveway. How all the neighbor kids thought that was as cool as it got and wanted to use it at all times of day.
In front of the house was a circular drive. He pulled around, got out, slammed the door. Its rusty hinges squeaked.
The front door came open. It was a huge slab of ancient-looking oak that looked like it came from a castle in Spain. Galvin, in suit and tie, stood there with his wife. She was dazzling. She had glossy straight black hair and big brown eyes and a radiant smile and reminded him of Penélope Cruz, only a few years older. She was small and slim and wore a clingy, deep blue sheath that showed off a long waist and the swell of a voluptuous bosom. She didn’t look old enough to have a kid who’d graduated from college.
Behind them, a couple of little rat-dogs skittered and yapped. They were tiny, hairless, and dark gray with outsize ears like a bat’s. “Loco! Torito! Quiet!” the woman said. “I’m so sorry. They think they’re protecting us, they’re keeping us safe. I’m Celina.”
Danny had expected a servant to open the door, a butler in livery. Not the hosts themselves. He introduced himself and handed her a bottle of wine in a metallic-looking red Mylar gift bag that someone had left in his apartment a couple of years ago when he still had people over for dinner.
Celina pulled the wine out of its bag and admired it as if it were a rare and expensive Bordeaux instead of an $8.99 special from the bargain bin at Trader Joe’s. At least he’d sprung for the one with the fancy label instead of the Two-Buck Chuck.
“Châteauneuf-du-Pape!” Tom said. “Nice!” He nodded and gave Danny a sly smile. “That’s red, right?”
“Not sure,” Danny said, smiling back.
“Like I can tell Château Whatever from Welch’s grape juice, right?” Galvin said. “But I can tell the fancy kind, because they’re in French.” He put a hand on Danny’s shoulder, guiding him in, while Celina took his coat.
“Your daughter is in the kitchen, helping cook,” Celina said.
“She knows how to do that?”
“Oh, Abby is a fantastic helper,” Celina said, half scolding. “She does everything. She’s like I have another daughter. I’m sorry, but you can’t have her back.” Her smile was dazzling. “We’re keeping her.”
“We do have an attractive long-term leasing plan,” Danny said.
“Lina’s always wanted another daughter,” Tom said. “After two sons, she feels she’s earned it.”
Celina gave him a playful swat.
“No problem getting here?” Tom said.
“Actually, I think I might have made a couple of wrong turns on your driveway,” Danny said. “Thank God for GPS.” The Accord didn’t actually have a nav system, but whatever.
Galvin cracked up. “Come say hi to the girls.” The rat-dogs yapped and pranced alongside as they headed to the kitchen.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen dogs like that before,” Danny said. “What’s the breed?”
“Xoloitzcuintli,” Celina said.
“I’m sorry,
what
?” All he could make out was something that sounded like
show
and maybe
queen
.
“Xolo,” she said slowly. She pronounced it like
show-low
. “They’re extremely rare. Mexican hairless. The ancient Aztecs thought they had magical healing powers.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“They also ate them,” her husband said.
“That is not true,” Celina said sharply. “Why do you always say this?”
“It’s true,” Galvin said. “There are these Spanish accounts of huge banquets with platters heaping with Xoloitzcuintlis. I read it somewhere.”
“Oh,” she said. She sniffed. “Will you excuse me? I think they burn the garlic.” She hurried down the hall.
“Probably tasted like chicken,” Danny said.
Galvin roared with laughter. “I’m going to do you a big favor and not tell Lina you said that.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Hey, you didn’t need to bring wine.”
Danny shrugged. “Not a problem.”
In a low, confiding voice, Galvin said, “Man, I love Trader Joe’s. Ever try the Two-Buck Chuck? Not bad at all.”
B
usted.
Danny smiled, but winced inwardly.
It wasn’t as if he’d tried to pass off a nine-dollar bottle of wine as a two-hundred-dollar Bordeaux, but now it looked like he’d been somehow sneaky about it. Anyway, how the hell did Galvin know about Trader Joe’s? No way did a man who had his own home basketball
court
buy two-dollar bottles of wine.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe Galvin wanted to show he was just a regular guy.
Or maybe he was just ribbing Danny, the way guys do with their buddies.
In any case, Galvin obviously didn’t miss a trick.
“I figure our girls are spending all this time together, we ought to get to know each other,” he said.
Somewhere deep within the house, someone was practicing a classical piano piece, imperfectly but well. He heard Abby’s laugh, smelled garlic and maybe fried chicken.
“Love your house,” Danny said. “The layout is perfect.”
“That’s Celina. She worked with the architect. Made all the decisions. I didn’t do squat.”
Yeah, right
, Danny thought.
All you had to do was shell out fifty million bucks for it
.
“Hey, so Abby says you guys live right in the city.”
“Yep.”
“You’re lucky, man. Back Bay, huh? I’ve always wanted to live there. Walk to work. All that scenery. The college girls walking around in shorts.”
“It’s not bad.”
“Celina likes the whole suburban thing. I just do what I’m told.” He shrugged broadly.
Their kitchen was magnificent, bigger than any restaurant kitchen he’d seen. Copper pots hung from racks over two large islands topped with black stone. There were several wall ovens, and an enormous, gleaming burgundy commercial gas range with copper trim, looking like an antique steam engine. Danny’s father had built a house in Wellfleet for a software magnate who’d specified this same La Cornue range.
The vaulted ceiling was crisscrossed with hand-hewn beams that could have come from a medieval castle. The floor, ancient-looking limestone scarred and worn to a velvety patina, might have been salvaged from the same castle.
Jenna stood over a giant round skillet that was sputtering and smoking.
“
¡Ay
,
Dios mío!
”
Celina said, rushing over to her daughter. “Don’t burn the chicken,
mija
! Just brown it.” The dogs scrabbled around the kitchen, yapping hysterically.
“I’m not burning it!” Jenna protested.
“Hey, Daddy,” Abby said. Her smile faded a bit when she saw him. She avoided his eyes. She stood at one of the islands, mashing something in a bowl. Obviously, she was still upset or angry or both, still worrying about whether she’d have to leave school. She didn’t believe her father had things under control, and he couldn’t blame her.
“Hey, baby.” Danny entered the kitchen, gave Abby a hug. “What’re you making?”
“Guacamole. Nice kitchen, huh?”
If she intended a dig at their own, minuscule kitchen, he chose to ignore it. “Amazing.” Bravo could film
Top Chef
here with room for a studio audience. “Make sure and mash those lumps out, huh?”
“No, Celina says it’s not supposed to look like you used a blender.”
Celina quickly came over, placing her hands on Abby’s shoulders from behind. “In Mexico we make our guacamole always with little chunks in, just like she’s doing.” Danny could smell her perfume, something spicy and exotic. “That’s perfect,
mi hija
. Ooh, I want to
keep
this girl! Can we have her?”
The second time it wasn’t quite so funny, Danny thought.
Furtively, Danny ran a hand along the edge of the island. This wasn’t granite. Its surface had the delicate crazing pattern of Pyrolave, glazed lava stone, ridiculously expensive. The software magnate in Wellfleet had ordered Pyrolave. Galvin’s stone fabricator had done an awfully slick job, because you couldn’t see a seam anywhere. Then he realized there was no seam because it was one huge slab. Holy crap, what that must have cost.
And that crazy little idea that had been tickling the back of his mind, drifting like tumbleweed way back there, suddenly lodged itself front and center.
He thought:
The guy probably spends sixteen thousand bucks a month on ties.
I already owe him five thousand. What’s sixteen thousand more, really?
Seriously. Why not?
What was there to lose?
He looked up and caught Galvin watching him. Their eyes locked. Galvin smiled. Danny smiled uncomfortably back.
“Hey, were you feeling up my countertop?”
Embarrassed, Danny said, “I didn’t know lava stone came that thick.”
“You just do a renovation or something?”
“My dad was a contractor. I used to work for him.”
“Yeah? My dad was a plumber.”
“In Southie?”
“How’d you know?”
“I used to see those trucks around. Galvin Brothers Plumbing, right? The green shamrock?”
“See, I knew I liked this guy,” Galvin said.