“So don’t spend it all.”
“I don’t know when I can pay you back. I mean, I have some money coming from my publisher… at some point, but I-”
“Pay when you can.”
“I-I don’t know, I’m uncomfortable about this.” Not so uncomfortable, of course, that he’d turn it away. But it seemed like the right thing to say. He recalled how upset Abby looked earlier, in the kitchen. How she’d cried when she’d opened the letter from Lyman telling her she’d have to leave school.
“For Christ’s sake, don’t get all, like, WASPy and uptight on me. You and me, we’re not like that. Believe me, I deal with guys like that all the time. I could buy and sell most of these snotty a-holes in the Financial District, but God forbid they should let me into the country club, right?”
Danny smiled and nodded. He assumed Galvin was talking about an exclusive place actually called The Country Club, outside of Boston. It sounded like he’d applied and been turned away, or been blackballed or something.
Danny nodded. “When someone told Mark Twain that Andrew Carnegie’s money was tainted, he said, it sure is-’tain’t yours and ’tain’t mine.”
Galvin guffawed. “There you go. Yeah, we come from the same place, you and me. My dad busted his butt to raise ten children. Your dad was a contractor. Neither one of us was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.”
“This is incredibly generous of you.”
“Way I see it, this fifty thousand bucks won’t even fill the fuel tanks of my boat, okay? If Abby leaves Lyman, I really don’t know what the hell Jenna’s gonna do. So if you don’t think I’d spend fifty thousand dollars to ensure my daughter’s happiness, well, you don’t know me.” His stare burned into Danny’s eyes. He looked almost angry. His tone was grave. “I would consider it an honor if you would accept this.”
Danny studied the pale blue check. Tears welled up in his eyes, which usually only happened when he remembered Sarah’s last days. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
His cheeks were burning. “Do you think you could wire it instead?”
12
The fifty thousand dollars hit Danny’s bank account by noon the next day.
He checked the balance online. Refreshed his browser a few times. He wanted to make sure it was really there. That it wasn’t an illusion. It was there, and it stayed there.
It was real. Tom Galvin was as good as his word.
Fifty thousand dollars. A lot of money. Not enough to pay off everything he owed, certainly. That would be like trying to put out a house fire with a glass of water. But it would quench enough of the fire to clear a path out of the house, to let him escape the burning wreckage.
Most important, to protect Abby.
He called the Lyman Academy and asked to speak to the bursar, Leah Winokur. The woman whose calls he’d been avoiding for weeks.
She sounded surprised to hear his voice, and not pleased. He told her he was going to drop off a check when he picked Abby up in a few hours.
Haltingly, Leah Winokur replied, “I’m sorry, but today’s the deadline. Five o’clock today.”
“And I’ll see you at two thirty.”
“I’m afraid that’s going to be too late, Mr. Goodman. Technically, the funds have to be received in the school’s bank account by five o’clock today. A personal check won’t clear in time. Unless it’s a cashier’s check, or-”
“I’ll wire it to you right now,” he said. “Will that do?”
On the way home from school, he said, “Abby, I wanted to set your mind at ease. I got things straightened out with the bursar’s office.”
She let out a breath. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh, thank you, Daddy. Oh my God. Thank God.”
No, thank Galvin, he thought but didn’t say.
“I love you, Daddy,” she said in a small voice, barely audible.
“I love you, Boogie.”
At home, Abby disappeared into her room to do homework, while he sat at his laptop and tried to work on the book. Distracted, he Googled the name of the cigar Galvin and he had smoked in his study. A limited edition Cohiba Behike from Cuba. Maybe he’d buy Galvin a box as a thank-you gift.
He did a double take. Only four thousand of these particular cigars had been produced.
They cost over four hundred dollars each.
He had smoked a cigar that cost four hundred dollars, and he didn’t even like it.
Then he Googled the single malt Galvin had poured, the 1939 Macallan 40 Year Old. And did another double take.
Over ten thousand dollars per bottle.
Abby emerged from her bedroom around seven. “What’s for supper?” she said.
“How’s pasta?”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
The phone rang, and Abby picked it up.
“Daddy, it’s for you.” She covered the phone’s mouthpiece. “Someone from something to do with… stamps?”
He took the phone. “Yes?”
“Is this Daniel Goodman?” A man’s voice, cordial and professional.
“Who’s this?”
“Mr. Goodman, my name is Glenn Yeager. I’m with the United States Postal Service in Boston.”
“Um… yes?” he said warily. “What’s this about?”
The man laughed. “I’m with the postmaster general’s office, and one of my responsibilities is administering something called the Citizens’ Stamp Advisory Committee. You may have heard of it?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Well, I’ll keep this brief. The committee meets four times a year to decide what goes on postage stamps.”
“There’s a committee for that?”
“Quite an illustrious committee, in fact. It’s made up of fifteen prominent citizens-artists, musicians, writers, corporate leaders, historians. Public figures. The meetings are held in Washington, and of course all your expenses are covered. And there’s a generous per diem for expenses.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What does this have to do with me?”
“Well, Mr. Goodman, Doris Kearns Goodwin had to drop out at the last minute-a tight book deadline, I think it was-and your name came up. We wanted a writer with expertise in American history.”
“You’re kidding.”
“The reason I’m calling at this late hour is that we need to fill this vacancy immediately. We were wondering whether you might be able to come by our offices in Boston tomorrow morning.”
“I-tomorrow?” Danny paused. “Sure, that’s fine. What time?”
“Say, eleven. And it won’t take more than half an hour. Just some routine questions for the press release and forms and what have you. I know this is terribly last-minute, but if it’s at all possible…”
“Sure,” Danny said. “No problem.”
“Wonderful,” Mr. Yeager said. “We’re all excited to meet you. I’m a big fan of your Kennedy book, by the way.”
“So you’re the one,” Danny said, one of his standard jokes.
Mr. Yeager chuckled, and gave directions. “One last thing,” he said. “I need to ask you to keep all this confidential until the official announcement. The government, you know.”
When he hung up, Abby said, “What was that all about?”
“Some-government committee,” he said. “They want my input on who gets put on postage stamps.” He shrugged.
Maybe the old saying was right: Good news really did come in bunches.
When it rains, it pours.
13
The next morning, Danny wrote more than he had in a year. He was on fire. His fingers flew at the keyboard, the sentences spewing out of him like tape out of one of those old stock tickers. By the time he stopped, at a few minutes after noon, he’d written eighteen pages.