Yale came in) to have the money to outgrow it. Part of which had to do with fundraising, and part of which had to do with sucking up to the president, the university board.
Yale’s office was made smaller by dark bookshelves on all four walls, and he loved it that way. He’d been bringing books from home, one box at a time, but still most of the shelves remained empty. Or, rather, were filled with dust and old coffee mugs. He was supposed to get a student intern next quarter, and he imagined asking this industrious young person to fill the shelves with auction catalogs, to scour used bookstores for decent art books.
His side project for the week was to assemble his Rolodex, and he attempted this now: pink cards for colleagues, blue for previous donors, green for potential donors, yellow for collectors, white for other contacts. He fed each card carefully into the typewriter, copied out the addresses. But what he’d thought would be a mindless task proved frustratingly complex. The files he’d inherited were largely undated, so he sometimes couldn’t tell which of two addresses was current. He typed four different phone numbers onto one card, then stopped and realized he should just try calling, introduce himself. But it was too early in the morning, and so he put the card aside.
At nine, he started hearing footsteps and smelling coffee. At 9:30, Bill Lindsey rapped on Yale’s open door with one knuckle. Bill, the gallery director, had long ears and wet, darting eyes. An old-school academic, all bow tie and elbow patches. Yale was fairly sure he was closeted and would never come out.
Bill said, “Getting the worm!”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re early.”
“Oh. I wanted the weekend to be over.”
“Have you met—” Bill walked in and lowered his voice. “Have you met Cecily Pearce?”
“Several times.”
It was a ridiculous question. Cecily was Director of Planned Giving for the university—a job at once parallel to and infinitely larger than Yale’s.
“She called Friday after you left. I think she’ll be dropping in. Now my advice with Cecily is, if you disagree, you don’t tell her. You just ask a question. You go, ‘Are you worried this could result in thus-and-such?’ I’m saying this because I don’t know why she’s coming down here. She gets these grand ideas.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
Bill’s eyes swam around the room. “I’d maybe—hmm. You don’t have personal photos, do you?”
“What, of Charlie? Of course not.” What on earth was Bill imagining, a Sears studio portrait? Yale attempted to smile neutrally.
“Good. Just—she’s okay, I don’t mean to imply otherwise. I never know what sets her off. She’s a hard nut.”
* * *
—
At noon, right as Yale intended to head out for lunch, Cecily Pearce appeared in the doorway with Bill. Cecily had a Princess Diana haircut, soft and voluminous. She was quite a bit older than Diana, certainly over forty—but with some pearls, a tiara, she’d be a convincing double. And yet there was, indeed, something terrifying about the woman. It might’ve had to do with the way she briskly looked you over, a headmistress examining you for dress code violations.
She said, “Mr. Tishman,” and advanced to his desk, extending a dry hand. “I’m hoping you’re free tomorrow.” She spoke at a tremendous clip.
“I can be. What time?”
“All day. Possibly all night as well.” No evident embarrassment. Either she didn’t realize what she’d said, or she already had Yale completely figured out. Behind her, in the doorway, Bill cocked his head, bemused. “I’ll supply the car,” she said, “unless you have one. Do you have a car?”
“No, I—”
“But you drive?”
“I have a license.”
“Let’s leave around nine.”
Yale wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask where they were going. He said, “How shall I dress?”
“Warm, I suppose. She’s in Door County.”
Yale knew about Door County, the bit of Wisconsin that spiked up into Lake Michigan. In his mind it was a place where vacationing families went to pick their own fruit.
He said, “We’re visiting a donor?”
“It’s a rush situation, or I wouldn’t spring this on you.” She pulled a folder from under her arm, handed it over. “I have no idea if the art is any good. She clearly has money, at least. But you’re the one she wants to talk to. We can go over strategy tomorrow. It’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive.”
Yale opened the file after she left, after Bill Lindsey shot him a sympathetic look and walked her out of the building. On top was a Xerox of a handwritten letter