“But she lives alone, right?” Yale said. “I thought the others just visited.”
There was a huge clock on the wall behind Stanley, one that must have reminded most visitors of his hourly fee but that to Yale served only to count down the hours till Frank Lerner’s phone tree reached Cecily.
“I don’t think Debra’s left in months. Let me tell you about her father, Nora’s son. Frank.” He leaned back in a desk chair he was too tall for. “She had him when she was thirty-two, which—you know, back then that was late for a first child. Only child, actually. She thinks it’s all her fault that he’s a bully. Has a decent amount of money, and he thinks he’s a wine connoisseur. An oenophile. You know that word? I just learned that word. My daughter gave me this word-a-day calendar for Christmas.” He tapped the little block of paper attached to a plastic easel on his desk, turned it toward them. Today’s word was avuncular. “Yeah, he’s a big oenophile.” He chuckled. “Sounds dirty, right? My point is, he’s not about to starve if she gives away that art. He didn’t even know about it till five or six years ago.”
Yale said, “That was his wife, at the house today? With kids?”
“One day she’ll wake up and realize she’s married to an old man. She’s what, half his age? Beautiful lady, though. Phoebe. An aerobics instructor.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Bill said, “What are the odds of his contesting the will?”
“Decent. But winning is another matter. And I’m on your side in this. I want whatever Nora wants, and Nora wants to work with you.”
Yale said, “If she could donate while she’s alive, we wouldn’t be worrying about a will.”
Bill said, “You can’t contest a donation from a living person, can you?”
“Well,” Stanley said. “It’s been done. You know, let’s say an old woman with dementia suddenly announces she’s giving her entire fortune to her nurse. But you’re right, in this case it would make things a hell of a lot easier. My advice, regardless, is to have your own counsel present. I’m there, your counsel’s there, it’s pretty airtight.”
“Is Nora amenable to donating right now?”
Stanley half smiled, bobbed his head from side to side.
Yale had a ridiculous vision of the three of them walking back through the doors of the Brigg tomorrow with armloads of art, of Cecily seeing these Modiglianis—and Chuck Donovan’s two-million-dollar check, his little piano donations, falling away like gnats.
The secretary, the one who’d shown them in, rapped on Stanley’s half-open door with one knuckle. She said, “We have a call for your visitors.”
Roman’s voice was ecstatic, breathless: “She called. She wants to see us. She said bring the lawyer.”
* * *
—
And so an hour later there were seven of them seated around Nora’s dining table, an awkward board meeting. Nora sat at the head of the table in a wheelchair—“Not my first time in the chair, but it never lasts long,” she said—the sun setting behind her head. Yale took a seat between Frank and his daughter Debra, so that Bill, Roman, and Frank’s wife were mixed together on the table’s other side. Less adversarial this way. Stanley sat at the other end, opposite Nora. Frank’s children—a boy and girl who probably should have been in school, but maybe it was still Christmas break after all—had been sent to the basement to watch TV. Yale had called Northwestern’s general counsel, who’d promised to drive up as soon as he could get out of the office. It was unlikely he’d arrive before eight p.m., but even if that was after Nora needed them out of the house, they could get everything done in the morning.
Yale felt he should start things off, break the tension that was causing Debra to fold her arms over her flat chest and Roman to twitch his foot so hard that it shook the floor—but Nora piped up, clearing her throat pleasantly and saying, “I’m thrilled you’re here. Frank, not a word from you. It’s good for you to know my plans, but I’m not looking for advice.”
Frank snorted and leaned his chair back. He was close to sixty, and what remained of his hair was silver, but there was something about his wet, dark eyes that made him look like an overgrown child.
“The Polaroids are remarkable,” Bill Lindsey said. “And depending what artifacts you have, what photographs of Paris, letters, and so on, those might be