Yale couldn’t figure out what to say. He’d had recent practice with this very thing—someone looking at you and telling you they were sick—but in every other case he’d been able to wrap his friend in a bear hug, to sob, to say, “I’m so fucking sorry.” None of these would be appropriate. He managed to nod, to say, “I’m sorry to hear that. You look fantastic.”
She laughed. “I don’t know about fantastic. You should’ve seen me at twenty-five. Hell, you have seen me at twenty-five. Didn’t I look fantastic?”
“You did.”
“Now you and I have work to do, because I don’t just want you to have the art, I know you need provenance, and my memory is still perfect. I can tell you when and where every one of those pieces was done.”
“That would be invaluable.” He could hear Frank and Phoebe yelling at their children in the basement. Debra was angrily washing dishes. Yale told Nora about the Sharps, about their willingness to help. “If we got the ball rolling,” he said, “these works could be hanging in the gallery while you’re still around to see it.”
“Well, I like that. I do. What needs to happen?”
Heavy footsteps ascended the basement stairs. He told her, quickly, about needing professional shots of the work for authentication, how there were separate experts for each artist. “And eventually they’ll want to see it in person. If you’re willing to put the pieces in our hands,” he said, “then they’d come to us. We’d handle it all.”
Frank was in the doorway. Nora said, “That seems smart, doesn’t it?” Yale wished Bill and Roman would come back inside, but then he didn’t want anything to break the spell. The whole room felt like a soufflé that had just risen, like the slightest shake would destroy it.
Frank pressed both hands into the doorframe. He said, “You’re giving away millions of dollars.” His voice a cyclone in a bottle. “Your grandkids won’t be able to go to Northwestern if you do this.”
Nora said, “Stanley, won’t you come in here?”
“I would consider this undue influence,” Frank said. “Is that the legal term, Stanley? Undue influence?”
Stanley had entered the room, and he gave Yale a wary look. “This is where you want your own counsel present. Just—so you don’t have to deal with any of this a year from now, two years from now.” Yale checked his watch. Only 4 p.m.
Frank said, “Then I want my own counsel present.”
“You’re welcome to that,” Yale said.
Roman was back, reporting that it had started to snow.
Nora said, “You certainly do bring the weather, Mr. Tishman!”
Yale squinted at the window. Had this been predicted? They’d had the radio off the whole drive up. It was falling steadily, thickly. A mixed blessing, at best: Frank might not be able to send for his own lawyer from Green Bay, but this would slow the Northwestern counsel down significantly. The Northwestern counsel, whose name, for Pete’s sake, was Herbert Snow. A cosmic joke.
“May I use your restroom?” asked Yale, and Roman, who’d already found it, pointed through the dining room. Yale passed the polished table, the curio cabinets, and entered the kitchen—the kind of kitchen every grandmother ought to have. Herbs on the windowsill, shelves of cookbooks. An oilcloth on the small table, patterned with little picnic baskets.
A hand clamped down on Yale’s shoulder, meaty and cold. Frank said, “Stop right there.”
Yale said, “I understand you’re upset. Family is always—”
“My kids use that bathroom.”
Yale tried to catch up.
“I know who you are,” Frank said. “I know where you’re from. You are not unzipping your trousers in my house.”
The hand was still on his shoulder, and Yale bent his knees to duck out from under it. He was a good six inches shorter than this man, but he had better posture. He had a sharper chin, and he leveled it at Frank’s neck. He said, “Where I’m from is Midland, Michigan.”
“Feel free to head back there.”
Yale could have said terrible things then. He imagined that Terrence, in the same situation, would have assured Frank he’d use the guest towels when he jerked off. He imagined Asher or Charlie lighting into him, calling him a coward and a bigot and worse. But he was himself, and he couldn’t afford to anger this guy any further, and so he said, “I’m healthy. If that’s what—I’m not sick.” But his voice cracked on the last word, which didn’t help.
Frank looked revolted, as if the words themselves were contaminated. He