“They’re so cute,” Lucy said.
“Are they new?” Danny asked.
Abby’s face reddened. She looked around theatrically and said, “What is this, like, the Style Network? Um, can I go do my homework now, please?”
“In a moment,” Danny said. “We’re talking.”
Abby folded her arms and compressed her lips, making it clear how much talking she planned to do.
“I asked, are those shoes new?”
Abby looked at him steadily for a long moment, as if deciding how to reply. Finally, she said, “They’re a gift from the Galvins, okay?”
“That’s so nice,” Lucy said, trying to calm the waters. She busied herself at the dining table, which was piled with books and papers and junk mail. She was smart enough not to get involved any further.
“A gift? For what occasion?”
“Occasion?” Abby’s eyes widened. “I mean, for standing there like a dork, watching Jenna buy stuff when we were at the Natick Mall this afternoon, because I don’t have a credit card and I don’t have any money, and she probably just felt sorry for me.”
“She felt sorry for you?”
“She has her own Platinum American Express card and I don’t even have, like, a debit card.”
“That’s terrible. How can a girl show her face if she doesn’t have a Platinum AmEx card?”
Abby smoldered silently.
“If you wanted to buy something, you could have called me. You know that.”
“And you would have said no.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. But at least you should have asked.”
“Oh yeah, sure, I could see that. Like, ‘Hi, Dad, I just saw the cutest pair of Tory Burch flats and Jenna just bought a pair and can I have two hundred dollars to buy them, too?’ Like you would have said yes? At least why don’t you be honest with yourself?”
“Two hundred dollars?” Danny said. “You’re damned right I would have said no.”
“See?”
Obviously, his daughter didn’t mind receiving charity from the Galvins. “You girls spent the afternoon at a shopping mall? What about your homework?”
“I didn’t have my laptop with me.”
“Why not?”
“You’re talking about that MacBook that weighs, like, a thousand pounds? I don’t think so.”
“You carried it around all last year and didn’t mind.”
“And the year before and the year before and the year before. It’s a dinosaur. It should, like, be on Antiques Roadshow or whatever.”
He tried not to laugh. “If you need a new laptop, we can talk about it,” he said. “Until then, why don’t you invite Jenna over here sometime? Maybe you two can actually get some homework done.”
Abby stared with incredulity. “Are you serious?”
“If you’re concerned about privacy, I can go out and work somewhere while you girls are here. Find a Starbucks, whatever.”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“What am I not getting?”
“You think I want her to see this . . . this veal cage we live in?”
Danny couldn’t help bursting out laughing.
“It’s not funny!” she protested.
“Of course it’s not, sweetie,” Danny said. When her mother was well, before her second marriage broke up, Abby had lived in a rambling old six-bedroom Victorian in Chestnut Hill that belonged to her stepfather, a partner in a big Boston law firm. Now she had no stepfather—not that she minded that—and no rambling house, and no mother.
He came closer, tried to put his arms around her, but she bucked away. “I just want to make sure you give yourself enough time to do your homework. This is a really important year. You know that. This fall, you’ll be applying to colleges, and—”
“Seriously?” she said, stiffening. “Seriously?” Then, yelling: “I don’t believe this!”
She spun around and ran into her bedroom and slammed the door.
Lucy glanced up from the dining table, gave a sad smile. She didn’t need to say anything. She felt bad for both father and daughter; she understood the complexity. Her marriage, to an architect, had broken up, though amicably; her son, Kyle, was a sophomore at Bowdoin. She’d been through all this.
She ran her fingers through Danny’s hair. “No one ever said teenagers were easy,” she murmured.
6
Lucy woke early and made coffee for the two of them before leaving for work. Danny managed to get in a solid hour of writing before he heard the music coming from Abby’s room.
Thumping, floor-vibrating bass, some kind of hip-hop. It wasn’t so long ago that Abby awoke to some sweet twangy ballad by Taylor Swift or one of her many clones. Now everything she listened to sounded the same: Auto-Tuned vocal tricks and rants about being “on the floor” in “the club.”
Twenty minutes later, he was sitting at the dining table reading The Boston Globe and sipping coffee from an oversize white mug that said I My Daddy in the spindly printing of a five-year-old. The Y looked like Poseidon’s trident. Abby had made it at a friend’s birthday party at a clay workshop in Brookline where kids decorated ready-made pieces of ceramic pottery. More than a decade ago, and he remembered it as if it were a few months.
Abby emerged from the bathroom in a steam cloud, wearing a bathrobe, hair wet from the shower. She came over to the small kitchen without acknowledging his presence and poured herself a bowl of Cinnamon Roll Frosted Mini-Wheats, doused it with Lactaid milk, and brought it over to the dining table.
“Any left for me?” she asked as she sat down.
“Any what?”
“That.” She pointed at his coffee mug.
He grinned. “You’re too young to get hooked on caffeine.”
She slid the pile of mail in front of her and began flipping idly through the envelopes. “I mean, it’s so not a big deal when I sleep over at the Galvins’. Celina always makes café con leche for Jenna and me.”
“Celina is their housekeeper? Or their cook?”
“Keep up, Dad. She’s Jenna’s mom.” She picked up the cream-stock envelope from Lyman and slid a finger under the flap. He didn’t want her looking at the reminder note—no need for her to worry—but he also didn’t want to make too big a deal of it, so he said nothing.
“Well, you’re not at the Galvins’, are you?” he said, and he couldn’t hide his smile.
He’d solemnly sworn, when Sarah and he first saw that whooshing heartbeat on the fetal monitor, never to say all those trite, predictable things that all parents seem to say. Like: As long as you live under my roof, you’ll live by my rules and Because I said so and I don’t care what the other kids do and Don’t make me stop this car.
He put the milk away in the refrigerator, and then he heard a high-pitched sound, a stifled cry, and he whirled around.
Abby was holding the Lyman letter in a trembling hand. The paper rattled. Her face had gone pale.
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he said. “The check’s a little late. I have to move some money around.”
She was crying with an abandon that Danny had seen her do only once before, in the hospital room right after Sarah had died. There was barely any sound. Like she was gasping for breath. Or hiccupping. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open and downturned. She looked almost in shock. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Danny felt his insides clutch. She was overreacting, but he couldn’t stand seeing her in pain. “Boogie,” he said softly, coming over to her and circling his arms around her shoulders from behind. “Abby. Baby, what’s wrong?” He glanced at the letter and felt his stomach drop. Even though he glimpsed only fragments of sentences, it was enough to understand:
. . . regret to inform . . . leave us no choice . . . immediate payment is received. . . . Abigail’s school records . . . assist in the transf
er to another school . . .
Unless Lyman Academy received sixteen thousand dollars by five P.M. on Friday—three days from then—Abby would have to leave the school.
He squeezed her tight, her tears scalding his forearm, her chest heaving.
“Listen,” he said, softly yet firmly, “that’s not going to happen, okay?”
Then came a rush of words in one terrible anguished sob, most of which he couldn’t make out. Just the words all my friends and Daddy.
The shape of her mouth when she’d let out a cry was precisely the same as it had been seconds after she’d been born, when the nurse had taken her, all of six pounds, from the obstetrician’s gloved hands, swaddling her expertly in a blanket, and put her down on the warming table. Then this tiny infant had curled her tiny hands into fists and let out a great big gusty cry, the first of her life, announcing, Hey, I’m here!
And he knew he’d always do everything in his power to protect this little creature.
“Sweetie,” he said. “Listen to me. Don’t even think about it. That is not going to happen. You have my word.”
But he knew his assurances were hollow, his promises empty, and he wondered whether she knew it, too.
7
Danny 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.
8
The 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.”
Suspicion Page 3