“So,” I said, smiling back, “then it’s a good day to begin.”

The summer had been rough for Bruno, another round of chemotherapy and radiation that had resulted in his being hospitalized at St. Vincent’s in early July. I was stunned at this news, but he laughed it off, saying he hadn’t bothered me because he’d wanted my summer to be “interruption-free.” I learned all this (and more) during the breakfast that turned into lunch that we shared on my official first day. Bruno did most of the talking, repeating some of what we both knew. A generous allowance had been provided for office space, travel (when necessary), staff (me), all with the singular goal of helping Louis Underfer’s private charity, the Lucy Foundation, award grants to needy organizations.

I knew only what Google and Wikipedia knew about Cortez. Based in St. Louis, Cortez was the brainchild of chairman/CEO Louis Underfer, a former high school biology teacher, who started Cortez in an effort to make money after his first child, his only child, Lucy, was diagnosed with an extreme form of autism. It may be apocryphal, but Louis Underfer worked in his garage/laboratory and, over many months of late nights, developed a rare everything-resistant hybrid for seed corn. One thing led to other things, none of which I bothered to remember, only this: Louis Underfer and his wife, Sheila, had lived in the same house in a nondescript St. Louis suburb for the last thirty-five years. Apparently, any move from their modest split-level on their typical suburban street would irrevocably disrupt their daughter’s sense of place. She would come undone. It would be devastating. So here was a man, admittedly one of the most successful in our time, who could afford any home imaginable, who couldn’t ever move, who wouldn’t ever even think of moving, all because of his great love for his daughter. In a word, he was decent. And yet the Cortez Corporation was anything but.

Bruno laid out my schedule for the next few weeks. My mornings would be spent getting our office up and running. Afternoons would be for reading and research.

Bruno didn’t know how much money we would have to give away; he said he’d be going to St. Louis soon and would have a better idea then. “In the meantime, Kate,” he said, “think of this as jazz.”

“How so?”

“We’re making it up as we go along.”

The best part of that first day was going home.

What a mess. Our apartment looked as if a series of bombs had been detonated. I could hear Tim in the kitchen, wearily insisting that Sam eat a carrot: “At least try it,” he said. I called out faintly at first, then louder until they heard me: “I’m back.” This was followed by a sudden silence, then the boys appeared at the end of our narrow hall, racing toward me, arms outstretched. I squatted down to catch them.

That night Tim, Teddy, and Sam presented me with a gift that had been wrapped in newspaper. The boys helped tear off the paper. It was a large blank journal with Monet’s water lilies on the cover. I tried to be gracious, but I didn’t want a gift. I wanted to be the one giving. Tim urged me to open the journal. I did and saw that he’d written an entry. I promised to read it later.