Desmond didn’t believe a word of it, and there was something in the annoyed way David was pursing his small mouth and stroking his goatee that suggested he didn’t buy it either.

“The book is practically a classic,” Jane said. “One of the most important biographies of the last decade. Wouldn’t you say, Desmond?”

She’d warned him not to contradict her, but surely she didn’t expect him to back her up on this one. “That might be overstating it just a bit.”

David had his hands in front of his mouth now and he was impatiently tapping his fingertips together. He glanced at his watch, signaling that the introductory chitchat was over, and said, “So what are we discussing today?”

Jane took a folder out of her briefcase and opened it on her lap. She leafed through the pages. From his seat beside her, Desmond could see the pages were mostly half-finished lists and old news clippings. Either she’d taken the wrong folder with her or hadn’t prepared for this meeting. But if she was thrown off, she didn’t let it stop her. “Let’s say I told you I wanted to propose a series of six fifty-minute biographical documentaries of American artists from assorted fields—literature, music, dance, and so on,” she said. “What would your first question be?”

“Who,” David stated flatly.

“Right. And if I told you: Hemingway, Sinatra, Isadora Duncan, your reaction would be?”

He picked up a paper clip and started to unwind it. “Been there.”

“I completely agree. How about Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Fred Astaire?”

“Been there.” The paper clip was now a straight piece of metal he was twirling impatiently between his stubby fingers.

“Steinbeck, Tony Bennett, Gene Kelly.”

David frowned but said nothing. The office turned quiet and through the window Desmond could hear a great sigh as a truck passed on Soldiers Field Road. Desmond wanted to leap out of his chair and scream “Get on with it.” He made what he hoped was a discreet swipe at the sweat trickling down his forehead. Jane lifted a sheet of paper from the folder. At the top she’d written: “Goals For June” and underneath that, a half-finished sentence in illegible script. As if reading from the sheet, she said, “What if I said, Lewis Westerly? What if I said Pauline Anderton? What if I said Terry Benson?”

Terry Benson?

“I’d have no idea who you were talking about.” David’s voice had the same bored tone it had had earlier, but he’d stopped twirling the paper clip. “I’d assume you were talking about some forgotten American geniuses. Is that where we’re going here?”