She ignored his questioning look and grabbed her backpack, heading to the lobby. She took a seat in a coffee shop just off the atrium and opened her MacBook, pulling up the list of contacts she had assembled on the plane. At the top she typed: “Trevor Fleming—$10,000. Jan Kruger—R90,000 / $12,000. Monica Kingsley—$2,000.”
She made her first call—to a friend from Stanford, now the founder of an Internet company worth half a billion dollars. She got his voicemail and left him an urgent message. Her second call went to her childhood best friend whose mother presided over a society club that hosted regular benefits for charity. She left a second voicemail. On her third call, she finally got through. Sam Rutherford was a retired real-estate tycoon who sat on a number of nonprofit boards. He and his wife were in the Founders’ Circle of the Catherine Sorenson Foundation.
“Zoe,” he said, “it’s been years. How are you?”
After a bit of small talk, she got down to business. Sam listened carefully, dropping little phrases that indicated interest—”poor girl,” “sounds like a great cause,” “glad to see you following in your mother’s footsteps”—but at the end he posed the unanswerable question: “I imagine your father has pledged his support?” When she offered a lame answer, he seemed to vacillate. “I need to talk to Margaret. You know how she is. I’ll get back to you.”
Zoe scrolled to the fourth number on her list, but the thought of her father kept her from placing the call. She brought up the Senator’s campaign website on her computer. It had been two days since she left the Vineyard—enough time for him to sell a story about her to the press. When the “Media” page loaded, she read the top line of text. Instead of a hyperlink to a press conference, she found an interview announcement. The Senator and Sylvia were scheduled to appear on Piers Morgan Tonight on May 21—tomorrow. Zoe sat immobilized, wondering how her father would spin her appearance in the Senate. Suddenly, she caught herself. He can say whatever he wants. I don’t care anymore.
She picked up her iPhone and placed two more calls—to a psychotherapist and bestselling author who was also a childhood neighbor, and to her roommate at Stanford who was the daughter of a Hollywood director. When no one picked up, she left two more messages.
She looked at the sixth name on her list and felt suddenly queasy. What if her friends didn’t return her calls? What if they found excuses not to help? It was an implausible scenario. She knew too many people with money to fall short of such a modest goal. But the stress of the moment made her waver. At last, she dialed the number, praying for an unscripted voice.
“Pronto!”
The emphatic Italian greeting brought a smile to her face.
“Alex,” she said, “it’s Zoe Fleming. Let me guess: you’re in the Adriatic.”
Alex Denver was a child prodigy—fluent in seven languages, a celebrated concert pianist, and the holder of three patents in biomedical technology. He was also the son of the fifth richest man in America. After earning a master’s degree from Stanford at the age of eighteen, he had set sail around the world while ostensibly working on a PhD. He had never come back.
“Zoe!” he exclaimed. “Amore mio. Tell me why we aren’t still together.”
She let out a wry laugh. “If I recall, you found a new girlfriend.”
“What was her name? I don’t remember. You, I can never forget.”
She stifled another laugh. “I have a favor to ask,” she said, and told him Kuyeya’s story.
“How much do you need?” he asked, turning serious.
She did a quick mental calculation. “Around $50,000. I’m not sure yet.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll cover it.”
“All of it?” She was astonished. At Stanford, he had talked about poverty as if it were the fault of the poor. It was one of many reasons they had broken up.
“Of course,” he replied. “I just put in at Sardinia. I can get it to you inside a week.”
“What happened to you?” she had to ask.
“You mean to the kid who gave bums foreign change?” He laughed at himself. “I met the real world. It gave me a heart.” He paused. “I signed the Giving Pledge.”
Now she was stunned. The pledge was a commitment by some of America’s wealthiest individuals to give at least half of their wealth to charity.
“Dad isn’t thrilled,” he went on, “but his opinion won’t matter when he’s dead.”
“You’re beautiful, Alex,” she said, surprised by the affection in her voice.
He laughed. “If you ever want a holiday, I’m always looking for a pretty first mate.”
Some things never change, she thought.
When the call ended, she sat back in her chair. She had done it. She had covered Kuyeya’s costs without her trust, without her father, solely by appealing to the decency of people with means. It was the alchemy her mother had so prized: turning nothing into something so that something else—a disease, a famine, a war—could be negated.
She went to the receptionist and asked for an estimate of charges for Kuyeya’s surgery.
“It will take me a few minutes,” the woman replied. “Do you wish to wait?”