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the seventeenth floor. It’s not the biggest space but it has the best view of Wall Street.”
    Philip looked at his father’s narrow cheeks and fine mouth and resisted the urge to punch him in the jaw.
    “I’m not coming to work for you.”
    “We made an agreement.” John stirred his drink. “And Hamilton men keep their word.”
    “I don’t know anything about being a stockbroker,” Philip protested. “Why would you want me to work in the firm?”
    “Because the plaque on the building says Hamilton and Sons.” John tapped his fingers on the table. “Your mother wants grandchildren, how is she going to get them if you can’t afford a cocktail?”
    Philip leaned back in his chair and loosened his tie. He remembered the week before his graduation from Yale when he told his father he wasn’t joining the family firm. He paced around the foyer of his parents’ Central Park duplex, trying to stop his heart from racing. Finally he crossed the pink and white marble floor and knocked on the door of his father’s study.
    “Come in,” John beamed. He wore a white silk shirt and gray slacks. A gold Patek Philippe dangled at his wrist and he wore black Ferragamo shoes.
    Philip entered the room and gazed at the Titian on the wall. There was a Rembrandt sketch above the marble fireplace and a Botticelli painting of a young woman holding a vase.
    “You’ve moved things around.” Philip glanced at the wide cherry desk and the deep leather chairs. A white wool rug covered the polished wood floor and a round glass table held a crystal decanter and an ivory chess set.
    “Your mother loves to redecorate.” John smiled. “As long as she doesn’t touch my Botticelli she can do what she likes.”
    “I want to talk to you about my plans after graduation,” Philip began. He had arrived from Yale early in the morning and drank three cups of black coffee. Now his hands shook and his shirt collar was drenched with sweat.
    “We thought we’d hold a dinner at the Knickerbocker Club,” John interrupted. “And then you can take a few weeks’ vacation, sit on a sandy beach and drink Bloody Marys and read the latest Clive Cussler. Your mother and I are going to Bermuda for August, you can start the first week of September.”
    “I got accepted to Columbia Journalism School,” Philip blurted out. “Classes begin the last week of August.”
    John’s eyes darkened and he sat very still. He picked up the ivory paper opener and tapped it on the desk.
    “You did a great job on the Yale Daily News, they were lucky to have you. But journalism isn’t a career, there are hardly any newspapers left. How are you going to afford a family on a reporter’s salary?”
    “I don’t need a Jaguar and a house in East Hampton and a month every summer in Bermuda,” Philip replied. “But I need to do what I love and I’ve wanted to be a journalist since I was twelve years old.”
    “Have you talked to Daphne about this?” John asked.
    Philip flinched and his cheeks turned red. He pictured Daphne with her silky blond hair and graceful neck and long French nails.
    “Daphne is going to Columbia to get her MBA.”
    John stood up and gazed at the Botticelli. He studied the girl’s glossy brown hair and hazel eyes and alabaster cheeks.
    “Then you owe me two hundred thousand dollars.”
    “I beg your pardon,” Philip spluttered.
    “I sent you to Yale so you could take over your grandfather’s business,” John replied. “I’ll give you ten years to make it as a journalist, then you have to pay me back.”
    “How am I supposed to do that?” Philip demanded.
    “You can make fifty-thousand-dollar installments, starting in the summer of 2015.” John turned and looked at Philip. “If you default you have to join Hamilton and Sons.”
    Philip gazed at his father’s graying hair and felt sweat trickle down his spine. He knew he was crazy; there was little chance he would make that kind of money. But he pictured a crowded newspaper