The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [5]
“What?” Simon put the knife down. “You want me to . . .”
“Write a biography of Graham Hayward.”
“Why?” Simon’s roll sat forgotten on the side of the plate.
“Because I want the book done right and I know I can trust you to do the job the way it needs to be done. After all, I’m not totally unfamiliar with your writing, you know. All those papers you wrote for me at Georgetown.” Norton grinned. “All those pieces you wrote for the Washington Press. You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”
Norton studied Simon’s face, then shifted to another tactic.
“I know that this would mean having to put your own book aside for a time. But if the Hayward book does well, it would certainly open doors for you. I think it goes without saying that Brookes Press would be first in line to see the finished product.”
“Tell me what your interest is in this biography. Besides the obvious, that Hayward was your friend and, at one time, your boss.”
“Simon, I do believe—sincerely believe—that young Graham can, that he will, bring integrity back into our government. I want to see that happen. I believe that he is the best person on the political scene today to do that. I believe that he can win. He’s extremely intelligent, tough, energetic, handsome—he’s the future.”
“And you think that by reminding the public of just how good things were under the father, those good feelings will just flow over to the son.”
“That’s correct.”
“A bit manipulative on your part, wouldn’t you say?” Simon asked.
Norton chuckled. It was no less than he’d expected from his old student. “As I said, I believe that the time is ripe for someone to write this book. And someone will, sooner or later. I want that someone to be you, and I want it to be now.” He hesitated momentarily when the waiter appeared with the check, which he took. “Manipulation would be if we were to present a scoundrel as a saint. Everyone knows what kind of man Graham Senior was.”
“No dirt under the carpet, no skeletons in some long-hidden closet?”
“None. I’m not looking for a gossipy exposé. There is no gossip. The man’s accomplishments speak for themselves. You’ll talk to the family; you’ll talk to a few friends. . . .” Norton watched the younger man’s face.
“I don’t do puff pieces.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“What would the timetable be?”
“I’d like to see a rough draft in six months. I know it’s not a lot of time,” Norton added when Simon’s eyebrows rose, “but I will be able to provide you with all the secondary material you need. I’ll be sending you several boxes of old newspaper articles, interviews, film footage, magazine features that you can use as reference.”
“I’ll do my own research, my own interviews. If I do this, I’ll do it my way.”
“Of course you will. But I’ll provide some background material for you to look over, just the same. And I’ll make certain that the family is available to you whenever you need them.”
“You’ve already discussed this with them?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought they should know what I was planning on doing. It wasn’t a matter of asking permission, Simon. It was merely a courtesy.”
“As long as we’re not going for an authorized biography. I don’t want the family—or anyone else—to have final say over the manuscript.”
“It would be your book, Simon. Look, I realize this isn’t a deep investigative piece—the man’s life doesn’t need to be reinvented. But I do want something new on the market that can capture the attention of the people. Something that will get you—and the future candidate and possibly the former First Lady—on Good Morning America, Today, Larry King Live, the usual. Don’t overlook for a minute what that kind of exposure, those sorts of contacts, can do for your own book, once it’s published.”
“If it’s published,” Simon reminded him.
“I doubt that will be an issue, Simon.” Norton appeared to be giving great thought to something, though in truth he’d had this part already thought out. He held out the carrot. “What if we make this a two-book deal?”
“Two books,” Simon repeated as if he