The night is cool and a little damp, but I did go with one of my more low-cut dresses and heeled boots. Mostly because I knew Rufus and Meg would have been aghast if I’d shown up in what I really wanted to wear, a very comfortable tan thrift store turtleneck.

“You know,” BD says with a wink, “sex with a stranger is a double mitzvah on Shabbat!”

“I’m not sure the ‘stranger’ part is actually in the Torah,” I say. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“You can always ask me about sex toys—”

“No, BD . . . my middle name—I know it’s a city in Holland, but we’re not Dutch. You and Grandpa were both born in Poland.”

“Before the war,” she says, “your grandfather lived in the Netherlands. He was born in Drenthe. Your mother must have told you that?”

“Maybe,” I say, but when it comes to conversations with my mother, too much predates my memory. And I remember as a child that BD seemed so pained, so un-BD when she talked about what she’d left in Europe, that eventually, I stopped asking. I’m glad my grandfather lives on in my middle name. “So, Mom’s tulip garden . . .”

“An homage,” BD says, with a flourish of her hand. “She grew up gardening with your grandfather.” BD looks away from the camera. She’s in her kitchen, making popcorn, which she burns at each attempt. Her voice changes, and I wish I were there with her instead of having this conversation on the phone. “He lost all his family in the war. He never went back to Drenthe, but he wrote about it.”

“In his poetry? Do you still have it? Can I read it?”

“Elaine,” she says, “I’m going to ship you the biggest sack of poems you’ve ever seen.”

“Thanks, BD. I’d love that.”

“What about our other project?” She drops her voice to a whisper. “The Noa Callaway situation. Any breakthroughs?”

BD quirks her brow and I realize that I’m smiling. I try to wipe my expression clean, but it’s BD, and she knows my feelings anyway.

“Check back with me tomorrow,” I say. “I’m taking him to the Cloisters for inspiration. I probably shouldn’t tempt fate by saying this, but I have a good feeling about it.”

I glance out the window as my Lyft driver slows to a stop. We’ve arrived in front of a crowded bar at the corner of Houston and Suffolk. Through the windows, I see high ceilings, dim chandelier light . . . and Meg on top of the bar, taking a shot with one fist in the air.

“BD,” I say, “I’ve got to go walk in to a real hot mess now.”

“Have a wonderful time, dear.” She air-kisses the camera. “And don’t be afraid to lead with your bosom!”