She handed him a rectangular package wrapped in plain paper. It looked like a book, but felt too light. He opened it carefully. Then stared, amazed.

It was a drawing by Robert Motherwell.

“I thought it might go over there,” she said, and pointed to a space on the living-room wall. “If you like it, that is,” she added.

“Like it?” He was still staring at the drawing, almost unable to speak. It was a simple abstract, black on white, which reminded him of a piece of Chinese calligraphy. And so beautiful.

“Don’t move,” she said, and taking the drawing from him, she went over to the place on the wall she had indicated, and held the drawing up there. “What do you think?”

It was more than perfect. It transformed the entire room.

“You’re a genius,” he said.

“Really?”

She looked so pleased.

What had it cost her? He didn’t like to think. No doubt Betty Parsons would have given her terms, let her buy it over time. But Sarah, on her modest salary, would probably be paying for this drawing for months if not years.

And she was prepared to do this for him? He was both astonished and moved.

For days after that, he wondered what he could possibly give her in return. What would be appropriate? It had to be something that would give her pleasure. But more than that. An expensive coat or a piece of jewelry, something she couldn’t normally afford, might give her pleasure, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to find a present that showed he had gone to particular trouble. Something of significance. Something of emotional value. He racked his brains for what it could be.

And then, at last, the idea came to him.

It was a Sunday, on a clear, crisp day, just before noon, when he arrived at her apartment. She’d been out to see her parents in Brooklyn, but come back that morning to spend the day with him. He took the present carefully out of the taxi. It was awkward to carry, and he had to proceed slowly up the stairs to her door.

Inside, he laid his parcel down on the floor of her living room.

“For you,” he said with a smile. “From me.”

“Whatever can this be?” The package was certainly strange, about four inches wide and six feet long. It took her a minute or two to get the wrapping off.

“It’s a little awkward,” he said. But she was managing fine.

“Oh, Charlie.” She was staring open-mouthed. “You can’t give me this.”

“I can.”

“But this is an heirloom, Charlie. You have to give this to Gorham, for your children’s children. It belongs in your family.”

“He isn’t expecting it. He doesn’t even know about it. I think you’d appreciate it more than anyone I know. The framers did a good job, don’t you think?”