“Anyway, when Anna said it was gone, I knew immediately who’d taken it. I practically dove for the phone to call the police. Then she said, ‘Philip, stop.’ ‘It was your delivery boy,’ I said. ‘I know,’ she said, ‘I gave it to him.’ I couldn’t speak for a moment. ‘You what?’ ‘I like the painting, but not the way he does. And it seems to me, if somebody loves something so much, they should have it.’

“Well,” Philip continued, “I almost lost it right there. But I didn’t. Oh my God, I was angry, but I didn’t yell or scream. No, I did the smartest thing ever. I went for a walk. During the walk, I remembered a deeply held belief of my father’s—the successful person always tries to turn disappointment and adversity to his advantage. So that night, during what very well could have been our last dinner together, I gave her a note, which read: My love, you were right to give away the painting. And it’s true what you said. If somebody loves someone so much, they should have them. Will you marry me?”

It was eerie how, when he finished the story, the cars on the bridge finally began to move. It was as if the whole world had stopped for him. A great effect. Part of me wondered whether he’d hired a bunch of drivers to stop in unison around us. But in truth, the accident up ahead had been cleared.

As I think back, even though he told the story in a clumsy manner, it had a certain smoothness, as if it had been told too many times.

Hank was now speeding up FDR Drive. He cut across two lanes and barely made the Houston Street exit.

“Tell me your opinion of the house tour,” Philip said.

“Have you and Anna been asked?”

“Tell me your opinion.”

The house tour is an annual fund-raiser for the Brooklyn Heights Association. Five houses are chosen for uniqueness of architecture, quality of restoration, and interior design. A few thousand people from all over New York City and the surrounding suburbs come and tramp through these homes. It’s sweetly voyeuristic, and I found it fun my first years in the Heights, but it can leave a bitter aftertaste if you don’t have a comparable home. I told all this to Philip. “Basically,” I said, “if you want my opinion, I wouldn’t do it. Not your house. Keep it a mystery.”

“Well,” he said. “I’m glad Anna didn’t talk to you.”

“Oh, why?”

“They asked her. They’ve been after her to do it. And I told her she should. So she’s doing it. And it’s a good thing because Anna needs something to do.”

“In that case,” I said, “sure, great. Good.”