“Oh, Philip, it’s Tim Welch.” Is it true? Were you with your mistress? “It’s not really me calling. My boys have been asking about Sophie, so . . .”

Anna, in the background, faintly: “Who is it?”

Philip Ashworth didn’t cover the phone well. “Go back to bed. It’s nobody.” To me, he said, “Anna’s resting right now. I’ll let her know you called.”

“But I’m not calling. It’s the boys . . .”

The boys who are down the hall playing with their toys.

“The boys want to speak to Sophie . . .”

“She’s resting, too. We’re all trying to rest.”

“Of course . . .”

A second phone was picked up. When Anna spoke, she sounded fuzzy, foggy, as if underwater. “I got it, Philip. You can hang up.”

It took him a moment to hang up.

Anna sighed and said, “We need to talk.”

The study of history has taught me many important lessons, but none more important than to be prepared, since the unlikely will likely happen. Which was why three days later, as I crossed the Heights toward our agreed-upon meeting place, I went over numerous, various conversation scenarios in my mind. What should I say? How best to say it?

It depended, I decided, on which of the various Annas I might find.

Sad Anna would be met by Funny Tim.

Cold and Distant Anna might need to have the ice broken first. A witticism, perhaps, as in: “So what brings us to this part of Brooklyn?”

Angry Anna would require a Thick-Skinned Tim.

Distraught Anna might prefer Bright Side Tim or It Could Have Been Much Worse Tim.

Her choice of where to meet proved curious.

The Fulton Street Mall was a short walk from the Heights. Just head down Joralemon, cross Court Street, keep going past the courthouse, and enter the Fulton Street Mall, Brooklyn’s oldest and largest outdoor mall. It’s a kind of gateway to the Other Brooklyn. Real Brooklyn. Black Brooklyn. If this were the South, one would have just crossed the railroad tracks to the other side of town.

Kate and I shopped there every so often. Modell’s offered great deals on tennis shoes. The Toys “R” Us had closed, but they had a Macy’s. It just wasn’t Madison Avenue. And the elite, like Anna Brody, never set foot there, or so I thought until that day.

We need to talk, she had said. I didn’t care where. A talk was long overdue.

The deserted second level of the Arby’s was where I found them.

Anna and Sophie had already ordered.

I focused on Sophie first. She looked bigger since I’d last seen her. She’d lost a tooth. She wore an antique-white dress with large wooden buttons. The white of her bandage matched her dress. I sat down across from them and said, “Hey, Sophie.”