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took pleasure in retelling them when they went for walks. Like the Greenwich Avenue intersection where the diner that had inspired Edward Hopper’s famous painting
Nighthawks
once stood, or the house where John Lennon had lived before moving to The Dakota. The West Village had played a role in nearly every American cultural revolution and was home to the country’s most famous cafés, cabarets and nightclubs.
    “I mean, Joan Baez got her start here,” Andrew told Valerie.
    “Who?”
    Andrew was indignant. How could someone not know who Joan Baez is? But when he turned he saw in Valerie’s face that she was teasing him. He smiled. “That’s reason enough to live here, right?”
    “Oh, sure,” said Valerie.
    One afternoon, he came home early from the office, emptied out his closets and transferred most of his belongings to a storage unit. That evening, he opened the wardrobe doors for Valerie and announced that there was no longer any hurry to find a new place; she now had all the space she needed to move in properly.
    In March, Andrew was commissioned by his editor to undertake a new investigation, in the same vein as the previous one. It was an important special report and he got to work immediately, thrilled at the prospect of going to Argentina.
    In early May, back from Buenos Aires and knowing he’d have to return there soon, Andrew couldn’t think of any other way of getting Valerie to forgive him for his travels than to announce to her when they were at an Italian restaurant one evening that he wanted to marry her.
    She stared at him suspiciously, then burst out laughing. Valerie’s laughter upset him. He looked at her, unsettled to realize that though he’d popped the question without really thinking about it, the idea of marrying her actually made him very happy.
    “You’re not serious, are you?” Valerie asked, wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes.
    “Why wouldn’t I be?”
    “Come on, Andrew. We’ve only been together a few months. Don’t you think that’s too soon to be making that sort of decision?”
    “We’ve been together for a year and we’ve known each other since we were teenagers. Don’t you think we’ve had plenty of time?”
    “With a short interlude of twenty years!”
    “I think the fact that we met in our teens, lost touch, then bumped into each other again by chance on a New York sidewalk is a sign.”
    “I thought you were a fact-obsessed, rational journalist. Since when do you believe in signs?”
    “Since I saw you.”
    Valerie looked him straight in the eye without saying a word, then smiled.
    “Ask me again.”
    Andrew stared at Valerie. She was no longer the rebellious girl he’d known twenty years earlier. The Valerie sitting opposite him at the dinner table had swapped her patched jeans for a flattering skirt, her sneakers painted with nail polish for patent high heels, the shapeless army jacket she used to practically live in for a cashmere V-neck sweater that hugged her beautiful breasts. She no longer overdid the eye makeup—a light dusting of eyeshadow and a touch of mascara was all she wore. Valerie Ramsay was by far the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, and he’d never felt this close to anyone.
    Andrew felt his palms turn clammy, which was a first for him. He pushed back his chair, walked around the table and knelt on one knee.
    “Valerie Ramsay, I don’t have a ring on me because my intention is as spontaneous as it is sincere, but if you would like to be my wife, we’ll go and choose one together this weekend, and I intend to do all I can to be the best husband ever so that you wear it your whole life through. Or let’s say my whole life through, in case you decide to remarry after I die.”
    “You can’t help adding a touch of black humor even when you’re asking me to marry you!”
    “I promise you that kneeling like this, with all these people watching me, the last thing I was trying to be was funny.”
    “Andrew,” Valerie