“Stephan,” I say, “I saw the ring.” “Impossible.” My brother is speaking with all the confidence of a candidate who the Supreme Court has declared President of the United States. “You saw a ring that resembles the ring. The real deal is in my vault, or at least it was when I closed up yesterday.” “I saw a ring exactly like the one you showed me,” I insist. “Clementine’s mother flashed it as if she was mooning me. I was meant to see it.” I hear my voice rising with each phrase. I am nearly shrieking. “And her point is?” I know my brother is giving me only half of his attention. I am calling him on a Saturday morning when he and Daniel are at Liberty Farm, their house in Bucks County, ninety miles from New York City. I can picture him assembling a cassoulet atop his Aga in the kitchen with its wide-plank flooring and cabinetry from a two-hundred-year-old monastery.
