The first time I missed a prestigious gala to attend Penelope’s small photography opening, a colleague joked that I was becoming sentimental.

I told him I was becoming available.

He laughed, then asked whether it was bad for business.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“But I have been making too many decisions based on that question.”

One evening, alone in the house where Cordelia and I had hosted hundreds of dinners, I looked around at polished furniture and elaborate art.

I could remember the prices of most pieces but not the last genuine conversation I’d had in the room.

The realization did not make the objects evil.