Two minutes later, my mother walked over to the front desk to ask about their late checkout, leaving my father and me alone at the small wrought-iron table on the open terrace.

The Hudson Valley wind carried the faint smell of diesel from the highway and damp oak leaves from the trees nearby.

My father reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a narrow black box wrapped in red felt.

“I wanted to give you this before the crowds show up tomorrow morning,” he said.

He slid the box across the round table until it rested against my paper napkin.

“Go ahead,” he said.