Frowning, Willy Meehan sat at the piano his wife, Alvirah, had bought him for his sixty-second birthday. With intense concentration, he attempted to read the notes in the John Thompson’s Book for Mature Beginners. Maybe it will be easier if I sing along, he thought. “Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee,” he began.

Willy has such a good voice, Alvirah thought, as she came into the room. “All Through the Night” is one of my favorite carols, she reflected, as she looked affectionately at her husband of more than forty years. In profile, his resemblance to the late Tip O’Neill, the legendary Speaker of the House of Representatives, was even more startling than when viewed full on, she decided. With his shock of white hair, his craggy features, his keen blue eyes and warm smile, Willy was often the recipient of startled glances of recognition, even though it was several years since O’Neill’s passing.

Now, to her loving eyes, he looked simply splendid in the dark blue suit he’d worn out of respect for Bessie Durkin Maher, whose wake they were about to attend. Alvirah had reluctantly switched from the size twelve navy suit she’d been planning to wear to a black dress that was a size larger. She and Willy had just returned the previous evening from their post-Thanksgiving cruise in the Caribbean, and the sumptuous food had dealt a mortal blow to her diet.

“Guardian angels God will send thee,” Willy sang as he played.

The dear Lord God sure did send his angels to us, Alvirah thought as-not wanting to disturb Willy-she tiptoed to the window to enjoy the breathtaking view of Central Park.

Only a little over two years ago Alvirah, then a cleaning woman, and Willy, a plumber, had been living in Jackson Heights in Queens, in the apartment they had rented long ago as newlyweds. She had been bone weary after a particularly hard day at Mrs. O’Keefe’s, who always felt that she didn’t get her money’s worth unless Alvirah moved every stick of furniture in the house when she vacuumed. Still, as they did every Wednesday and Saturday evening, they had paused to watch television when the lottery numbers were announced as the balls popped into place. They’d almost had a collective heart attack when one after another, their numbers, the ones they always played, came up.

And then we realized we’d won forty million dollars, Alvirah thought, still incredulous at their good luck.

We weren’t just lucky, though, we were blessed, she corrected herself, as she drank in the view. It was quarter of seven, and Central Park was softly beautiful with fresh snow that had left a shimmering white coverlet on the trees and fields. In the distance, festive Christmas lights illuminated the area surrounding the Tavern on the Green. The headlights of cars and taxis were a moving river of brightness as they wound their way along the curving roads. Anywhere else they would just look like traffic, she mused. The horse-drawn carriages, not visible to her now, but no doubt present in the park, always reminded her of the stories her mother told about growing up near Central Park in the early part of the century. Likewise the skaters waltzing on the Wollman Rink ice reminded her of evenings years ago when she had roller-skated to organ music at St. Raymond’s in the Bronx.

After winning the lottery, with its yearly income of two million dollars, minus taxes, she and Willy had moved to this luxurious apartment. Living on Central Park always had been one of her fantasies, and besides, the apartment was a good investment. However, they still kept their old rental apartment in Jackson Heights, just in case New York State went broke and quit paying them.

Truthfully, though, Alvirah had made good use of her newfound wealth, giving quite a lot to charity while managing to enjoy herself immensely. Plus she’d had some memorable experiences. She had gone to Cypress Point Spa in Pebble Beach and almost got murdered there because of her nose for news. The experience paid off when she became a contributing columnist for the New York Globe, and, as one thing always leads to another, with the aid of the recording device in her sunburst lapel pin, she had solved a number of crimes, gradually earning herself a reputation as a real sleuth, though still an amateur, to be sure.

Willy’s skills as a plumber were now utilized exclusively by his oldest sibling, Sister Cordelia, who tended to the poor and elderly on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She kept Willy busy repairing sinks and toilets and heating units in the tenements of her charges.

Before they left on the cruise, he had worked double time fixing up the second floor of the abandoned furniture store where Cordelia ran a clothing thrift shop. Called Home Base, it was also an unofficial after-school center for young children, from the first to the fifth grade, whose parents were working.

Yes, Alvirah had decided, having money was a fine thing, so long as one never forgot how to live without it, something she and Willy intended never to do. It’s nice that we can help out other people, she thought, but if we were to lose every dime of the money, we’d be happy as long as we’re together.

“All through the night,” Willy concluded with a decisive crescendo. “Ready to go, hon?” he asked as he pushed back the piano bench.

“All set,” Alvirah said as she turned to face him. “You sounded just great. You play with so much feeling. So many people just rush through these sweet songs.”

Willy smiled benevolently. While he heartily regretted the moment he had casually mentioned to Alvirah that he wished he had taken piano lessons as a child, he realized that he was beginning to derive intense satisfaction whenever he managed to play through a song without a single mistake.

“The reason I played so slowly was because I couldn’t read the notes any faster,” he joked. “Anyhow, we’d better get going.”

The funeral home was on Ninety-sixth Street, just off Riverside Drive. As their cab made its laborious way uptown, Alvirah reflected on her friends Bessie and Kate Durkin. She had known Bessie and Kate for many years. Kate had worked as a salesperson in Macy’s, and Bessie had been the live-in housekeeper for a retired judge and his ailing wife.

When the judge’s wife died, Bessie had handed in her resignation, saying she could not possibly stay under the same roof with the judge without the presence of another woman.

A week later, Judge Aloysius Maher had requested her hand in marriage, and so, after sixty years of maidenhood, Bessie promptly accepted the offer. Once married, she had settled in to make his large and handsome townhouse on the Upper West Side her own.

After over forty years of marriage, and a blessedly happy one at that, Willy and Alvirah had reached the point where they typically thought about the same subject even before they discussed it. “Bessie knew just what she was doing when she quit her job,” Willy commented, his words melding seamlessly with Alvirah’s own unspoken thought. “She knew if she didn’t grab the judge before other women got their hooks into him, she didn’t stand a chance. She always treated that house as if she owned it, and it would have killed her to be booted out of it.”

“True, she loved it all right,” Alvirah agreed. “And to be fair, she kept her part of the bargain. She was a marvelous housekeeper and could cook like an angel. The judge couldn’t get to the table fast enough. You have to admit she waited on him hand and foot.”

Willy had never been a fan of Bessie Durkin’s. “She knew what she was doing. The judge only lasted eight years. Then Bessie got the house and a pension, invited Kate to move in, and Kate’s waited on her hand and foot ever since.”

“Kate’s a saint,” Alvirah said in agreement, “but of course the house will be hers now that Bessie’s gone, and she’ll have an income. She should be able to manage just fine.”