The house comes with furniture. When we move our own stuff in, we throw out the previous owner’s belongings—except for the paintings. These paintings go into the garage and then return after a few weeks and many of them are hung where they hung before in the house. It was a deceased estate so it seems an invitation for ghosts. After a year we’ve forgotten what we had on the walls at our previous house. Our family is as it was before and we rarely look at the paintings. When we do, we’re glad we have them but it’s our home after all, not a gallery or a museum.

One day there’s a knock at the door and we’re surprised to see it is Frank Sinatra. There’s none of the stage presence one would expect. He’s not particularly big. His blue eyes aren’t striking. Lots of people have blue eyes. And his voice is a regular Jersey voice—though, of course, he’s speaking, not singing. Frank Sinatra explains that one of the paintings on our walls belongs to him and that it is worth millions. It’s an incredible stroke of luck until I remember that Frank Sinatra is not only a famous singer, he is also a ruthless man who has mob connections. When Frank Sinatra says something belongs to him it’s not easy to argue. He shakes his head and doesn’t speak when we show him the contract for the property and contents. He won’t enter our house. He continues to stand in the doorway looking at me and my family with an implacable determination to get what is his. It’s impossible to close the door on Frank Sinatra.