On the day of his birthday garden party, Andy and Ava drove to Westchester from Manhattan. Andy’s six-bedroom colonial in Bedford Manor, a quaint, leafy, old-money community 40-minute train ride north from Grand Central Terminal, was concealed from the unwanted gaze by five-foot tall hedges of thick, geometrically trimmed boxwood shrubs and a long, private gravel driveway that, after a hundred yards, wrapped in a perfect circle around an ornate, multi-layered fountain in front of the main entrance. Four limestone ionic columns supported a triangular awning above the heavy, custom-carved doors, with ivy crawling, in a cultivated pattern, over the mansion’s red brick walls up towards the second-floor windows. Countering the regal front yard symmetry, a wild pine and birch forest encircled the estate on all the other sides, extending uninterrupted, as Andy believed, all the way to Canada.