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Dresses
I had traveled halfway around the world because, for once in my life, I wanted to do something entirely for myself.
I never expected an ordinary invitation for coffee to bring me face-to-face with something I thought I had lost more than twenty years earlier.
The moment I stepped into Arthur’s living room, I stopped.
My purse slipped from my shoulder.
For several seconds, I heard nothing.
Not the kettle in the kitchen.
Not the clock behind me.
All I could see was the painting above his fireplace.
A small cottage beside a lake.
Two pine trees leaning toward the water.
A crooked wooden dock.
And in the bottom corner, nearly hidden in the grass, the initials:
R.M.
My late husband’s initials.
I knew that painting.
I knew every line.
Every brushstroke.
I had watched Robert paint it.
