Arthur smiled.
“He talked about you constantly near the end.”
Then something occurred to me.
“You knew who I was when we met?”
“Not immediately.”
Arthur explained that he hadn’t seen a recent photograph of me.
Only after our second meeting, when I mentioned Robert and where we had lived, did he begin to suspect.
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“Imagine traveling alone in Australia and having some strange man say, ‘By the way, I knew your dead husband and I’ve been storing his letters for twelve years.’”
I smiled.
“That would have been memorable.”
“I thought coffee was safer.”
“So you invited me here because of the painting?”
“Partly.”
“Partly?”
For the first time, Arthur looked almost embarrassed.
“And partly because I wanted to spend more time with my best friend’s wife.”
He paused.
“The woman he loved with all his heart.”
