So neither of us pretended grief had disappeared simply because time had passed.
We talked about our spouses.
Our children.
Regrets.
Loneliness.
One afternoon Arthur said,
“Nobody warns you that grief becomes quieter without actually leaving.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
After several weeks, he invited me to his home.
“I have an entire shelf of old records you’ll like. Come for coffee.”
I trusted him.
So I went.
That was when I saw the painting.
Arthur set the mugs down.
“Abigail, sit down.”
“No.”
I pointed toward the fireplace.
“Tell me where you got that.”
He looked at the painting.
“From Robert.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Robert sent it to me.”
“You knew my husband?”
Arthur nodded.
“I met him when we were young.”
He explained that Robert had spent almost a year in Australia before we met.
Arthur and Robert had worked together at a hotel outside Melbourne.
