They had traveled on weekends, played cards, listened to records, worked terrible jobs, and become close friends.
Robert painted whenever he could afford supplies.
Arthur pointed toward the cottage.
“That was based on a place we stayed near a lake.”
“But Robert painted that after we were married.”
“He painted it more than once.”
Then Arthur explained.
The original version had been created during Robert’s time in Australia.
Years later, he painted another version at home.
That was the one I remembered.
The one I believed had been destroyed.
Then much later, Robert painted it again from memory.
That third version was hanging above Arthur’s fireplace.
“Why would he send it to you?” I asked.
Arthur stood.
“There’s something else you need to see.”
He disappeared into another room.
When he returned, he was carrying a wooden box.
He placed it on the coffee table.
Inside were dozens of letters.
