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.
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.
Every envelope carried the same sender.
Robert.
My hands began trembling.
“How long were you writing to each other?”
“On and off for decades.”
“Robert never told me.”
Arthur watched my face.
“He wasn’t hiding an affair, Abigail.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You thought it.”
I almost laughed.
He was right.
Arthur explained that after Robert returned to America, they stayed in touch occasionally.
Then life became busy.
Marriage.
Children.
Work.
Sometimes years passed between letters.
But when Robert became ill, he found Arthur again through an old friend.
Their correspondence became regular.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
Arthur looked down at his hands.
