He smiled.
“Fair point. You look thirty-five.”
“Now I know you’re dishonest.”
He laughed.
We had coffee that afternoon.
Then again two days later.
Soon we were taking long walks, browsing bookstores, listening to jazz, and arguing about whether roses were overrated.
“They’re needy,” Arthur told me.
“They’re flowers.”
“Exactly. Imagine being that demanding and not even paying rent.”
I laughed more around Arthur than I had in years.
He had been married to his wife, Anne, for thirty-eight years before she died.
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?”
