I stepped into the living room and froze.
A painting hung above the fireplace.
"Make yourself at home."
The painting was a cottage beside a lake with two pine trees leaning toward the water.
A crooked wooden dock was also featured. And in the bottom right corner, almost hidden in the grass, were the initials "R.M."
It was Robert's painting! The one I thought had been destroyed!
I knew every brushstroke. I'd watched him paint it.
My hands started shaking.
It was Robert's painting!
***
Arthur put the mugs down.
"Abigail, sit down."
"No."
My voice sounded sharper than intended.
"I need you to tell me where you got that."
He looked at the painting.
"From Robert."
I stared at him.
"Abigail, sit down."
"What did you say?"
"Robert sent it to me."
My first thought was that it was impossible. My second was worse.
"You knew my husband?"
Arthur nodded.
I felt the room shift.
"How?"
He sat slowly.
"You knew my husband?"
"I was 24. Robert would've been 22 or 23. He came to Australia for almost a year."
I knew my husband had traveled before we met. I knew he'd gone to Australia. But he'd rarely talked about it.
Arthur continued.
"We initially worked together for a few months at a hotel outside Melbourne. Terrible place. Terrible pay."
A small smile crossed his face.
He'd rarely talked about it.
"Robert was worse at carrying luggage than anyone I've ever seen."
That sounded exactly like him.
I finally sat.
Arthur told me they became friends quickly.
They traveled together on weekends, listened to records, played cards, and worked bad jobs.
That sounded exactly like him.
Robert painted whenever he could afford the supplies.
"That cottage," Arthur said, pointing toward the fireplace, "was based on a place we stayed near a lake. He painted the first version there."
