I covered my mouth.
Arthur looked away to give me some privacy.
I covered my mouth.
Then I read the last paragraph.
"I asked Arthur to keep this because Australia always felt like the place where my life became mine for the first time. Maybe it'll do the same for you. And if Arthur is still around, make him buy the coffee. He still owes me $12."
I laughed through my tears.
"Maybe it'll do the same for you."
Arthur looked at me.
"I wondered whether he mentioned that. Interest seems unreasonable after all these years."
That made me laugh harder.
I cried after that.
Not the way I'd cried at Robert's funeral.
This was different.
It felt like grief and relief sharing the same room.
I cried after that.
For over a decade, I'd carried a quiet guilt whenever I did something that would've been impossible if Robert were alive.
- Selling the house.
- Traveling alone.
- Enjoying myself.
Part of me had wondered whether moving forward meant leaving him behind.
And there he was, in his own handwriting, telling me to go.
I'd carried a quiet guilt.
***
Arthur and I sat talking until the coffee grew cold.
He told me stories about Robert that I'd never heard.
Robert falling asleep during a jazz concert, getting lost while insisting he knew exactly where he was, and trying to cook fish over a campfire before dropping it in the dirt.
"That sounds like him," I said, giggling.
He told me stories about Robert.
Arthur smiled.
"Your husband talked about you constantly near the end."
That surprised me. Then something dawned on me.
"You knew I existed before we met."
"Of course."
"Then, when we met at the bookstore..."
"I didn't know it was you."
That surprised me.
My married name wasn't unusual, and Arthur hadn't seen recent photos of me.
