Above the fireplace hung a painting.
It showed a cottage beside a lake, with two pine trees leaning toward the water.
There was also a crooked wooden dock. And in the bottom right corner, almost hidden among the grass, were the initials “R.M.”
It was Robert’s painting! The one I’d believed had been destroyed!
I recognized every brushstroke. I’d watched him paint it.
My hands started shaking.
Arthur set the mugs down.
“Abigail, sit down.”
“No.”
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
“I need you to tell me where you got that.”
He glanced at the painting.
“From Robert.”
I stared at him.
“What did you say?”
“Robert sent it to me.”
My first thought was that it was impossible. My second was even worse.
“You knew my husband?”
Arthur nodded.
I felt the room shift beneath me.
“How?”
He slowly sat down.
“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 visited Australia. But he’d almost never spoken about it.
Arthur continued.
“We initially worked together for a few months at a hotel outside Melbourne. Terrible place. Terrible pay.”
A faint smile crossed his face.
“Robert was worse at carrying luggage than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
That sounded exactly like him.
I finally sat down.
Arthur told me they’d quickly become friends.
They traveled together on weekends, listened to records, played cards, and took whatever bad jobs they could find.
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.”
“But he painted it after we were married.”
Arthur paused.
“He painted it again.”
