But when Robert became ill, he found Arthur online through an old friend.
They started writing again.
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
Arthur looked at his hands.
“Because most of what he wrote was about you.”
That stopped me.
Robert became ill.
“Me?”
He nodded.
Arthur took out one envelope.
“He sent this with the painting.”
He handed it to me. The envelope was sealed.
My name was written
on it.
I recognized Robert’s handwriting immediately, but I couldn’t open it yet.
He handed it to me.
Instead, I asked, “Why do you have this?”
Arthur leaned back.
“Because Robert asked me to keep it.”
“Indefinitely?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Arthur gave me a sad smile.
“Why do you have this?”
“Because he hoped you’d visit Australia and go to that secondhand bookstore he told you about. I went there every day after I got Robert’s last letter, hoping to bump into you.”
I stared at him, mouth agape.
