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.”
“But he painted it after we were married.”
Arthur paused.
“He painted it again.”
That confused me.
Then he explained.
“He painted it again.”
Years after he painted the second version at home and it was destroyed, Robert created a third one from memory: the one hanging over Arthur’s fireplace.
It wasn’t the exact painting I’d lost. It was a copy.
That was why the details looked so familiar.
