Australia was my fourth stop.
That was where I met Arthur.
He was seventy-one, widowed, gentle, and possessed the kind of dry humor that took a second before it made you laugh.
We met in a secondhand bookstore in Melbourne.
We both reached for the same detective novel.
He looked at my hand resting over his.
“I suppose at our age, fighting over it would be undignified.”
“At our age?”
He smiled.
“Fair point. You look thirty-five.”
“Now I know you’re dishonest.”
He laughed.
We had coffee that afternoon.
Then again two days later.
Soon we were taking long walks, browsing bookstores, listening to jazz, and arguing about whether roses were overrated.
“They’re needy,” Arthur told me.
“They’re flowers.”
“Exactly. Imagine being that demanding and not even paying rent.”
I laughed more around Arthur than I had in years.
He had been married to his wife, Anne, for thirty-eight years before she died.
So neither of us pretended grief had disappeared simply because time had passed.
We talked about our spouses.
Our children.
Regrets.
Loneliness.
One afternoon Arthur said,
“Nobody warns you that grief becomes quieter without actually leaving.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
After several weeks, he invited me to his home.
“I have an entire shelf of old records you’ll like. Come for coffee.”
I trusted him.
So I went.
That was when I saw the painting.
Arthur set the mugs down.
“Abigail, sit down.”
“No.”
I pointed toward the fireplace.
“Tell me where you got that.”
He looked at the painting.
“From Robert.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Robert sent it to me.”
“You knew my husband?”
Arthur nodded.
“I met him when we were young.”
He explained that Robert had spent almost a year in Australia before we met.
Arthur and Robert had worked together at a hotel outside Melbourne.
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