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.
“Why would he send it to you?”
Arthur stood.
“There’s something I need to show you.”
He left the room.
It was a copy.
My heart was pounding.
When Arthur returned, he was carrying a wooden box.
He placed it on the coffee table.
Inside were letters, dozens of them.
Every envelope had one sender written across the front.
Robert.
My heart was pounding.
***
I picked up the first letter.
The return address was from our old
