Arthur showed me places tourists rarely visited.
We ate terrible sandwiches.
We listened to old records.
We argued about roses.
“They’re needy,” Arthur said.
“They’re flowers.”
“Exactly. Imagine being that demanding and not even paying rent.”
I laughed.
One afternoon, he drove me to the lake from Robert’s painting.
The cottage was gone.
The dock was gone.
But the lake remained.
We stood beside the water.
The wind moved through the trees.
I looked across the surface and imagined a much younger Robert standing there with paint on his hands.
“He loved this place,” Arthur said.
“I can see why.”
“You know what he told me?”
“What?”
“He said the lake was the first place he ever felt completely free.”
I looked at Arthur.
“Then maybe he left part of himself here.”
“Maybe.”
I smiled.
“But I think I found it.”
Arthur looked at me.
“Did you?”
I nodded.
“Not him.”
