“That is a very low standard.”
“I’ve known you long enough to know you prefer honesty.”
I laughed.
I stepped inside.
And then I stopped.
My purse slipped from my shoulder.
For several seconds, I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t hear the kettle boiling in the kitchen.
I couldn’t hear the clock behind me.
I couldn’t even hear Arthur asking whether I was all right.
All I could see was the painting above his fireplace.
A small cottage beside a lake.
Two pine trees leaning toward the water.
A crooked wooden dock extending into still, blue-gray water.
A patch of wild grass along the shore.
And in the bottom corner, almost hidden beneath the painted blades of grass, two tiny initials.
R.M.
Robert Mitchell.
My husband.
My dead husband.
My hands began to shake.
I knew that painting.
I knew every brushstroke.
I knew the tiny mistake Robert had made in the left corner where the dock disappeared into the water.
