There was also a heavy leather journal and a cream envelope addressed to me in handwriting I knew as well as my own.

For twelve years, Arthur had written his shopping lists on the backs of old calendars: coffee, whole wheat bread, two apples, the good marmalade when it was on sale.

The writing on the envelope was unmistakable.

“Read that first,” Elise whispered.

My hands shook so badly that I tore the corner crookedly.

The letter began, Dear Julian.

Arthur told me he hoped I would forgive him for leaving me with a puzzle.

He described the first Sunday I had brought his groceries inside, the way I had noticed a framed photograph of his wife, Evelyn, and asked what kind of flowers she had loved.