“I love them. I mean, they are sort of depressing. But they’re so … human. Vulnerable.” I thought of the artists Philip Louis had been signing at the gallery the past few years. The post-modern, post-beauty, post-meaning types. Everything they did was ironic, arch. I had almost forgotten that painting could make you feel like this. That the right work brought you into it, then sent you back out into the world, ready to reinvest in the details of your surroundings. They were so different from so much of the work I was seeing in the city: These paintings were simpler, unafraid of approaching sentiment, of asking people to feel something. They didn’t give me the sense that I’d had when looking at a lot of contemporary stuff, like I wasn’t in on the joke. After everything with Matthew, I craved that kind of earnestness.

“No argument there. A little too human, if you ask me. I prefer landscapes and still lives, myself. Snowy woods and fruit arranged nicely in a bowl, all that, thank you very much. But you can come look at them some time, if you’d like. There’s more in the other bedroom.”

There was a signature on the bottom right corner of each canvas, but I couldn’t make it out, just the swoop of an S at the beginning of the last name. Most of them had dates, too, ranging from the eighties to the late nineties, but nothing since. “Have you ever showed them to anyone?”

“Other than you?”

“Like a professional? They’re really interesting, Mil. Someone might want to buy these. Maybe even a museum. Or the Atlantic City Historical Society?”

“Oh, I doubt that. He bought them for nothing, a few dollars each, I think. They don’t have any value. God, I wish this was one of those Antiques Roadshow situations. I’d get myself a nice little condo in Palm Beach in a second.” She turned and rustled through another garment bag. “Aha! Here’s what I was looking for.”

She held up a red gingham sundress with a halter neck. It looked, I thought, more like a tablecloth than something to wear.

“Take this. It will look adorable on you. Perfect for this time of year. Now all you need is some handsome boy to take you on a beach picnic.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the dress, the old cotton supple and soft. I didn’t bother to tell her that I was planning on staying away from handsome boys for a while. “It’s been really nice talking to you, Mil. I hope … Would it be okay if I came back later this week? I’d love to talk more, and maybe look at the paintings again.”

“I would love that,” she said.