Bella’s observation sent me to Thelma’s final uncompleted canvas. As I recalled, the distant faceless shape that featured in her late work looked as simplified by winter in this painting as any of the trees in Third Mile Wood. The tree it stood beside was adorned with buds and foliage and blossoms – all the growth the seasons would engender – and now I saw the figure was more substantial than I remembered, as though some process separate from ordinary time had helped it take form. I was peering at the suggestion of a face when Roy said “Who do you think that’s meant to be, Bella?”

“Someone she needed there, I should think,” Bella said and turned to me. “Thank you for letting me read her journal.”

“Well, thank you for completing my collection.”

“And good to meet you.”

As she gave my hand a swift polite shake I saw Roy hoping for a handshake if not a hug, but apparently neither was to be had. I couldn’t help silently urging him not to let her go for good. If I tried to prevent this I would embarrass them both, but I was struggling against an impulse to nudge him or wink at him or even deliver a peremptory grimace when he spoke at last. “My dad’s got some of his aunt’s work almost nobody’s seen.”

“Which is that?”

“Just sketches of my unlovely mug.” I was instantly afraid that deprecating myself had spoiled Roy’s chance. “She made one every year for years,” I said.

“I expect you treasure them,” Bella said, adding only “See you then, Roy.”

This sounded like a farewell, not an undertaking to meet again. She was turning away, which was surely my opportunity to send Roy some mute encouragement, when he made a noise that dislodged a word trailed by several. “Shall we swap numbers?”

I saw Bella hesitate, and held my breath on his behalf. “Let’s,” she said.

I was surprised by how venerable an iPhone she took out of her bag until I recalled that the early models were still popular, even sought after. She rested a hand on Roy’s shoulder again while he copied her number into his contacts list, and typed his as he read it to her. The transaction was scarcely completed when she bagged her phone. “See you too probably, Patrick,” she said.

I watched Roy watch her graceful progress to the exit from the room. As she crossed the linoleum I thought she displayed an old-fashioned discreetness, silent except for the faintest woody tapping of her sandals. The glass door on its metal arm might have belonged to an altogether different era. The doorway framed her distant figure, and then she was a blur beyond the glass. “Thanks for bringing me, dad,” Roy said, and in case this was insufficiently enthusiastic “Thanks for making me come. It was worth the trip.”

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

A Return