“Would you send me one more picture?”
“Arthur, at this rate you’ll have enough photographs to open a museum!”
“Just your face, darling. No makeup.”
“Why are you so interested?”
“Because I love your natural beauty.”
I wanted to trust him, so Isent it. That night, however, it struck me that he’d never asked to see my garden or house. His interest in photographs was entirely confined to my face. I remembered how carefully he had framed me near the rosebush, and how each later request had narrowed to an image without makeup. I told myself that I was overthinking a kind man’s attention, although the doubt remained.
His home contained old bookcases and pictures of a woman I took to be his deceased wife. Arthur welcomed me with pink roses.
“For the lady who grows better ones.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
He smiled and examined my face long enough to revive my self-conscious gesture.
“Come in, Holly.”
