Page 109 of Theo of Golden

Some days later, Asher received a call from Mr. Ponder, a call that, he supposed at first, was one of condolence. A number of others had already called to check on him and to extend sympathies. But when Mr. Ponder asked that Asher come to his office about “some matters concerning Theo,” he was understandably curious.

“If you’d like, I can come right now, Mr. Ponder. I’m having a hard time getting any work done today anyway.”

Mrs. Gidley was waiting when Asher arrived. She led him upstairs.

On any other occasion, Asher would have been interested in the trappings of the office, as Theo had been when he was there for the first time, but not now.

Asher wanted to hear what Mr. Ponder had to say, and perhaps to unburden his own heart a bit.

The two men exchanged greetings.

“Please Asher, have a seat.” Mr. Ponder nodded to the table. “This is exactly where Theo and I sat when we first met a year ago.” He recounted that meeting in detail.

“Asher, for the past year, I’ve known exactly who he was. I have been his confidant and advisor… and friend.” He hesitated. “Theo and I spoke every week, usually several times. Your portraits, as you might imagine, have kept me and Mrs. Gidley quite busy this past year, but we’ve enjoyed being part of the endeavor. Theo was a great fan of you and your work. Very much so. More, I’m sure, than you know.

“When Theo returned to Golden after Christmas, he gave me some items to hold in trust for you. He had met with his lawyers while he was in New York and had made some important decisions that involve you and some of the properties he used to mention. We can discuss all of that later, but for now he instructed me to deliver these papers to you after his death. I don’t think he expected it would be so soon — none of us did, of course — but at eighty-seven, he was thinking ahead.”

Asher remained silent.

Mr. Ponder rose and stepped to his desk. He picked up a large envelope and a small box, returned to the table, and placed the items in front of Asher, then sat.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Mr. Ponder asked.

“Sure.” Asher looked at the envelope and the box, hesitant to touch them.

“Here’s the key to Theo’s apartment.” Mr. Ponder pushed the small object across the table. “Why don’t you go there to open these? You’ll probably want a quiet place. No one will bother you. And stay as long as you’d like. You can return the key tomorrow.”

It was late afternoon when Asher climbed the stairs to the apartment. On the walk there, he called Brooke to tell her about his meeting with Mr. Ponder and to let her know he might be late coming home.

Before entering the apartment, he turned, as Theo had often done, to look at the river. The tender greens of oak and ash bud, the reds of maple, the occasional whites of dogwood, and the golds of forsythia on the far side of the Oxbow would have pleased the old man.

Springtime. An end with a future.

Asher noticed a small bit of light blue eggshell at his feet. It seemed an absurd thing to do at the moment, but he picked it up, placed it like a small hat on the little finger of his right hand, took the jeweler’s loupe from his pocket, and studied the shell’s speckled surface.

Doing so was an acknowledgment, a tribute, to Theo’s gift of sight. A eulogy. It was a gesture to invoke Theo’s presence, maybe even a prayer that, in the next minutes or hours, Asher would be able to see clearly whatever it was he was supposed to see.

He opened the door, stepped inside, and let the uneasy silence have its way with him for a few seconds before walking to the front room. Theo’s absence was a weight on Asher’s chest.

The lamp beside the reading chair was on. A vase of freshly cut flowers, light blue hydrangea, and a glass of water — the thoughtful gestures of Mrs. Gidley — were on the small table beside the chair. Three books were also there, presumably ones that Theo was in the process of reading when he died. There were bookmarks in each of them.

What were the last words his old eyes read? Asher wondered.

Most prominently, an easel had been set up a short reach in front of the chair, at a spot where slanted rays of sun entered the room through the skylight at that hour of the day.

A blue cloth draped the easel. Asher lifted it gently.

For the next few minutes, he let the painting have way with his thoughts. It was a…

Work of art.

Witness to friendship.

Window to a soul.

He had wondered sometimes how it might feel to be the recipient of a portrait. The beneficiary of a bestowal.

Now he knew.