Page 113 of Theo of Golden

Funny how this old hand, once so strong and capable and steady, begins to tremor in these dwindling years. It has covered ten thousand canvasses that stretch around the world. It has served me well. But never has its work been more impossible, and more important, than in writing these words of my affection for you.

I am forever thankful for these days, when a chalice light and broad filled my soul with a peace and joy I never dreamt possible.

I am a grateful old man.

A proud father.

Press on, dear boy.

Seek truth.

Make beauty.

Live well.

I love you, my son.

Till heaven,

Theo

Asher slumped, lowered the letter to his lap, rested his head on the back of the chair, and closed his eyes. He sat in the early evening dark as a convergence of grief, regret, confusion, and love ran through him. He had no idea how long he had been there when he finally picked up the second letter. He wiped his eyes to read.

Three pages of cream-colored stationery, thin with age and slightly faded, bore the small, precise handwriting of Asher’s mother.

My dear Zila,

I am hesitant to send this letter, fearful that it might prompt a reply, but I do so with confidence that you will favor its receipt with the tenderness that drew me to you when we first met.

I know that my departure was sudden, perhaps unkindly so, but I saw no other way to leave than to disappear as I did. I have often wondered if I did the right thing, and I will never know how I mustered the strength to board the flight from Madrid to Golden.

I arrived home confused, heartbroken, afraid, and desperate.

I felt that I had no choice but to marry as quickly as I could. He was — is — a dear friend, a very good and gracious man who had loved me since childhood. He was the closest thing I had to a boyfriend in high school, and he often teased me that he would marry me someday. We eloped shortly after I returned home.

I am still amazed that he took me in as he did, that he was willing to help hide my secret and even be the scapegoat for my scandal.

He married me knowing everything. Knowing that I was pregnant.

And that the little boy was yours.

The child is now six years old and gives every indication that he will be an artist. He brings such joy and is just beginning to write words.

For all these years, I have wanted you to know of him but did not know how or why I should tell you. I also feared what might happen if we communicated with each other. I still do. From all I read about you in the newspapers and magazines, you are making a lasting mark in the art world. And I have the simple joys of being a happy mother, a cared-for wife, and a blessed woman. It would be reckless beyond words, and pointless, to put either of our good fortunes in jeopardy, much less the hearts of the ones we love. And so I ask, indeed beg, that you not write or call.

Please, Zila, never. And forgive me that I have taken a liberty that I deny to you. As heartless as my request might seem, and as hard as it is to make, I trust you see the wisdom in it, especially after all these years.

I hope it will not trouble you to know that, even now, you are thought of often and fondly.

Be assured I will not trouble you again.

But also be assured that I will love the boy with the affection of two hearts.

I enclose, too, the Evening of Biscopo. I have not worn it since coming home but have sometimes looked at it, held it up to the light, traveled in my imagination where it took me. Please assume no bitterness on my part in its return. Your dear grandmother and mother would be heartsick to know that such beauty is being deprived the light of day in a far-away jewelry box. Surely there is, or will be, someone in your life who will wear it fittingly someday.

Every blessing in your well-deserved success. With it, I pray comes much happiness and peace.

Another piece of the cream-colored paper, bearing the large, irregular lettering of a child’s hand, followed.