called Arthur “buddy,” a word he couldn’t stand.
The manuscript continued through school dances, disagreements, vacations, her first apartment, and even her wedding. My laughter faded into bewilderment. How long had Arthur been writing these scenes? Why had he never shown me?
I carried the pages upstairs to his desk near our bedroom window. Since his death, I’d hardly touched it.
“All right, mister. Let’s see what else you’ve been keeping.”
The upper drawer contained old batteries. In another were three notebooks, including one covering twelve years of notes: Maisie
