Hemingway had really enjoyed being able to write to her. As much as he'd got to know her over the short time they'd had together, he'd always found something so intimate about letter-writing. There was a definite tendency to share more in letters, perhaps it was the thought and time that went into them. The questions that came up, the thought out answers, having something physical to hang on to... he'd appreciated the gesture, and it had made him feel closer to her.
He'd needed the time and space to write again, and he'd known that she needed the time with her son, especially since he was poorly, but he had missed her like hell. The invitation to see her that weekend was gladly accepted, and he couldn't have said that he was nervous. Eager and excited, perhaps.
He was dressed in what was fairly casual to him, but probably smart for the more modern era, in dark dress trousers and a crisp, white shirt, but no tie this time. And he'd been "shopping" so to speak, and was carrying three paperbacks with him as he showed up, right on time. It was only when he was standing outside her door that he got a sudden burst of nervous energy, but he smiled to himself and knocked.