Abi was enraptured by this place. It wasn't 100% Hemingway but he lived here, he wrote here... that was more than she'd ever dreamt about being. She looked around at the photographs on his walls and on the desk; they were one of the few more personal touches and through them, she could see how important he was to people's lives. His family doted on him as a patriarch, his friends were his sounding board. There was a whole lifetime of connections here, moreso than she'd had. It made her long for her grandmother suddenly as she looked at one of Hemingway and his little sister, ever the devoted brother, father, friend...
He had been so entrenched in people's lives, she thought for a fleeting moment about what connections she had made in Boston. Had there even been a best friend? She'd had friends, sure, but didn't have many pictures. All her albums were of her grandmother and of Charlie with some holiday snaps in between.