At eighty-five, Margaret was no longer young by any standard. The spirit was willing, but the body was sometimes troubled by the three flights of steps up to the apartment. It was a hassle and could be tiring, but it was also rent-free and in the middle of Madrid. After fifty years, Margaret and her things had become ingrained there.

The apartment had been the stage for most of her second life. She and Elmer began as ordinary Southerners, but were quickly disowned when their differences became noticeable to everyone. Margaret’s gift for painting allowed them to eat once they fled.

Spain had been good enough for Hemingway, and so it was for them. A chance meeting led to the opportunity to paint a portrait of the Generalissimo, one that he liked very much. It became an official state portrait, and the apartment was thanks.

Franco was still dead. Hemingway made the places he never visited almost as famous as the ones he did. And she and Elmer were ready to fade into the walls as part of history.