Wendell pulled a chair away from the workbench.
He offered it to me without saying anything.
I sat down.
He remained standing for a moment, looking at the photographs as if he needed them to help him speak.
Then he took another chair and placed it across from mine.
The radio continued playing.
I could hear the faint hum of something running elsewhere in the garage.
Ordinary sounds.
They helped me settle myself.
I had been prepared for an argument when I discovered the photographs.
I had been prepared to hear that the message belonged to somebody else.
I had even prepared myself for the possibility that Wendell had been hiding a part of his life that would make me question whether I knew him at all.
I had not prepared myself for tenderness.
That was what unsettled me.
The words on the paper were not complicated.
They did not explain anything.
Yet they had made me feel something I hadn't felt since Dwight died.
I felt seen.
I felt remembered.
And I felt foolish for all the times I had wondered whether Wendell cared enough to let me into his world.
I wasn't ready to forgive him simply because I had found evidence of affection.
I knew better than that.
A person could care about you and still hurt you.
A person could mean well and still leave you feeling alone.
I had learned those things long before I met Wendell.
I needed him to understand them too.
He folded his hands between his knees.
"I should have talked to you about this earlier."
"Yes," I said.
He nodded.
There was no argument.
That surprised me.
I had expected him to explain why his behavior made sense from his side.
Instead, he accepted what I said.
"I thought I could get everything ready before I told you."
"Ready for what?"
He glanced toward the yellow paint.
"For something I wanted to do."
I studied him.
"You could have told me that."
"I could have."
"Even if you weren't finished."
He nodded again.
"Even then."
The simple agreement took some of the fight out of me.
I had been bracing myself to defend my right to ask questions.
I hadn't expected him to admit that I had a reason to ask them.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
I looked at the photographs.
I wanted to understand what they meant to him.
I wanted to know why he had chosen that particular place to keep them.
I also wanted to know whether the date had been written there long before I discovered it.
But I didn't ask all those questions at once.
I was learning, slowly, that getting an answer required more than collecting questions.
It required listening.
And Wendell, for all his silence, was trying to speak.
"I wasn't trying to keep you out forever," he said.
"How long were you planning to keep me out?"
He looked uncomfortable.
"Not forever."
I raised my eyebrows.
He gave a short, embarrassed laugh.
"That sounded better in my head."
Despite myself, I smiled.
It was the first time either of us had smiled since I turned around and found him standing at the top of the ramp.
The moment didn't fix anything.
But it reminded me that we were still two people who could speak honestly to each other.
I wanted more of that.
"I don't need you to impress me," I said.
"I know."
"I don't need a house that looks like a magazine."
He smiled faintly.
"Good. You wouldn't find one."
I laughed.
The sound surprised me.
It also made my eyes fill again, which was inconvenient.
I looked away and pretended to study the workbench.
Wendell didn't point it out.
That was one of the things I appreciated about him.
He didn't always know what to say, but he often knew when not to say anything.
"I was worried you'd see everything and think differently of me," he admitted.
I turned back toward him.
"Why would I?"
He shrugged.
"People have their ideas about how things should look."
"People aren't the ones living your life."
"No."
"And I'm not interested in judging you over a room that needs work."
He nodded.
I watched him carefully.
There was more he wasn't saying.
I could feel it in the way he kept glancing toward the wall.
But for the first time, I didn't feel that he was trying to make me forget my questions.
He seemed to be gathering the courage to answer them.
"I wanted you to see it when I was finished," he said.
"See what?"
He looked toward the ramp.
Then he looked at me.
"The place."
I waited.
He added, "The way I wanted it to be."
I let the words settle.
That explanation was still incomplete.
But it was the first one that sounded like a real answer.
I had assumed he was ashamed of his home.
Perhaps I had been wrong.
Perhaps he was worried that I would see something unfinished and misunderstand what it meant to him.
I could understand that.
I had things in my own house I wished were different.
There were repairs I had postponed.
There were boxes I hadn't opened since Dwight's death.
There were corners I avoided because looking at them made me remember the life I had lost.
A home could hold more than furniture.
Sometimes it held expectations.
Sometimes it held grief.
Sometimes it held plans that had never found their proper moment.
I looked at Wendell and wondered what his house held.
He seemed to read the question in my face.
"There's a lot I wanted to do," he said.
"You don't have to finish everything before I can visit."
"I know that now."
I believed he meant it.
I wasn't sure he fully understood it yet.
There is a difference between hearing what someone says and allowing yourself to believe it.
I had made that mistake too.
I had heard Wendell tell me that everything was fine, and I had accepted the words because I wanted them to be true.
Now I needed us both to do better.
I leaned back in the chair.
"I need you to tell me things, Wendell."
He looked at me.
"Even when they're uncomfortable."
He nodded.
"I'm not asking you to tell me every private thought you have."
"I understand."
"But if we're going to keep seeing each other, I can't be the only one taking a chance."
He lowered his head.
For a moment, I wondered whether I had gone too far.
Then he looked up again.
"You're right."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
It wasn't a grand declaration.
It wasn't a promise that every difficulty between us would disappear.
It was simply an acknowledgment.
Sometimes that is where a difficult conversation has to begin.
I looked again at the photographs.
The yellow paper had started to curl slightly at one corner.
I wanted to straighten it, but I kept my hands in my lap.
The message belonged to Wendell.
I didn't want to touch anything else until I understood what he wanted me to know.
"Can I ask you one more thing?"
"Anything."
"Why Winnie?"
He blinked.
Then he smiled, a real smile this time.
"Because that's what I call you."
I felt my cheeks warm.
"I know that."
"Then I'm not sure I understand the question."
I shook my head.
"I mean, why did you write it there? Why those words?"
His smile faded into something gentler.
He looked at the paper again.
"Because I wanted you to know it was meant for you."
The answer was simple.
It was also the first one that made the whole room feel quiet in a different way.
I didn't need him to explain what the name meant.
I knew.
What I needed to understand was why he had been so afraid to let me see it.
I looked at him.
"Next time, tell me before I have to find things out for myself."
He nodded.
"I will."
I didn't ask him to swear it.
I had learned that promises were only useful when the person making them understood what they were promising.
For now, I was willing to let his answer stand.
Wendell rose and switched off the radio.
The sudden silence felt strange.
He looked toward the photographs once more.
Then he turned back to me.
"There's something else I should tell you."
I sat a little straighter.
He seemed nervous again, but this time he didn't look as though he wanted to escape the conversation.
He looked as though he had finally decided to have it.
I waited.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The Date on the Yellow Paper Had Been Chosen for a Reason, and I Began to Understand Why Wendell Had Been So Careful
I Thought the Hardest Thing About Losing My Husband Was Learning to Sleep Alone Until Another Man Made Me Question Everything
Part 6 of 20
