Australia was my fourth stop.
By then I had learned how to travel with less.
One suitcase.
One small carry-on.
Comfortable shoes.
A notebook.
A collection of photographs I had taken along the way.
I had also learned that strangers were often kinder when you weren't expecting anything from them.
I was in Melbourne when I found the bookstore.
It was narrow and slightly crooked, with old wooden shelves that reached nearly to the ceiling. A bell above the door made a tired sound whenever someone entered.
I went there because it was raining.
I stayed because of a mystery novel.
My fingers reached for the same book as a man's.
We both stopped.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
Then he smiled.
“I suppose one of us should surrender.”
“I was here first.”
“You're certain?”
“Absolutely.”
He studied me with mock seriousness.
“Then I suppose I'll have to find another book.”
He was about my age, perhaps a little older, with silver hair and the kind of face that seemed permanently softened by laughter.
His name was Arthur.
We talked for ten minutes.
Then twenty.
Eventually the bookstore owner cleared his throat from behind the counter.
We realized we were blocking the shelf.
Arthur stepped aside.
“Coffee?”
I hesitated.
It had been a long time since I had accepted an invitation from a stranger without wondering what he needed from me.
Maybe that was another thing I was learning.
“Coffee sounds good.”
We walked to a small café around the corner.
Arthur asked where I was from.
I told him Ohio.
He asked whether I was traveling alone.
“Yes.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“By choice?”
“Yes.”
That made him laugh.
“Good answer.”
I told him I had sold my house and started traveling after my sixty-ninth birthday.
He stared at me.
“You really did that?”
“I really did.”
“What did your family think?”
“They thought I had lost my mind.”
Arthur smiled.
“Perhaps they were worried you'd found it.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
We talked about books, old movies, music, gardening.
Then he mentioned jazz.
I told him Robert had loved jazz.
Arthur stopped stirring his coffee.
“What was your husband's name?”
“Robert.”
The spoon remained motionless in his hand.
“Robert what?”
I told him.
He looked at me for several seconds.
Then he leaned back.
“Where did he grow up?”
I answered.
“Did he ever live in Australia?”
I felt something shift inside me.
“Yes.”
Arthur's expression changed.
“Did he work near Melbourne?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
I gave him the approximate years.
He looked toward the window.
“That's impossible.”
“What is?”
He shook his head slowly.
“I knew a Robert who worked there during that period.”
My pulse quickened.
“What was his last name?”
He told me.
It was Robert.
My Robert.
I stared at him.
Arthur lowered his voice.
“That was your husband?”
“Yes.”
He sat back.
“I don't believe this.”
“Neither do I.”
He laughed softly, but there was emotion underneath it.
“He was my best friend.”
The rain continued tapping against the glass.
I suddenly felt as though I had stepped into a room that existed somewhere outside ordinary time.
Arthur told me they had worked together at a hotel near Melbourne.
Neither had much money.
They took whatever shifts they could get.
On weekends they explored the countryside.
They played cards.
They listened to records.
And Robert painted.
“Painted?” I repeated.
Arthur nodded.
“He always carried a sketchbook.”
I frowned.
Robert had never told me that.
“He painted?”
“All the time.”
I smiled uneasily.
“He told me he couldn't draw.”
Arthur laughed.
“That sounds exactly like him.”
He told me Robert had painted landscapes, buildings, people, and occasionally small domestic scenes.
I remembered the locked storage cabinet in our old garage.
The weekend trips Robert had taken.
The smell of varnish on his clothes.
I had always assumed he was repairing furniture.
“He said he was going fishing,” I murmured.
Arthur looked at me.
“Sometimes he probably was.”
“But sometimes?”
Arthur's smile disappeared.
“Sometimes he painted.”
A silence settled between us.
I thought about all the years I had known my husband.
How could someone live beside you for forty-one years and still keep an entire world hidden?
Arthur must have seen the question on my face.
“He wasn't hiding it from you because he didn't love you,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Because he talked about you.”
I looked down.
“What did he say?”
Arthur told me Robert spoke about me constantly.
Not in grand speeches.
Small things.
The way I took my tea.
The fact that I hated wet socks.
The way I hummed while cooking.
The way I sat at the edge of the bed when I was worried.
I smiled despite myself.
“He remembered those things?”
“He remembered everything.”
Arthur hesitated.
“There was something else.”
“What?”
“He painted you.”
My smile disappeared.
“What?”
“You.”
Arthur reached for his phone.
“I have something you should see.”
He showed me a photograph.
A painting hung above a fireplace.
At first I didn't understand what I was looking at.
Then I saw the kitchen window.
The pear tree outside.
The woman in the yellow cardigan.
My hands began trembling.
“That isn't possible.”
Arthur watched me carefully.
“It is.”
“I know that room.”
He nodded.
“It was your house.”
The rain outside seemed suddenly louder.
I stared at the photograph.
Robert had painted me standing at the kitchen window.
I remembered that cardigan.
I remembered the exact morning.
It had been winter.
The children were still young.
I had been making coffee before taking one of them to school.
I had never known Robert was watching.
“Where is it?”
Arthur looked uncomfortable.
“At my house.”
I lifted my eyes.
“You have it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Robert gave it to me.”
The café seemed too small.
My thoughts moved faster than I could arrange them.
Arthur finished his coffee.
Then he said something that made my stomach tighten.
“There are other paintings.”
“How many?”
He didn't answer immediately.
“Enough.”
He invited me to his home the following afternoon.
I agreed.
That night I barely slept.
I kept seeing the woman in the yellow cardigan.
I wondered how many moments Robert had quietly preserved.
And more importantly, why.
The next afternoon, Arthur picked me up.
His home was warm and modest.
Photographs lined the hallway.
There were shelves of records.
Plants filled the windows.
He made coffee while I stood near the fireplace.
Then he returned with two cups.
I didn't hear him enter.
I was staring at the painting.
The woman in it was me.
But the strangest thing wasn't seeing my own face.
It was realizing that Robert had seen me in a way I had never known.
Arthur placed the coffee down.
“You understand now?”
I nodded.
“No,” I whispered.
“I don't understand anything.”
Arthur looked toward the painting.
“Then perhaps it's time you saw the rest.”
He opened a door at the end of the hallway.
Behind it was a small room.
Paintings covered the walls.
And every one of them contained a piece of my life.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: Behind the Closed Door Were Years of My Life I Never Knew My Husband Had Been Watching
The Morning I Realized Every Square Foot of My Life Belonged to Someone Else
Part 2 of 20
