The following Thursday, Wendell asked if I wanted to come out to his house again.
He asked while we were drinking coffee at my kitchen table.
"I've made some progress," he said. "Thought you might like to see it."
I looked at him over my cup.
"Are you sure?"
He smiled.
"Winnie, I'm inviting you."
I laughed.
"Well, that makes a change."
He didn't look offended.
"I know."
I set my cup down.
"Then yes. I'd like to come."
We drove separately because I had errands to run afterward.
I followed him along the back roads, watching his truck ahead of me as the road narrowed and the houses grew farther apart.
When we arrived, the pecan tree cast a wide shadow across the yard.
The garage door was open again.
The radio was playing, but this time the sound didn't make me nervous.
It felt familiar.
Wendell waited for me near the entrance.
He had swept the floor and moved most of the tools away from the ramp.
A small pile of lumber remained beside the workbench.
"Watch your step," he said.
I looked at him.
"I was an ER nurse for thirty-four years. I know how to walk into a garage."
He laughed.
"Then I'll try not to worry."
I stepped onto the ramp.
It felt solid under my feet.
The rails were smooth, and the slope was gentle enough that I didn't have to grip them tightly.
I walked slowly toward the house.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I wanted to notice the work.
The ramp led directly to the entrance without an awkward turn.
The doorway had enough room to pass through comfortably.
Inside, the cream-colored walls looked brighter than they had during my first visit.
The paint had dried.
The unfinished patch near the hallway had been covered, and the floor was clean.
There were still a few things to finish, but the place was beginning to look like a home instead of a worksite.
I stopped in the living room.
"You've done all this yourself?"
"Most of it."
"That must have taken forever."
"Longer than I planned."
I looked at the window.
There was a small table beneath it, and on the table sat a yellow ceramic bowl.
I walked over to it.
The color was almost exactly the shade I'd described from my mother's kitchen.
I touched the rim with one finger.
"Wendell."
He stood behind me.
"Where did you get this?"
"Found it at a secondhand shop."
I turned toward him.
"Why?"
He looked embarrassed.
"I remembered what you said about your mama's kitchen."
I stared at the bowl.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
I had told him about that kitchen in passing.
I'd talked about the yellow walls, the old table, and the way Mama's house had seemed brighter than every other place I knew.
I hadn't expected him to remember.
I certainly hadn't expected him to find something that reminded him of it.
I picked up the bowl carefully.
It was heavier than it looked.
I set it back on the table.
"You really do listen."
He smiled.
"I try."
I turned toward the hallway.
"Can I see the rest?"
He showed me the bathroom first.
The grab bar beside the shower was firmly attached, and there was enough room to move around without squeezing past the sink.
He'd replaced the old light fixture and repaired a loose section of flooring.
Then he showed me the bedroom.
The furniture was simple.
A bed, a dresser, and two lamps.
Marjorie's photograph sat on the dresser.
I stopped beside it.
"She looks kind."
"She was."
He picked up the photograph.
"She could also be stubborn as a fence post."
I laughed.
"That sounds familiar."
He smiled at me.
"Does it?"
I gave him a look.
He set the photograph back down.
We stood quietly for a moment.
I knew that room belonged to a life he'd lived long before he met me.
I didn't feel threatened by it.
I felt grateful that he could speak about Marjorie without pretending she'd never existed.
I had loved Dwight.
I would always love him.
But loving him didn't mean I had to live the rest of my life as if no other person could matter.
That was something I'd been afraid to admit.
We went back to the kitchen.
Wendell made coffee, and I sat at the table while he finished cleaning a paintbrush.
I watched him rinse it in a small bucket.
There was a faint yellow mark near his thumb.
I smiled.
"You're never going to get that paint off, are you?"
He held up his hand.
"Some of it might be permanent."
"Then I suppose I'll have to get used to it."
He dried his hands and sat across from me.
For a while, we talked about ordinary things.
His retirement.
My years at the hospital.
The trouble of finding somebody who could repair a washing machine without charging enough to buy a new one.
Then he asked whether Zach was still upset.
I told him about our conversation at supper.
"He apologized," I said.
Wendell nodded.
"That's good."
"He still doesn't know what to make of you."
"I can't blame him for wanting you safe."
I looked at him.
"Neither can I."
He waited.
"But there's a difference between keeping me safe and deciding my life for me."
He nodded slowly.
"I suppose there is."
I reached for my cup.
"And I have to remember that you get to make your own decisions, too."
He smiled.
"That seems fair."
I looked around the kitchen.
The yellow bowl sat on the table beside the window.
The house was quiet except for the radio playing in the garage.
I thought about how I'd felt when I first drove up the gravel driveway.
I'd been so certain I was about to find proof that Wendell was deceiving me.
Instead, I'd found a man who had been working with his hands, remembering my stories, and trying to build something useful.
He hadn't handled everything perfectly.
Neither had I.
But there was no hidden wife.
No demand for money.
No evidence that he wanted Dwight's insurance.
There was simply a man who had been afraid of showing me something before he was ready.
And there was me, a woman who had let that silence become a frightening story in her head.
I finished my coffee.
Then I stood and carried my cup to the sink.
Wendell reached for it.
"I'll wash that."
"I can wash my own cup."
"I know."
He smiled.
"I was offering."
I handed it to him.
"Then I'll accept."
He washed the cup while I stood beside the counter.
When he finished, he walked me back toward the garage.
I stopped at the ramp and placed my hand on the rail.
The wood was smooth beneath my palm.
"I want to thank you," I said.
He looked puzzled.
"For what?"
"For remembering."
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "You told me something important. I didn't think I should forget it."
I looked down at the ramp.
I had spent so much time wondering why he wouldn't let me see his house that I'd never considered what he might be trying to finish before he invited me inside.
Now I understood.
Not every secret was a betrayal.
Sometimes a person was simply trying to get something right.
I walked down the ramp and back into the sunshine.
The pecan tree rustled overhead.
Wendell followed me to the car.
Before I opened the door, I turned toward him.
"Sunday supper is still at five."
He smiled.
"I wouldn't miss it."
I drove home feeling lighter than I had in weeks.
The house in Seagoville was waiting for me, with Dwight's recliner beside the window and the kitchen clock running three minutes slow.
But it no longer felt like the only place where my life could happen.
And for the first time in a long while, I was looking forward to Sunday.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: Sunday Supper Started Feeling Like Mine Again, Until I Realized My Children Were Still Waiting for Me to Make a Choice
My Husband Had Been Gone Two Years, but the First Man Who Made Me Feel Alive Again Had Something He Wouldn’t Explain
Part 8 of 24
