Wendell stayed at the top of the ramp.
I stood beneath the photographs, still holding my purse against my side.
Neither of us moved.
I had imagined asking him a hundred questions about his house.
I had never imagined finding him speechless in his own garage.
He took the pencil from behind his ear and held it loosely in his hand.
Then he looked at the yellow paper again.
I followed his gaze.
For my Winnie.
The words seemed different now that he knew I had read them.
I wanted him to explain them.
I wanted him to tell me why they were there and why he had never mentioned them.
Most of all, I wanted him to look at me the way he usually did, with that quiet warmth that had made me feel safe around him.
Instead, he looked frightened.
Not angry.
Frightened.
That distinction mattered to me, although I couldn't have explained why at the time.
"Winona," he said again.
I swallowed.
"What is this, Wendell?"
He glanced at the photographs.
Then he looked down at his shirt, brushing at a patch of sawdust that wasn't going anywhere.
"I can explain."
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
I had heard those words from people who wanted to delay telling the truth.
I had probably used them myself.
"Then explain."
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
I waited.
I had waited months for him to let me understand the private part of his life.
Now I was standing in front of him, and he seemed unable to give me even the first sentence.
I looked back at the paper.
"Why did you write my name?"
His expression softened at that.
For the first time since he had appeared in the doorway, he seemed able to breathe.
"Because I wanted to."
That answer was so simple that I didn't know what to do with it.
I looked at the photographs again.
"You put these here for a reason."
"I did."
"And the date?"
He lowered his eyes.
"That too."
I felt a small, sharp disappointment.
He had confirmed that everything was deliberate without telling me what any of it meant.
I had spent too long living on half-answers.
I didn't want another one.
"Are you going to tell me why?"
He nodded slowly.
"Yes."
Then he stopped.
I could hear the radio behind me.
Some country singer was carrying on about a woman and a mistake, and the ordinary sound of it made the silence between Wendell and me seem even stranger.
I adjusted my purse on my shoulder.
I was suddenly aware of how uncomfortable I felt standing there, as though I had walked into a room where I wasn't supposed to be.
That was an old feeling by then.
I was tired of it.
"Did I do something wrong?"
His head came up immediately.
"No."
"Then why do I feel like I have?"
He set the pencil on a nearby workbench.
"You haven't done anything wrong, Winnie."
I wanted to believe him.
I also wanted more than reassurance.
I wanted the truth that was supposed to come after it.
He stepped down the ramp, stopping a few feet away from me.
I noticed the sawdust on his shirt again.
It seemed like such a normal thing, and I found myself wishing the moment could become normal too.
I wanted him to smile.
I wanted him to tell me I had misunderstood something.
I wanted to go home knowing that the questions I had carried for months were finally behind me.
But Wendell didn't smile.
He looked at the paper as if it held a promise he had made a long time ago.
"I didn't expect you to find it like this," he said.
"How did you expect me to find it?"
He rubbed his hands together.
"I don't know."
That answer sounded honest.
It was also frustrating.
I shook my head.
"I've been wondering about your house for a long time."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He looked at me.
I couldn't tell whether he understood the hurt behind that question.
"I know I've made it difficult."
I waited.
He looked toward the photographs once more.
"I never wanted you to feel shut out."
"But I did."
The words came out more quietly than I expected.
That made them harder to take back.
Wendell's face changed.
He looked older for a moment, not in the way age changes a person's features, but in the way regret can settle over somebody who has finally heard the damage caused by a decision.
"I'm sorry," he said.
I believed that he was sorry.
I still didn't know what he was sorry for.
The distinction mattered.
I stepped closer to the wall and pointed toward the yellow sheet.
"Is this about Christmas?"
He followed my finger.
"Partly."
"Partly?"
He gave a small, helpless nod.
I almost asked another question.
Then I stopped myself.
I had spent months trying to pull information out of him one careful question at a time.
I didn't want to spend the rest of our relationship doing that.
If he had something to tell me, he needed to tell me.
I looked at him.
"I'm not asking you to have a perfect house."
"I know."
"I don't care if you've got work everywhere or things you haven't finished."
"I know that too."
"Then I don't understand why you've kept me away."
He looked down at the floor.
For a few seconds, I thought he might retreat into silence again.
Instead, he took a breath.
"There are things I wanted to get right first."
I studied him.
"What things?"
He looked at the photographs.
"Things that matter to me."
I felt the old frustration rise in my chest.
He had done it again.
He had offered me a sentence that sounded meaningful without telling me what it meant.
But something in his voice stopped me from answering sharply.
He wasn't trying to make me feel foolish.
At least, I didn't think he was.
He looked like a man who had been carrying a heavy object for too long and had finally realized he couldn't set it down without somebody noticing.
I had seen that expression before.
Dwight had worn it during difficult conversations, when he wanted to say something important but didn't know how to begin.
The memory softened me.
It also reminded me that Wendell wasn't Dwight.
I couldn't rely on the habits of one man to explain another.
I had to let Wendell speak for himself.
"All right," I said.
He looked up.
"All right?"
"I'm listening."
For the first time, he seemed relieved.
But he didn't begin immediately.
He walked to the workbench and picked up a folded cloth, then set it down again without using it.
I watched him struggle to find his words.
I didn't help.
It wasn't punishment.
I simply needed to know whether he could cross the distance between us without making me do all the work.
Finally, he turned back toward me.
"There's something I want you to understand before I tell you anything else."
I waited.
He looked at the paper.
"I didn't put your name there by accident."
I felt my eyes sting again.
"I figured that much out."
A faint smile crossed his face.
It disappeared almost immediately.
"I mean it, Winnie."
"I know."
He took another breath.
"And December twenty-fourth matters."
I glanced at the date.
"Why?"
He looked at me for a long time.
Then he said, "Because I wanted that day to be different for you."
I didn't answer.
I wasn't sure I could.
There were so many things I wanted to ask that I couldn't decide which one mattered most.
Different how?
What had he planned?
Why hadn't he told me?
And why did the words on that wall make me feel as though I had been loved in secret while standing outside the door of the very person who loved me?
I looked at Wendell.
"Can you tell me the rest?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
This time, he didn't look away.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: I Had Mistaken His Silence for Rejection, but an Apology Alone Was Not Enough to Repair What It Had Done
I Thought the Hardest Thing About Losing My Husband Was Learning to Sleep Alone Until Another Man Made Me Question Everything
Part 5 of 20
