Wendell and I began talking more during the weeks that followed.
Not about anything extraordinary.
We discussed the people in our group, the weather, and the small annoyances that seemed more manageable when someone else understood them.
Sometimes he mentioned Ruth.
He never spoke badly of her, and he never pretended that losing her had been easy.
I respected that.
I had loved Dwight for nearly forty years, and I wasn't looking for someone to replace him.
I wasn't even sure I wanted another relationship.
But I missed the ordinary parts of marriage.
The sound of another person moving around the house.
The question of what we should have for supper.
Someone sitting beside me when a television program became ridiculous enough to laugh at.
Grief had taken my husband.
Loneliness had taken nearly everything else.
Wendell didn't try to fix either problem.
He just kept showing up.
One afternoon, he mentioned the porch light outside my house.
I had complained about it during one of our meetings, though I barely remembered saying anything about it.
"It still doesn't work?" he asked.
I looked toward the front window.
"No. Dwight meant to repair it before he died."
Wendell considered that for a moment.
"Would you mind if I took a look?"
I reminded him that the wiring might be the problem.
He smiled.
"I spent almost four decades working with electrical equipment. I think I can manage a porch light."
That Saturday, he arrived with a toolbox.
I offered him coffee.
He accepted, then went outside to inspect the fixture.
I watched through the window while he worked.
He checked the wiring, replaced the damaged components, and tested the connection before climbing down from his ladder.
A moment later, the porch was illuminated.
I stepped outside and looked up at it.
The light was ordinary.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing worth making a fuss about.
Yet I stood there longer than necessary.
For almost two years, that little corner of my house had remained dark.
Now it was bright again.
Wendell gathered his tools.
"Everything all right, Winnie?"
I turned toward him.
"Get off that ladder before you hurt yourself. I'm making you dinner."
He laughed.
That evening, I cooked chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and green beans.
It was the sort of meal Dwight had always enjoyed.
Wendell ate two helpings.
Afterward, I started clearing the table, but he took the plates from my hands and carried them to the sink.
I told him I could wash them.
He told me he knew.
Then he washed them anyway.
The following Sunday, he returned for supper.
After that, it became our habit.
I cooked.
He arrived.
We ate, talked, and sometimes watched television until the evening grew late.
There was nothing dramatic about it.
That was what made it feel so good.
I didn't have to dress up or pretend I was happier than I was.
If my knees hurt, I said so.
If I missed Dwight, I could talk about him without worrying that Wendell would feel threatened.
He listened.
Sometimes he asked questions.
More often, he remembered things I had mentioned weeks earlier.
I began to understand that his quietness wasn't indifference.
He was simply a man who preferred to listen before he spoke.
One Sunday evening, I was removing cornbread from the oven when my knees began hurting badly.
I reached for the counter and leaned against it.
Wendell noticed immediately.
"Are you having trouble standing?"
"I'm fine."
He gave me a look that suggested he had heard that answer before.
I sighed.
"My knees are acting up. That's all."
I tried to make a joke of it.
"After all those years at the hospital, I suppose I'll end up in a wheelchair like my mother."
He didn't laugh.
Instead, he asked me about her.
I told him that she had lived in our old farmhouse near Kaufman.
She had refused to leave it, even when moving somewhere more convenient would have made life easier.
"She was stubborn," I said. "Once she made up her mind, that was that."
Wendell smiled.
"Sounds like somebody I know."
I ignored the remark.
Then I told him about her kitchen.
When I was six, she had painted the walls a color called buttercup yellow.
The cabinets were white, and each door had a little glass knob.
I remembered sunlight spreading across that room in the mornings.
I remembered my mother standing by the stove, humming while she prepared breakfast.
It was one of the few childhood memories I could recall without sadness.
Wendell listened closely.
"The yellow was bright?" he asked.
"Not too bright. More like sunshine without the glare."
He nodded, as though he were trying to picture it.
I thought nothing more of the conversation.
Two weeks later, he asked me about the color again.
This time, he wanted to know whether the cabinets had been painted white or left in their natural wood finish.
I laughed.
"Wendell, why are you so interested in my mother's kitchen?"
He looked down at his plate.
"You always seem happy when you talk about it."
That answer surprised me.
I had spent so much time telling stories about Dwight that I hadn't realized how often I spoke about my childhood home.
Wendell seemed to notice the little details that made me feel better.
I should have taken that as a good sign.
Instead, another question began bothering me.
I had never been inside his house.
Not once.
We had been seeing each other for months, yet I knew his home only by the general description he had given me.
He lived outside Ferris, in a modest house with a pecan tree in the yard.
Whenever I asked to visit, he found a reason to postpone it.
"The place isn't ready for company, Winnie."
I told him I wasn't particular about housekeeping.
He said that wasn't the issue.
Another time, I suggested we have dinner at his place instead of mine.
He looked uncomfortable.
"Give me until Christmas."
I asked what he meant.
He only smiled and changed the subject.
At first, I accepted his explanation.
People who had lost their spouses often needed time to make changes.
I understood that better than most.
Still, I began noticing things I hadn't paid attention to before.
There was sawdust on his jeans.
Small splinters sometimes caught in the skin of his fingers.
On several occasions, I spotted pale yellow paint near his fingernails.
When I asked about it, he gave me the same vague answer.
"Just a few things I've been working on."
I wondered whether he was renovating his house.
That would have explained the mess.
But why couldn't he tell me?
I didn't ask directly again.
I was afraid that pushing too hard might drive him away.
Looking back, I can see how easily affection can make a person accept uncertainty.
I told myself I was being patient.
Sometimes, I was simply afraid of hearing an answer I didn't want.
One Sunday, Wendell arrived looking more exhausted than usual.
He barely finished his meal before settling into Dwight's old recliner.
Within minutes, he had fallen asleep.
I stood in the doorway and watched him.
For two years, nobody had occupied that chair.
I had treated it as though touching it would somehow erase the last place my husband had rested.
For a moment, I considered waking Wendell and asking him to move.
Then I noticed his hands resting loosely on the armrests.
He looked peaceful.
Tired, but peaceful.
I pulled a blanket from the cupboard and placed it over him.
Then I sat on the sofa.
The sight of someone sitting in Dwight's chair should have hurt.
Instead, I felt something loosen inside my chest.
I wasn't forgetting my husband.
I was beginning to understand that my life could contain a memory without being trapped inside it.
When Wendell woke, he apologized for falling asleep.
I told him he had nothing to apologize for.
He stayed a little longer that evening.
Before leaving, he asked whether my knees had improved.
I said they were manageable.
He looked at me as if he didn't entirely believe me.
Then he said goodnight.
I watched his truck disappear down the street.
For the first time, I wondered whether the secret he was keeping might have something to do with me.
I didn't know what that meant.
I only knew that the yellow paint, the sawdust, and his repeated questions about my mother's kitchen were beginning to form a pattern.
I just couldn't see the whole picture yet.
Source: kaylestore.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Son Suddenly Wanted Every Sunday With Me, and His Questions About Wendell Made Me Wonder Who Needed Protecting
I Thought My Son Was Protecting Me Until I Saw What a Man Was Building Behind the Garage Door
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