The plane had been in the air less than an hour when I took Arthur’s photograph from my bag again.
Robert stood beside him outside the old hotel, both of them painfully young, their shirts wrinkled and their expressions careless in the way only young people can manage. Arthur had written his message on the back in neat blue ink. I read it once more, then slid the photograph inside Robert’s letter for safekeeping.
I should have felt settled. I had confronted my children. I had stood beside the lake Robert had painted. I had discovered that the husband I thought I understood had preserved an entire chapter of himself in Australia. Most importantly, I had made a decision that belonged only to me: I would continue traveling.
Yet one detail refused to stay behind.
The woman’s name.
I had copied it into the little notebook I carried everywhere, directly beneath the address of the old hotel. I had done it almost without thinking. Now, somewhere over the ocean, I opened the notebook and stared at those letters again.
Eleanor Vale.
Arthur had remembered her as an artist who had once tried to buy Robert’s painting. That explanation was perfectly reasonable. She might have been nothing more than a passing acquaintance.
But Robert had written her name on a piece of paper hidden behind a painting twenty-five years later.
People did not usually preserve meaningless names for decades.
I closed the notebook.
“No,” I whispered.
The woman beside me glanced over.
“Sorry,” I said. “Talking to myself.”
She smiled politely and returned to her movie.
I put the notebook away.
Robert had been dead twelve years. Whatever Eleanor Vale had meant to him could not change our marriage. It could not erase our children, our arguments, the mornings we drank coffee together, or the night I held his hand while his breathing became quieter and quieter.
Still, uncertainty has a way of occupying exactly the space you refuse to give it.
My next destination was New Zealand.
I had booked five nights in Auckland, followed by a train journey and several days farther south. Before Australia, I would have treated the itinerary like an obligation. If the ticket said Tuesday, I traveled Tuesday. If the hotel was paid through Friday, I stayed through Friday.
Robert’s letter had changed that.
On my second morning, I canceled two reservations and booked a small coastal guesthouse because another traveler told me the view was beautiful.
It was.
I spent an afternoon sitting beside a window watching rain move across the harbor. Nobody needed me. Nobody knew where I was except my children and Arthur.
The silence no longer frightened me.
Arthur and I exchanged messages almost every day.
His were rarely sentimental.
Saw a woman arguing with a parking meter. You would have supported the meter.
Another arrived the following morning.
Your detective novel has been reshelved. I consider this an act of betrayal.
I replied:
Maybe the book finally found someone who reads the boring parts.
His answer came almost immediately.
Unlikely.
I laughed aloud in the guesthouse dining room.
A younger couple looked at me.
For once, I didn't care.
Karen called two days later.
Her voice sounded different from our previous conversations. Less defensive. More cautious.
“Where are you now?”
“New Zealand.”
“I know that. Where in New Zealand?”
I told her.
She paused.
“Are you alone?”
“At this exact moment?”
“Mom.”
“Yes, I'm alone.”
“Okay.”
I smiled.
“You're trying very hard not to tell me to come home.”
“I am.”
“Thank you.”
Another pause.
Then she asked, “Who is Arthur?”
I nearly dropped my coffee.
“Why?”
“You mentioned him in the family call.”
“I did?”
“Three times.”
“I don't remember that.”
“I do.”
I looked through the window.
“He was a friend of your father's.”
“And now?”
“Now he's my friend.”
Karen made a small sound.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Karen.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You made a sound.”
“I am allowed to breathe.”
“That wasn't breathing.”
She laughed.
It was the first easy laugh we had shared since I announced I was selling the house.
Then her tone softened.
“Mom, if you meet someone, that's okay.”
I stared at the harbor.
“I wasn't asking permission.”
“I know.”
The answer surprised me.
Karen continued. “I think maybe I'm finally understanding that.”
Something in my chest loosened.
We spoke for another twenty minutes, mostly about ordinary things. Her younger son had forgotten a school project. Her washing machine was making a terrible noise. She had burned dinner the night before.
She didn't ask me to solve any of it.
When we hung up, I sat still for a while.
Maybe distance was changing all of us.
That evening, I walked through a small weekend market near the waterfront.
There were handmade scarves, pottery, paintings, old postcards, and boxes of second-hand books. I stopped at a stall selling vintage prints.
A watercolor caught my attention.
It wasn't particularly good.
A small lake. A wooden pier. Two leaning trees.
My stomach tightened.
It resembled Robert's painting enough to pull me closer, although the style was entirely different.
The seller was an elderly woman with bright red glasses.
“You like landscapes?”
“My husband painted.”
“Professional?”
“No.”
I smiled.
“He would have liked people to think so.”
She laughed.
I turned the watercolor over.
A faded gallery stamp appeared on the back.
Vale Studio.
My fingers stopped.
“Where did this come from?”
The seller adjusted her glasses.
“That one? Estate lot, I think.”
“Do you know the artist?”
She looked at the signature.
“Not personally.”
I showed her the stamp.
“Vale Studio.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where that was?”
She shrugged.
“Australia, perhaps.”
My pulse quickened.
“Melbourne?”
“Could be.”
I bought the watercolor.
It was ridiculous.
There could have been hundreds of artists named Vale. The studio might have had no connection to Eleanor.
Still, back at the guesthouse, I photographed the stamp and sent it to Arthur.
He called less than five minutes later.
“Where did you find that?”
“At a market.”
“You bought it?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
“What does that mean?”
“You've developed a dangerous relationship with mysterious paintings.”
I ignored him.
“Do you recognize the stamp?”
There was a pause.
“I think so.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“From Eleanor?”
“I don't know. But the name is familiar.”
“You said you barely remembered her.”
“I barely did.”
“Arthur.”
“Abigail, it was nearly fifty years ago.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Try.”
He was silent for several seconds.
Then he said, “There was a small gallery.”
“Where?”
“Near Fitzroy, I think. Or Carlton. It changed locations.”
“Did Robert go there?”
“Yes.”
That was new.
“You didn't tell me that.”
“I didn't remember until now.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did Eleanor own it?”
“Her family may have.”
“May have?”
“I was twenty-four. I was more interested in beer than art galleries.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
Arthur continued. “Robert sold a few paintings through someone. It might have been them.”
“Sold?”
“Yes.”
“He never told me he sold his work.”
“He probably sold three paintings for enough money to buy dinner.”
“Still.”
I looked at the watercolor.
“Why would he hide Eleanor's name?”
“I don't know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because inventing an answer would be worse.”
He was right.
I hated that he was right.
Arthur promised to look through the remaining letters.
“Don't tear the house apart.”
“No promises.”
“And Arthur?”
“Yes?”
“If you find something, tell me.”
“I will.”
“Even if you think it will hurt me.”
The silence on the line lasted just long enough to matter.
“Yes,” he said.
I slept badly.
The following morning, there was no message from Arthur.
By noon, still nothing.
At three, I called.
He didn't answer.
At five, I tried again.
Nothing.
I told myself he was busy.
At seven, my phone rang.
Arthur.
I answered immediately.
“You found something.”
He didn't bother denying it.
“Yes.”
I sat down.
“What?”
“I found a letter Robert wrote in 1998.”
My throat tightened.
“And?”
“It mentions Eleanor.”
I waited.
Arthur's voice became quieter.
“He asked whether I had heard from her.”
“That could mean anything.”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“He asked whether she still had something.”
“What?”
“A painting.”
I stood and walked toward the window.
“Which painting?”
“He doesn't say.”
“Read me the sentence.”
Arthur hesitated.
Then he paraphrased rather than reading directly.
Robert had asked whether Eleanor still possessed the painting he had left with her and whether she had ever done what she promised.
“What did she promise?”
“I don't know.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“Is there more?”
“Yes.”
Arthur paused again.
“He said that if anything happened to him before he could return to Australia, you should eventually be told.”
My knees weakened.
I sat back down.
“Told what?”
“The letter doesn't say.”
I stared at the wall.
That was worse than an answer.
Arthur continued. “There's another name.”
“Who?”
“A man named Thomas.”
“Thomas what?”
“Vale.”
I looked at the watercolor beside me.
“Eleanor's husband?”
“I don't know.”
“Brother?”
“Possibly.”
“Son?”
Arthur said nothing.
The possibility landed between us.
“How old would he be?”
“I have no idea.”
I stood again.
“This is absurd.”
“I agree.”
“Robert didn't have another family.”
“I didn't say he did.”
“He wouldn't.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Arthur's voice sharpened slightly.
“Yes, Abigail. I knew him too.”
I stopped.
That was the first time he had pushed back.
He continued more gently.
“I don't believe Robert was hiding another family. But something happened here before you met him, and whatever it was, he apparently wanted you to know someday.”
I sat in silence.
“What do I do?”
Arthur answered immediately.
“Continue your trip.”
I almost laughed.
“You just told me my dead husband left instructions involving a woman and a man named Thomas.”
“And?”
“And you expect me to go sightseeing?”
“I expect you not to let another mystery take possession of your life.”
The words stung because they were true.
I had sold my house to stop living according to everyone else's demands.
Now I was in danger of allowing Robert's past to dictate my movements instead.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Look for the gallery.”
“And Eleanor?”
“If I can.”
“Don't contact anyone yet.”
“Why?”
I looked at the watercolor.
“Because if Robert wanted me told, I want to understand what he was trying to tell me before someone else interprets it.”
Arthur was quiet.
“All right.”
That night, I placed the strange watercolor inside my suitcase.
I considered throwing it away.
Instead, I kept it.
Three days later, I flew south.
I walked through unfamiliar streets, ate lunch alone without feeling conspicuous, and spent an afternoon on a ferry because I liked the sound of the destination.
For several days, nothing happened.
Then Arthur sent me a photograph.
It showed a yellowed exhibition program.
VALE STUDIO — WINTER COLLECTION.
Beneath the heading was a list of artists.
Near the bottom appeared a name I knew.
Robert Morgan.
And beside it was the title of one painting.
The Waiting Shore.
I enlarged the photograph.
Below Robert's name, in smaller print, was another line.
Private collection: T. Vale.
My hands went cold.
Arthur called before I could respond.
“I found the gallery records.”
“Who is T. Vale?”
“I think I've found him too.”
“Who?”
Arthur took a breath.
“Thomas Vale is alive.”
I stood beside the hotel window, watching strangers move along the street below.
“Where?”
“Melbourne.”
My heart began pounding.
Arthur continued.
“And Abigail, there's something else.”
“What?”
“He's been looking for you.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: A Stranger From Robert’s Australian Past Had Been Waiting Decades to Find Me, and He Knew Why My Husband Hid the Painting
I Had Spent Sixty-Nine Years Believing My Life Could Wait, Until One Morning I Realized Everyone Else Had Already Claimed My Time
Part 5 of 12
