I booked a flight back to Melbourne before Arthur finished explaining.
It was exactly the kind of impulsive decision my children would once have talked me out of. Six months earlier, I would have compared ticket prices, worried about cancellation fees, checked every hotel, and probably convinced myself that waiting was more sensible.
This time, I looked at the available flights and chose one.
Arthur objected.
“You don't need to return immediately.”
“You said Thomas Vale has been looking for me.”
“For a while.”
“How long is ‘a while’?”
Arthur hesitated.
“Several years.”
I nearly shouted.
“And you're telling me not to come?”
“I am telling you not to panic.”
“I'm not panicking.”
“You bought a plane ticket while we were talking.”
“That is called efficiency.”
Arthur laughed despite himself.
I arrived in Melbourne the following evening.
He was waiting outside the terminal.
When I saw him, I realized how much I had missed him.
Arthur lifted one hand.
“Welcome back.”
I stopped in front of him.
“You look exactly the same.”
“It has been two weeks.”
“It feels longer.”
“That sounds dangerously sentimental.”
“Don't get excited.”
He took my suitcase.
“I wouldn't dare.”
The drive to his house was quiet at first.
Then I asked, “Tell me everything.”
Arthur kept his eyes on the road.
“I found Vale Studio through an old newspaper archive.”
“And Thomas?”
“The gallery records led to a preservation society. Someone there knew him.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“You promised not to contact anyone.”
“I promised before I knew he had been trying to contact you.”
“You still promised.”
“I know.”
I turned toward the window.
Arthur sighed.
“I should have called you first.”
“Yes.”
“I'm sorry.”
His apology was immediate and uncomplicated.
That made it difficult to remain angry.
“What did Thomas say?”
“He asked whether Robert's wife was named Abigail.”
“And?”
“I said yes.”
Arthur glanced at me.
“He became very quiet.”
“What else?”
“He asked if Robert was still alive.”
I swallowed.
“You told him?”
“Yes.”
I watched the city lights slide across the windshield.
“How did he react?”
“Like someone hearing bad news he had expected for a long time.”
That description unsettled me.
“Why was he looking for me?”
“He wouldn't tell me over the phone.”
“Convenient.”
“He wants to meet you.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow, if you're willing.”
I looked at Arthur.
“Where?”
“His home.”
“No.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow.
“I've had enough revelations in other people's living rooms.”
He laughed.
“Fair.”
We arranged to meet Thomas the next morning in a café near the river.
I barely slept.
At seven, I was already dressed.
At seven-thirty, Arthur appeared in the kitchen.
“You've been awake for hours.”
“Yes.”
“Coffee?”
“I've had two.”
“That's unfortunate.”
“Why?”
“You're frightening enough without caffeine.”
I stared at him.
He smiled and poured himself a cup.
At ten minutes before ten, we reached the café.
Thomas Vale was already there.
I knew immediately which man he was.
He sat alone near the window, perhaps in his late sixties, with thinning gray hair and a narrow face. A leather folder rested on the table before him.
When he saw Arthur, he stood.
Then he looked at me.
His expression changed.
Not shock.
Recognition.
“Abigail?”
“Yes.”
He stared at me for another second.
“You look like the photograph.”
My stomach tightened.
“What photograph?”
Thomas glanced at Arthur.
“You didn't tell her?”
“I didn't know.”
Thomas pulled out a chair.
“Please.”
I remained standing.
“What photograph?”
He opened the leather folder.
Inside was an old black-and-white photograph.
Robert.
Older than in Arthur's photograph but still decades younger than the man I married.
Beside him was me.
I stared.
It had been taken shortly after our wedding.
I remembered the dress.
I remembered Robert's ridiculous tie.
I even remembered the afternoon.
“How did you get this?”
“Robert sent it to my mother.”
“Eleanor?”
Thomas nodded.
I sat.
Arthur sat beside me.
Thomas placed the photograph between us.
“My mother kept it for the rest of her life.”
“When did she die?”
“Seven years ago.”
“Why did Robert send her our wedding photograph?”
Thomas folded his hands.
“Because my mother once believed he would never go home.”
I looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“Robert was in trouble when he was here.”
Arthur frowned.
“What kind of trouble?”
Thomas looked at him.
“You didn't know?”
“No.”
Thomas leaned back.
“Then perhaps he never told anyone everything.”
My patience snapped.
“Please stop circling around it.”
Thomas nodded.
“My mother met Robert when he was trying to sell paintings for money. He was nearly broke.”
“That part I know.”
“She gave him work at the gallery.”
I looked at Arthur.
He shook his head.
Apparently he hadn't known.
Thomas continued.
“Robert had received a letter from home. His father was ill. There were debts. He needed money to return.”
“What did Eleanor do?”
“She bought several paintings.”
“That doesn't explain the secrecy.”
“No.”
Thomas opened the folder again.
He removed a document protected by a plastic sleeve.
It was an old receipt.
The amount was surprisingly large for the time.
“Your mother paid him this?”
“Yes.”
“For paintings?”
Thomas shook his head.
“For one painting.”
“The Waiting Shore?”
“Yes.”
I frowned.
“But Arthur has the painting.”
“A later version.”
Thomas looked directly at me.
“The original never left our family.”
My pulse quickened.
“Where is it?”
“At my house.”
I sat back.
The original.
The painting Robert had created at the lake before he knew me.
The one he had refused to sell, according to Arthur.
“You said your mother bought it.”
“She did.”
“Arthur said Robert refused.”
“He refused at first.”
Thomas glanced at Arthur.
“Later, circumstances changed.”
Arthur's expression tightened.
“What did Eleanor promise?”
Thomas looked at me again.
“That if Robert ever returned for the painting, she would give it back.”
“And if he didn't?”
“She was supposed to find you.”
I stared at him.
“But Robert didn't know me when he painted it.”
“No.”
“Then how could Eleanor promise to find me?”
Thomas smiled faintly.
“That part came later.”
He removed another letter.
“Robert wrote to my mother after he married you.”
I recognized the handwriting.
“He told her he had finally met the woman he once joked the painting was meant for.”
My eyes burned.
I looked away.
Arthur remained silent beside me.
Thomas continued.
“Robert asked my mother to keep the painting. He said someday he wanted to bring you here and show it to you himself.”
“He never did.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
I did.
Life.
Children.
Bills.
Work.
Illness.
Tomorrow.
Always tomorrow.
Thomas pushed the letter toward me.
“He wrote again many years later.”
“When?”
“After he became ill.”
My throat tightened.
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether the painting was safe.”
“And?”
“My mother told him it was.”
Thomas looked down.
“He asked her to keep it until you came.”
“Why didn't she contact me after he died?”
“She tried.”
I stared at him.
“How?”
“Letters.”
“I never received any.”
“They were returned.”
“Why?”
“You had moved temporarily, apparently.”
I remembered.
After Robert died, I had stayed with Karen for nearly four months.
I could barely sleep in our house.
Thomas continued.
“My mother tried again later, but she wasn't well. After she died, I found the correspondence.”
“And you started looking for me?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you find me?”
“Robert's letters contained an old address. Your surname isn't unusual. I found several possible Abigail Morgans.”
I almost laughed at the absurdity.
“All these years.”
Thomas nodded.
“Then Arthur called.”
The café around us continued as if nothing had happened.
Cups clinked.
A child complained about orange juice.
Someone laughed near the counter.
My husband's hidden history was being reconstructed at a small table beside a window.
I looked at Thomas.
“Who was your mother to Robert?”
He understood what I was really asking.
“She was his friend.”
“Only his friend?”
Thomas didn't look offended.
“Yes.”
“You're certain?”
“I am.”
“How?”
He smiled.
“Because she was in love with someone else.”
Arthur leaned forward.
“Who?”
“My father.”
I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Thomas noticed.
“I imagine you wondered.”
“I did.”
“My mother admired Robert. She thought he had talent. She also thought he was hopelessly impractical.”
“That sounds accurate.”
“She helped him because someone once helped her.”
Thomas touched the old receipt.
“She paid far more than the painting was worth.”
“Why?”
“So he could go home.”
I stared at the receipt again.
That changed everything.
Eleanor hadn't kept Robert in Australia.
She had helped him leave.
“Did he repay her?”
Thomas smiled.
“Eventually.”
“How?”
“He sent paintings.”
“How many?”
“Several.”
Arthur laughed softly.
“That explains the missing years.”
Thomas nodded.
“Some were sold through the gallery. Some remained with us.”
I thought about Robert's small studio at home.
There had been periods when he painted obsessively, then stopped for months.
I had assumed the canvases he discarded had simply been failures.
Perhaps some had traveled across the world.
“Why did he hide your mother's name behind Arthur's painting?”
Thomas considered the question.
“I can't know.”
Arthur spoke.
“Maybe because he knew I'd eventually show Abigail.”
I turned to him.
“You think he planned all of this?”
“Not precisely.”
Arthur looked at the river beyond the window.
“But he knew us.”
Thomas closed the folder.
“There is something else.”
Of course there was.
I almost laughed.
“What?”
“My mother left instructions with the original painting.”
“For me?”
“Yes.”
Thomas stood.
“I didn't bring them here.”
“Why?”
“Because she wanted you to see the painting first.”
I looked at Arthur.
He gave a small shrug.
“Another living room.”
I almost smiled.
Thomas's home was twenty minutes away.
I hesitated outside.
Arthur stood beside me.
“You don't have to go in.”
“Yes, I do.”
Inside, Thomas led us down a hallway.
At the far end was a room filled with paintings.
Landscapes.
Portraits.
Abstract shapes.
Some were Eleanor's.
Some belonged to artists I didn't recognize.
Then Thomas stopped before a large canvas covered with cloth.
He looked at me.
“My mother kept this for nearly fifty years.”
He removed the cloth.
I forgot to breathe.
The lake.
The two trees.
The wooden dock.
But the original was different from Arthur's version.
More alive.
Rougher.
Younger.
The colors were less controlled. The brushwork was impatient.
And standing at the end of the dock was a tiny painted figure.
A woman.
I stepped closer.
Robert had painted her from behind.
She wore a pale dress.
Her face couldn't be seen.
“Who is she?”
Thomas answered quietly.
“No one.”
I turned.
“What?”
“My mother asked him the same thing.”
“And?”
Thomas smiled.
“Robert said she was the person he hoped he would someday have a reason to go home to.”
My eyes filled.
He had painted her before he knew me.
Not me.
An idea of me.
A future.
A reason to return.
Thomas walked to a cabinet.
He removed a sealed envelope.
My name was written across the front.
The handwriting was not Robert's.
It belonged to Eleanor.
Thomas handed it to me.
“My mother wrote this before she died.”
I stared at the envelope.
Arthur moved toward the doorway.
“I'll give you privacy.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“Stay.”
I opened the envelope.
Eleanor's letter was brief.
She explained that Robert had never belonged to Australia, even when he thought he might remain there. He had always spoken as though his real life had not begun yet.
Then came the line that made me sit down.
Eleanor wrote that Robert had returned to Australia once.
Not when he was young.
Much later.
After we were married.
I looked up sharply.
“When?”
Thomas's expression changed.
“You didn't know?”
“No.”
Arthur stared at him.
Thomas swallowed.
“It was twenty-five years ago.”
The date on Robert's hidden note.
I gripped Eleanor's letter.
Robert had come back to Australia while we were married.
And he had never told me.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Robert Had Returned to Australia Without Telling Me, and the Reason for His Secret Journey Was Buried in a Decision I Had Forgotten
I Had Spent Sixty-Nine Years Believing My Life Could Wait, Until One Morning I Realized Everyone Else Had Already Claimed My Time
Part 6 of 12
