For several seconds, nobody spoke.
I kept staring at the date.
Twenty-five years earlier.
I knew exactly where I had been then.
Home.
Working.
Raising children.
Living the ordinary life Robert and I had built together.
And apparently, during that life, my husband had crossed an ocean without telling me.
“That isn't possible.”
Thomas remained near the cabinet.
“It happened.”
“No.”
I looked at Arthur.
“You knew?”
His face told me the answer before he spoke.
“No.”
I turned back to Thomas.
“How long was he here?”
“Four days.”
I laughed once, without humor.
“Four days.”
Thomas nodded.
“Maybe five. I was away at university. My mother told me about it later.”
“When?”
“Years later.”
“Why did he come?”
Thomas hesitated.
I stood.
“No more hesitation. Please.”
“He came for the painting.”
I looked toward the canvas.
“He wanted it back?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is it still here?”
“Because he changed his mind.”
“Why?”
Thomas glanced toward Eleanor's letter in my hand.
“She explained it better than I can.”
I returned to the page.
Eleanor described Robert arriving unexpectedly at the gallery. He looked older, tired, and worried. He told her that he had come to take the original painting home.
He wanted to give it to me.
At first, Eleanor had been delighted.
Then Robert received a telephone call.
I stopped reading.
“What call?”
Thomas shook his head.
“I don't know.”
I continued.
After the call, Robert told Eleanor he could not take the painting.
He asked her to keep it.
He said he had made a mistake by coming.
My hands tightened around the letter.
“What happened at home that week?”
Arthur asked.
I looked at him.
“I don't know.”
“Think.”
Twenty-five years.
The children had been younger.
Karen was already married.
Melissa was finishing school.
David was struggling to keep a job.
Eric—
I stopped.
Eric.
I remembered.
“Oh.”
Arthur leaned forward.
“What?”
I sat slowly.
“Eric was in an accident.”
Thomas remained silent.
Arthur asked, “Serious?”
“At first we thought it was.”
The memory returned with astonishing clarity.
A late-night telephone call.
A hospital.
Blood on Eric's shirt.
Robert wasn't home.
I had believed he was away for work.
He had told me he had a conference.
I closed my eyes.
“He called from Australia.”
Arthur understood.
“He learned about the accident.”
“Yes.”
Eric had been nineteen.
He had borrowed a friend's car after drinking.
The crash injured him and another young man.
Neither suffered permanent injuries, but the consequences lasted months.
Medical bills.
Insurance problems.
Lawyers.
Guilt.
Robert had returned home immediately.
I remembered meeting him at the airport.
He had looked exhausted.
I thought it was because he had traveled overnight from his conference.
Australia.
He had flown home from Australia.
“Why lie?” I whispered.
Thomas had no answer.
Arthur did.
“Maybe he was ashamed.”
“Of coming here?”
“Of leaving without telling you.”
I shook my head.
“That isn't enough.”
I continued reading Eleanor's letter.
Robert had told her that the painting represented a promise he had made to himself when he was young: that he would not allow obligation to swallow his entire life.
Yet when Eric was hurt, Robert understood something.
Freedom without responsibility could become selfishness.
Responsibility without freedom could become a prison.
He didn't know how to balance them.
Neither did I.
My anger weakened.
Not disappeared.
But weakened.
Thomas pointed to another page.
“There is more.”
I read.
Robert had decided not to take the painting home because he no longer wanted it to represent escape.
He wanted it to remain where it began until he and I could return together.
“He planned to bring me?”
Thomas nodded.
“He told my mother he would.”
“Why didn't he?”
Arthur answered softly.
“Life.”
I looked at him.
That word again.
Life.
The excuse we had used for everything.
We couldn't travel because of school schedules.
Then weddings.
Then grandchildren.
Then work.
Then Robert's health.
There was always a perfectly reasonable reason not to go.
I finished Eleanor's letter.
At the bottom she had written that if Robert failed to return, the painting should eventually belong to me.
Not because it was valuable.
Because I was the person standing at the end of the dock.
I looked at the painted woman.
A figure created before Robert knew my face.
A possibility.
A future.
I hated him a little for making me cry again.
“Stupid man,” I whispered.
Arthur heard.
“He was.”
Thomas smiled.
I looked at him.
“Did your mother know why he hid the trip from me?”
“No.”
“Did she approve?”
“Absolutely not.”
That surprised a laugh out of me.
Thomas continued.
“She told him secrets become heavier with age.”
“That sounds wise.”
“She was usually annoying when she was wise.”
I smiled.
Then I looked at the painting again.
“Why didn't Robert tell me later?”
Arthur answered cautiously.
“Maybe the longer he waited, the harder it became.”
I knew that pattern.
Small omissions grow roots.
After enough years, telling the truth requires explaining not only the original secret but every day you chose not to reveal it.
Robert had been imperfect.
That shouldn't have surprised me.
But death had polished him in my memory.
For twelve years, I had turned him into someone more patient, more thoughtful, more certain than he had ever been alive.
Now Australia was giving me the real man back.
A man who lied about a trip.
A man who made impulsive decisions.
A man who was afraid of disappointing his wife.
A man who loved his family and sometimes resented what that love demanded.
A man very much like me.
Thomas asked whether I wanted the painting.
I looked at him.
“Now?”
“It belongs to you.”
I walked closer.
The canvas was large.
Too large to carry casually through airports.
And I wasn't ready to own it.
“Can it stay here?”
Thomas seemed surprised.
“For how long?”
“I don't know.”
He smiled.
“That appears to be a common answer among Robert's friends.”
Arthur laughed.
I looked at him.
“Don't encourage him.”
Thomas agreed to keep the painting temporarily.
Before we left, he gave me copies of Eleanor's letters and the old gallery records.
Outside, Arthur and I walked without speaking.
We eventually reached a small park.
I sat on a bench.
Arthur remained standing.
“Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
“At Robert?”
“Yes.”
“At me?”
“A little.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“For what?”
“For being part of all this.”
“That seems unfair.”
“It is.”
He sat beside me.
“Fine.”
I stared at the path.
“I spent twelve years missing him.”
Arthur said nothing.
“I remembered every good thing.”
Still nothing.
“I forgot how irritating he could be.”
Arthur smiled.
“That is one of grief's tricks.”
I looked at him.
“You've done that with Anne?”
“Of course.”
“She wasn't perfect?”
Arthur laughed.
“Anne once refused to speak to me for two days because I bought the wrong mustard.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“I knew you'd side with her.”
We sat quietly.
Then I said, “Robert lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“I can love him and still be angry.”
“Yes.”
“I wish I had understood that years ago.”
Arthur looked toward the trees.
“Dead people don't become saints just because we miss them.”
That sentence stayed with me.
That evening, I called Eric.
He answered quickly.
“Mom?”
“I need to ask you something.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Do you remember your car accident when you were nineteen?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
“Do you remember where your father was?”
“At a conference.”
I looked across Arthur's living room at the later version of the lake painting.
“No.”
Eric waited.
“He was in Australia.”
“What?”
I told him.
Not everything.
Just enough.
Eric became quiet.
Then he said, “He came back because of me.”
“Yes.”
“I ruined his trip.”
“No.”
“Mom—”
“You made a terrible decision at nineteen. Your father made his own decisions.”
Eric didn't answer.
“He chose to come home.”
“But if I hadn't crashed—”
“Eric.”
I recognized the guilt in his voice.
I had heard it for twenty-five years without understanding how deeply it remained.
“Your father didn't blame you for his life.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he blamed himself.”
Silence.
I continued.
“He thought he had spent too much time waiting. Apparently I did too.”
Eric exhaled.
“I never knew.”
“Neither did I.”
Then he said something unexpected.
“I think Dad wanted to travel more.”
“I know.”
“He used to look at maps.”
I smiled.
“He loved maps.”
“He had one in the garage.”
“What?”
“A big world map. He marked places.”
I sat upright.
“What places?”
“I don't know. I thought they were work trips.”
“Is the map still there?”
Eric went quiet.
“The house is sold.”
Of course.
My stomach dropped.
“What happened to the garage things?”
“Some went into storage.”
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
I stood.
“Eric.”
“What?”
“Find the map.”
He laughed nervously.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“It's the middle of the night here.”
“Tomorrow.”
“What am I looking for?”
“I don't know yet.”
The next morning, Eric sent me a photograph.
The map was creased and stained.
Red circles appeared across several countries.
Australia.
Italy.
Japan.
France.
New Zealand.
Argentina.
Some places had dates.
Others had initials.
One had a small star.
I enlarged the image.
Melbourne had two dates.
The year Robert first lived there.
And the year of his secret return.
Beside the second date, Robert had written three letters.
A + R.
Abigail and Robert.
I stared at them.
He had planned our journey.
Not formally.
Not with reservations.
But in his mind.
Eric called.
“What does it mean?”
“I think these were places your father wanted us to go.”
“Then go.”
The simplicity of the answer surprised me.
“What?”
“Go to them.”
I smiled.
“You used to think I should come home.”
“I was wrong.”
I didn't speak.
Eric continued.
“Dad didn't get to finish it. You can.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“You're becoming annoyingly sensible.”
“I learned from you.”
“Don't exaggerate.”
He laughed.
Later that day, I showed Arthur the map.
He studied it.
“Italy.”
“Yes.”
“Japan.”
“Yes.”
“Argentina.”
“Yes.”
Then he pointed.
“What is this?”
A small circle appeared near the coast of France.
Beside it was a date from thirty-seven years earlier.
And one word.
June.
Arthur looked at me.
“Who is June?”
“I don't know.”
He gave me a look.
I sighed.
“Please don't say it.”
“Another mystery.”
“Yes.”
Arthur handed the phone back.
“Are you going?”
“To France?”
“To all of them.”
I looked at Robert's map.
For once, the answer came easily.
“Yes.”
Arthur nodded.
Then he asked, “Alone?”
I looked at him.
“Are you inviting yourself?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Good.”
“I was merely asking.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
I waited.
“So?” he said.
“So what?”
“Do you want company?”
I looked at the silver-haired man who had reached for the same detective novel weeks earlier and somehow opened a door into my husband's past.
“Yes,” I said.
Arthur's smile disappeared for a moment, replaced by something quieter.
“Where?”
I looked at the map.
“France.”
He nodded.
“When?”
I smiled.
“Tomorrow is probably too soon.”
“For you?”
“Maybe.”
“For me?”
“Definitely.”
Arthur laughed.
Three weeks later, we boarded a plane together.
And tucked inside my bag, beside Robert's letters, was a photograph of the map.
I believed we were following a journey Robert never completed.
I didn't yet understand that the mark in France had almost nothing to do with Robert.
It had been placed there because of me.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Name Beside France Was Not One of Robert’s Secrets After All, and Following It Forced Me to Remember a Promise of My Own
I Had Spent Sixty-Nine Years Believing My Life Could Wait, Until One Morning I Realized Everyone Else Had Already Claimed My Time
Part 7 of 12
