Chapter 3 - Sawdust, Yellow Paint, and a Terrible Suspicion
Over the next several weeks, I noticed things I couldn't explain.
One Sunday, Wendell arrived for dinner with sawdust covering the knees of his jeans.
Another evening, I noticed pale-yellow paint beneath his fingernails.
Then there was the small cut across his thumb, wrapped in a bandage.
"What happened?" I asked.
"Had a little disagreement with a piece of lumber."
"Did the lumber win?"
He chuckled.
"Only temporarily."
I smiled, but the questions were becoming harder to ignore.
Wendell was a retired electrician.
He occasionally repaired things for neighbors, but he wasn't working full-time.
So why did he seem exhausted whenever we met?
And what exactly was he doing at that mysterious house?
One evening, I pressed him again.
"Are you building something?"
"Something like that."
"What kind of something?"
He looked at me over his coffee.
"Something I've wanted to do for years."
"Is it for somebody?"
His expression changed.
"Yes."
My chest tightened.
"Who?"
He hesitated.
Then he reached across the table and touched my hand.
"Winnie, please. Just a few more weeks."
That answer should have reassured me.
Instead, it made my stomach turn.
I had spent thirty-four years working in emergency medicine.
I had seen husbands lie to wives, children deceive parents, and seemingly respectable people hide terrible secrets.
I knew that a gentle voice wasn't proof of innocence.
But I also knew that suspicion could destroy something beautiful.
The uncertainty was tearing me apart.
One afternoon, Wendell and I were drinking tea when he noticed me struggling to stand from the couch.
He immediately offered his hand.
"Those knees bothering you again?"
"Thirty-four years of hospital floors will do that to a person."
"Have you talked to your doctor?"
"Yes. Arthritis and old age, apparently. Neither one is interested in negotiating."
He looked serious.
"Does the front step give you trouble?"
"Some mornings."
He frowned.
"I've been thinking about that."
"About my knees?"
"About making life easier when our bodies stop cooperating."
I laughed.
"Good luck with that. If you find a way to make me twenty-five again, let me know."
He didn't laugh.
Instead, he studied the way I shifted my weight and asked whether handrails helped.
I thought it was sweet.
I didn't realize he was memorizing every answer.
Another Sunday evening, we talked about our childhood homes.
I described my mother's kitchen.
It had been painted a cheerful shade of yellow, with white cabinets and a large wooden table.
"Buttercup Yellow," I told him.
"That's what Mama called it."
Wendell smiled.
"Sounds like a happy place."
"It was. Even when we didn't have much money, that kitchen made the whole house feel warm."
He listened without interrupting.
Then he asked:
"Do you remember the exact shade?"
I laughed.
"Of course. Buttercup Yellow. I'll probably remember it when I've forgotten everything else."
He nodded thoughtfully.
I assumed the conversation was over.
But a week later, I found a folded receipt on the passenger seat of his pickup truck while looking for my reading glasses.
I hadn't intended to pry.
The paper had simply fallen onto the floor.
Across the top was the name of a building supply store.
Beneath it were several items.
Wide door hinges.
Handrail brackets.
Non-slip flooring.
And six gallons of interior paint.
My eyes moved toward the description beside the paint.
Buttercup Yellow.
My heart started pounding.
Before I could read anything else, Wendell opened the driver's door.
For the first time, he seemed genuinely startled to see what I was holding.
"Where did you get that?"
"It fell off your seat."
He took the receipt gently but quickly.
"Winnie, I can explain."
"Then explain."
He looked toward the road.
"Not yet."
Those two words felt like a slap.
I turned away, fighting tears.
"Wendell, I have already lost one man I loved. I don't know if I can survive trusting someone who won't tell me the truth."
His face crumpled.
For one painful moment, I thought he might finally confess everything.
Instead, he whispered:
"I would never deliberately hurt you."
"Then why does this feel so much like you're preparing to?"
He had no answer.
That night, after he left, I sat awake until nearly midnight.
I thought about the strange phone call, the endless excuses, and the receipt he'd been so desperate to hide.
Then another possibility entered my mind.
What if the yellow paint and accessibility equipment weren't for me at all?
What if Wendell was caring for another woman?
Perhaps someone who was sick.
Perhaps someone who lived in the house he refused to show me.
May you like
The thought made me feel physically ill.
And the next morning, Zach appeared at my door with a demand that turned my suspicions into a full-blown crisis.
