I nodded slowly because I understood that exact feeling down to my bones.
After several pleasant afternoons together, Bartholomew invited me over to his residential home. “I have a vast collection of vintage vinyl records that you would adore,” he offered warmly. “Come over for a coffee, and I will show you everything.”
Because I trusted his gentle character, I readily accepted his invitation. His home was cozy and filled with stacked bookshelves, mismatched armchairs, and framed photographs along the hallway.
“I will put the kettle on right away,” he said as we walked inside. “Please make yourself at home in the living room.”
That was when I stepped inside and froze instantly before the fireplace. The canvas displayed a quiet cottage sitting beside a placid lake, accompanied by two tall pine trees leaning toward the water and a weathered wooden dock. In the bottom right corner, partially hidden by painted grass blades, were two tiny initials: “T.M.”
It was Theodore’s painting, the exact scene I thought had been lost forever, and I recognized every single stroke of the brush because I had watched him paint the original.
“Bartholomew, sit down this instant,” he said gently as he returned with the mugs.
“No,” I replied with an edge in my voice. “I need you to tell me where you got that painting.”
“I got it directly from Theodore,” he answered simply.
I stared at him in complete disbelief and asked, “Are you telling me that you actually knew my husband?”
Bartholomew nodded slowly and said, “I was twenty-four years old, and Theodore was around twenty-two when he lived in Australia for nearly a full year.”
I knew Theodore had traveled overseas before we met in our youth, but he had rarely shared specific details about that period.
“We worked together at a resort hotel just outside Melbourne,” Bartholomew continued. “It was a terrible place with dreadful pay, and Theodore was worse at carrying guest luggage than anyone I had ever met.”
That description sounded so undeniably like my late husband that I finally sat down on the sofa. Bartholomew explained that they had become fast friends, traveling together on weekends and listening to record albums whenever they had free time.
“That cottage painting was based on a rustic cabin we rented near a mountain lake,” Bartholomew explained. “He painted the initial version right there on the porch.”
“But Theodore painted that exact scene after we were already married,” I interjected, feeling deeply confused.
“He painted it a second time for you,” Bartholomew clarified. “And then, years after that second canvas was lost, Theodore recreated it a third time purely from memory and shipped it directly to my address over here.”
“Why would he ever send such a thing to you?” I whispered.
Instead of answering immediately, Bartholomew stood up and walked into his study. When he returned, he was carrying a sturdy wooden storage box which he set down on the coffee table. Inside were dozens of handwritten airmail letters, every single one bearing my late husband’s distinctive handwriting.
“How long were you two writing to each other?” I asked as my hands began to tremble.
“On and off for several decades,” Bartholomew answered softly.
“Theodore never mentioned a single word about this to me,” I confessed, feeling a sharp pang of betrayal.
Bartholomew recognized my expression and quickly said, “He was not hiding a secret romance, Bernice.”
“I did not suggest that,” I replied defensively.
“You certainly thought it,” he said with a faint smile.
He went on to explain that after Theodore returned to the United States and married me, their correspondence naturally slowed down due to family duties. But when Theodore became terminally ill years later, he managed to track down Bartholomew through a mutual contact, and their correspondence resumed with great frequency.
“Why kept it all secret from me?” I asked, staring at the floor.
“Because the vast majority of what he wrote was entirely about you,” Bartholomew revealed.
He reached into the wooden box and selected a specific sealed envelope, handing it directly to me. My name was written clearly across the front in Theodore’s familiar cursive script.
“Why do you have this sealed letter?” I asked softly.
“Because Theodore explicitly asked me to hold onto it for you,” Bartholomew explained.
“For an indefinite amount of time?” I pressed.
“Yes,” he confirmed with a bittersweet smile. “He held onto the hope that you would eventually take that long-promised trip to Australia and visit the very bookstore he told you about years ago. I went to that shop almost every single afternoon after receiving his final letter, just hoping I might cross paths with you.”
I sat in stunned silence as Bartholomew shared the contents of those final letters. Theodore had worried constantly about my future, not because he doubted my financial ability, but because he knew I rarely permitted myself to prioritize my own happiness.
