I spent the afternoon trying to convince myself that I was being unreasonable.
There were explanations for everything.
Perhaps I had misplaced the necklace weeks earlier and only remembered seeing it because I wanted to.
Perhaps Eleanor had moved it before she died.
Perhaps one of the grandchildren had borrowed it years ago and forgotten to return it.
Each explanation lasted only a few minutes.
Then I remembered the open box.
I remembered Jennifer's expression when I mentioned it.
And I remembered the way Michael had told me it might be somewhere safe.
I did not like the direction my thoughts were taking.
I had raised Jennifer to tell the truth.
I had taught her that a person's belongings were not available simply because they were inside the family home.
I had never imagined I would need to explain those lessons to her as an adult.
Around four o'clock, I called an old friend named Robert.
We had worked together for nearly thirty years before retirement.
He had known Eleanor well enough to understand why I was upset.
I told him the necklace was missing.
I did not mention my suspicions about Jennifer.
Robert listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he asked whether I had checked every room.
"More than once."
"Then take a breath," he said. "You won't solve anything by wearing yourself out."
I almost laughed.
It was exactly the kind of advice Eleanor would have given me.
I thanked him and ended the call.
Then I made another cup of tea.
The photograph was still in the desk drawer.
I took it out and studied the young man beside Eleanor.
He had dark hair, a narrow face, and an expression that suggested someone had just told him a private joke.
Eleanor's smile was different from the one I remembered in our wedding pictures.
It was wider.
Younger.
Unburdened.
I turned the photograph over again.
The date was written in blue ink.
I calculated her age and realized she had been about twenty-two.
I wondered whether the man had been a friend, a relative, or someone she had loved before meeting me.
I felt ashamed of my curiosity.
Eleanor had a life before me.
Of course she did.
I had never expected her to arrive at our marriage without a past.
But I had never thought there were parts of that past she had chosen not to share.
I returned the photograph to its envelope.
Then I opened the desk drawer all the way and removed its contents.
Beneath the papers lay a small notebook with a dark green cover.
I recognized it immediately.
Eleanor had used it for household expenses.
She wrote down grocery costs, utility payments, and occasional notes about things we needed to repair.
I opened it near the middle.
Most pages contained ordinary entries.
Milk.
Bread.
Garden soil.
A replacement kettle.
Then I noticed a line written in a different hand.
The writing was neat and narrow, unlike Eleanor's rounded letters.
The words were brief.
Ask before opening.
I checked the page number.
There was nothing else unusual on that page.
I turned forward.
The remaining entries were in Eleanor's handwriting.
I almost closed the notebook.
Then I noticed that several pages had been cut out near the back.
Not torn.
Cut.
The edges were smooth, as though someone had used scissors.
I ran my thumb along the remaining paper.
I could not remember Eleanor removing pages from any of her notebooks.
I could not think of a reason she would need to.
I sat at the desk until the light outside began to fade.
I was no closer to finding the necklace.
Instead, I had discovered two things I could not explain: a photograph I had never seen and a notebook with missing pages.
They might have meant nothing.
But I could not stop thinking about the pendant.
I remembered the way Eleanor sometimes held it between her fingers while watching television.
She would turn it over and over, as though checking something on its surface.
Once, I asked whether the clasp was broken.
She said it was fine.
I had accepted that answer.
Now I wished I had paid more attention.
That evening, my family returned with takeout food and several new shopping bags.
Amber carried a paper bag into the living room and announced that she had finally found a jacket she liked.
Michael asked whether I wanted to watch the game with him.
I declined.
Jennifer looked at the table.
"Did you eat?"
"Not yet."
"We brought enough for everyone."
"Thank you."
She put a container in front of me.
I opened it but did not touch the food.
The necklace was still missing.
Nobody mentioned it.
I watched Jennifer as she unpacked the rest of the meal.
She was moving quickly, speaking to Amber, answering a message, and telling Michael that he had bought the wrong sauce.
She looked like a woman with a hundred things on her mind.
I wondered whether one of those things was the necklace.
I hated myself for wondering.
After dinner, I carried my plate to the sink.
Jennifer stood beside me.
"Dad, you need to stop upsetting yourself over this."
I rinsed the plate.
"I haven't said anything about it all evening."
"You don't have to."
I turned off the water.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
She rubbed her forehead.
"It means I can tell you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"Then what are you?"
I looked at her.
"Confused."
She said nothing.
I waited.
She picked up a dish towel and began wiping the counter.
I could have asked her directly whether she had taken the necklace.
The question sat between us.
But I could not bring myself to say it.
I had spent too many years protecting my daughter from the consequences of her own mistakes.
Perhaps I was still doing it.
Perhaps I was afraid of what her answer might mean.
I returned to my room and locked the door.
It was something I had not done since Eleanor's illness became serious.
I felt foolish turning a key against my own family.
But I needed one place where I could think without someone telling me that I was making too much of things.
I placed the empty box on the desk.
Then I took out the photograph and the green notebook.
I laid them side by side.
The young man in the photograph looked directly at the camera.
Eleanor stood close enough that their shoulders touched.
On the notebook's page, the words Ask before opening seemed almost like a warning.
I looked at the empty box again.
For a long time, I considered throwing the whole thing into a drawer and pretending none of this had happened.
It would have been easier.
I could tell myself the necklace would turn up.
I could apologize to Jennifer for being difficult.
I could return to my quiet routine and avoid the risk of learning something I did not want to know.
But Eleanor had spent forty-two years telling me that avoiding a problem never made it disappear.
I opened the notebook to the last page.
There was a faint indentation in the paper beneath the final entry.
Someone had written on the page that used to be there.
The words were no longer visible, but the pressure of the pen had left marks.
I tilted the notebook toward the lamp.
I could make out only fragments.
A name.
A number.
And a short word that might have been an address.
I fetched a pencil and gently shaded the paper.
The marks became clearer.
I could not read the entire message, but one phrase stood out.
Keep it with the pendant.
I stopped moving.
The room seemed suddenly quiet.
I read the words again.
Keep it with the pendant.
I did not know what they referred to.
But for the first time, I had reason to believe the necklace might have been more than a keepsake.
And I had a feeling Eleanor had intended me to find something I had overlooked.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: I Had Spent Forty-Two Years Believing I Knew My Wife Completely, Until Her Own Handwriting Suggested She Had Left Something Unfinished
I Thought Grief Was the Hardest Thing I Would Ever Survive Until Something Precious Disappeared From My Bedroom
Part 3 of 20
