I left the house early the next morning.
Jennifer was still asleep, and Michael had fallen asleep on the sofa again.
I took the small business card from my desk and slipped it into my wallet.
The address was across town, in a part of the neighborhood I rarely visited anymore.
I drove slowly, checking the street numbers as I went.
The repair shop stood between a closed bakery and a store selling secondhand furniture.
Its sign was faded.
The front window displayed watches, broken clocks, and a few pieces of jewelry that looked as if they had been waiting there for decades.
I parked beside the curb.
For a moment, I sat with both hands on the steering wheel.
I had no idea what I expected to find.
The shop might have closed years ago.
The owner might not remember Eleanor.
The card might have belonged to someone who had nothing to do with the necklace.
Still, I had come this far.
I went inside.
A bell rang above the door.
An elderly man sat behind the counter, examining a wristwatch beneath a small lamp.
He looked up.
"Can I help you?"
I showed him the card.
"I found this among my wife's belongings. I wondered whether you might know anything about it."
He adjusted his glasses and examined the printing.
"That card is old."
"My wife kept it for years."
He looked at me more carefully.
"What was her name?"
"Eleanor."
He repeated it quietly, as though testing the sound against a memory.
Then he asked for her surname.
When I told him, he leaned back in his chair.
"I remember her."
I felt my chest tighten.
"You knew my wife?"
"Not well. She came in a few times."
He returned the card to me.
"What can you tell me about the necklace she wore?"
I described the silver pendant, the thin chain, and the small clasp that Eleanor had always handled carefully.
The man listened without interrupting.
When I finished, he rubbed his thumb along the edge of the counter.
"She asked me a question about it once."
"What question?"
"Whether an old pendant could be opened without damaging it."
I stared at him.
"Opened?"
He nodded.
"Some pendants have little compartments. Others are sealed. She wanted to know whether hers could be examined."
I thought about the necklace in its wooden box.
I had never known it could open.
"Did you examine it?"
"No. She didn't bring it with her that day."
He paused.
"She said she would return when she was ready."
I felt a strange mixture of relief and confusion.
At least I had not imagined the way Eleanor sometimes turned the pendant between her fingers.
There had been something about it she wanted to understand.
"Did she ever come back?"
The man shook his head.
"Not that I remember."
I took the photograph from my wallet and showed it to him.
He studied it for a long time.
Then he pointed to the young man standing beside Eleanor.
"I've seen that face before."
"Where?"
He frowned, trying to remember.
"Possibly here. It was a long time ago."
"Was he with my wife?"
"I can't say for certain."
He handed the photograph back.
I thanked him, although I felt disappointed.
I had hoped he would offer a simple explanation.
Instead, I had another question.
Before leaving, I asked whether he knew of any other shop that might have repaired an old pendant.
He gave me the name of a jeweler on the other side of town.
Then he added something that stayed with me.
"Don't assume an object is empty just because you can't see what's inside it."
I looked at him.
He shrugged.
"It's a lesson I learned from repairing old things."
I left the shop and stood on the pavement for a moment.
The morning traffic moved past me.
A delivery truck rattled over a pothole.
Somewhere nearby, a man was arguing with a parking attendant.
Ordinary life continued while I stood there thinking about a necklace I no longer possessed.
I drove to the jeweler's address.
The business had changed hands, but the shop was still open.
A woman behind the counter listened while I explained what I was looking for.
She asked whether I had the pendant with me.
I told her it was missing.
She said she could not identify its construction from my description alone.
That made sense.
I had no photograph of the necklace.
I had never taken one.
I thanked her and left.
By noon, I had learned very little.
Eleanor had once asked a repairman whether her pendant could be opened.
She had kept his business card.
And she had never told me why.
I returned home feeling foolish for expecting more.
Jennifer was in the kitchen when I arrived.
She looked at the clock.
"Where have you been?"
"Out."
"Out where?"
"I had an errand."
She watched me put my keys on the counter.
"Did you find the necklace?"
"No."
Her shoulders relaxed.
The movement was slight, but I noticed it.
I looked at her.
"Why did you ask me that?"
"Because you've been looking for it."
She turned back to the cupboard.
I wanted to ask why she seemed relieved that I had returned empty-handed.
Instead, I went upstairs.
I took out the photograph and the green notebook.
I placed them beside the empty wooden box.
For several minutes, I studied the three objects.
Then I remembered something else Eleanor had once said.
She had told me that the most important things in life were not always the things we understood.
I had thought she meant our marriage.
Now I wondered whether she had been speaking about something else entirely.
I opened the notebook again.
The words pressed into the paper were faint, but I could still read them.
Keep it with the pendant.
I had spent the morning searching for someone who might explain those words.
Nobody could.
I put the notebook away.
Then I made myself a promise.
I would not let embarrassment stop me from finding out what had happened.
If the necklace had been taken, I needed to know by whom.
If Eleanor had left something hidden inside it, I needed to understand why.
And if the truth hurt, I would have to live with it.
I had spent three years learning how to live without my wife.
I could learn how to face the truth about her, too.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: I Tried to Give My Daughter One More Chance to Tell Me the Truth, but Her Answer Changed the Way I Looked at Our Home
I Thought Grief Was the Hardest Thing I Would Ever Survive Until Something Precious Disappeared From My Bedroom
Part 5 of 20
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