Part 2 of 3

He laughed, then started coughing.

I held the water cup while he drank.

When I put it down, his hand closed around mine.

“Evelyn.”

“Yeah?”

“You gave me something I had no right to ask for.”

I squeezed his fingers.

“It was just a word.”

He shook his head.

“No. It wasn’t.”

The Ocean

During Julian’s sixth week at Willow Creek, he asked to see the ocean.

His doctor wasn’t thrilled about it, but eventually we arranged medical transport to a quiet beach near Cape Elizabeth.

It was cold.

I wrapped two blankets around him while we sat above the sand. The Atlantic was gray and rough, and Julian kept his eyes on it as if he’d been waiting years to see it again.

After a while, he said, “I met her near here.”

“Your daughter’s mother?”

He nodded.

“She hated the cold.”

“Then Maine was an interesting choice.”

He smiled.

“She complained constantly.”

“You loved her.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“I never stopped.”

I looked at the water.

For some reason, I thought about my mother.

She had hated cold beaches too.

Whenever she took me to the ocean as a kid, she’d sit wrapped in a sweatshirt while I ran barefoot through water that was practically ice.

I almost told Julian.

Instead, I tucked the blanket more tightly around his shoulders.

Before we left, he asked me for one thing.

“Call me Dad again.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Dad, we’re going back before you freeze.”

He smiled.

“One more time.”

Something in his face made me stop joking.

I crouched beside his wheelchair.

“I love you, Dad.”

His eyes closed.

His hand covered mine.

“I love you too, Evelyn.”

Those were the last complete words Julian ever said to me.

He died three days later.

I was sitting beside him.

There was no dramatic final moment. His breathing simply became quieter until there was another breath I kept waiting for and it never came.

I held his hand for several minutes after the nurse turned off the monitor.

Then I kissed his forehead.

“Goodbye, Dad.”

I still thought I was pretending.

The Key

Two days after Julian died, Willow Creek called me.

A nurse named Denise asked me to come in.

She met me in the family consultation room where they usually spoke with relatives.

There was a small padded envelope on the table.

My name was written across it.

EVELYN PARKER.

I recognized Julian’s handwriting.

“He left instructions,” Denise said. “This was to be given to you only after his death.”

Inside was a brass key, a business card for an attorney named Rebecca Sloan, and an envelope.

My hands started shaking when I saw the writing on the front.

For Evelyn.

I opened it.

The first line was only four words.

Your mother was Claire.

I stopped reading.

The room went strangely quiet.

Denise asked if I needed water.

I shook my head and read the sentence again.

Your mother was Claire.

There were thousands of women named Claire.

I knew that.

But Julian had never known my mother’s name.

At least I had never told him.

I unfolded the rest of the letter.

Evelyn,

There is no decent way to tell you this after what I asked you to do, so I will tell you plainly.

I am your father.

I put the letter down.

“No.”

Denise remained silent.

I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.

“No. He knew I didn’t know my father. He knew that.”

I picked the letter up again.

The next paragraph was worse.

I knew who you were before you walked into my room.

I had to sit down.

Julian Vance

Rebecca Sloan’s office was in downtown Portland.

I arrived carrying Julian’s key and letter in a plastic folder because I was afraid of damaging either one.

Rebecca was in her sixties, with reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.

She didn’t make me wait.

“You look like Claire,” she said.

I stopped inside the doorway.

“You knew my mother?”

“I knew of her. Julian made sure I understood exactly who she was and why her privacy had to be protected.”

I sat across from her.

“Was he really my father?”

Rebecca opened a folder.

“Yes.”

She slid a copy of my birth certificate toward me, along with an old notarized acknowledgment Julian had signed decades earlier.

Then she placed a photograph beside it.

My mother was twenty-three in the picture.

Julian stood next to her with one arm around her waist.

They were laughing.

I picked it up.

Mom looked happier than I remembered seeing her in almost any photograph.

“Why wasn’t he there?”

Rebecca folded her hands.

“Because Claire asked him not to be.”

That answer made me angry.

“My mother spent thirty-four years telling me he wasn’t part of our lives.”

“She was protecting you.”

Rebecca explained it simply.

Julian had cofounded a small engineering company in the early 1990s. Several control-system patents he’d developed became unexpectedly valuable. His partners attempted to force him out and take ownership of the patents.

The business dispute turned ugly.

Money disappeared. Contracts were falsified. Threats followed.

One night, someone broke into Claire’s apartment while she was pregnant.

Nothing was stolen.

A photograph of Julian and Claire had been placed in the center of her kitchen table.

That was enough.

Claire left.

Julian didn’t fight her.

“He believed that anyone close to him could be used against him,” Rebecca said. “For years, he was involved in litigation over the patents and ownership of the company. Claire built a new life. Julian stayed away.”

“For thirty-four years?”

Rebecca looked down.

“That part was his choice. And I don’t think he ever forgave himself for it.”

I looked at the brass key.

“What’s this for?”

Rebecca stood.

“Come with me.”