Chapter 2 - My Mother Had Told Me Almost Nothing About My Father
My mother was not a mysterious woman.
That made what happened harder to understand.
Catherine Morgan liked:
black coffee,
used bookstores,
old houses,
baseball on the radio.
She worked most of my childhood as an office manager for a marine-engineering company in Fall River, Massachusetts.
We lived in a two-bedroom apartment until I was twelve.
Then a small duplex.
No trust fund.
No secret mansion.
No unexplained luxury.
Money was:
tight.
Not catastrophic.
Just always:
counted.
Catherine raised me:
alone.
Whenever I asked about my father, she gave me the same basic answer.
“He died before you were born.”
“What was his name?”
“Jonathan.”
“Jonathan what?”
A pause.
Then:
“He had a family that wouldn’t have wanted us.”
I was nine the first time I remember asking.
At fourteen, I pushed harder.
“Was he married?”
“No.”
“Did he know about me?”
Mom stared toward:
the kitchen window.
“Yes.”
That answer stayed with:
me.
“Then why isn’t his name on my birth certificate?”
“Because by the time you were born, he was gone.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“No.”
She gave me a sad smile.
“It doesn’t.”
Then she ended:
the conversation.
I spent years interpreting that silence.
Maybe Jonathan’s family hated:
her.
Maybe he came from:
money.
Maybe there had been an affair.
Maybe Mom was ashamed.
I eventually stopped:
asking.
That became my part.
Not her secrecy.
Mine.
I decided respecting her meant never pressing on the one subject that visibly:
hurt.
Then she got:
sick.
Ovarian cancer.
Not sudden.
Eighteen months.
Enough time to organize:
everything.
She made lists.
Accounts.
Passwords.
Funeral preferences.
She gave me the velvet pouch six weeks before:
she died.
Inside:
the Sterling ring.
I recognized the crest from nowhere.
Just an old family-looking symbol.
“Who was Jonathan?”
Mom looked at the ring for:
a long time.
Then:
“Someone who loved me.”
“Was he my father?”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
There.
Twenty-three years of uncertainty reduced to:
one word.
“Jonathan what?”
She hesitated.
“Sterling.”
I thought I misheard.
“Like Sterling Harbor?”
Mom closed:
her eyes.
“Yes.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it sounded impossible.
“The yacht people?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted you to grow up knowing who you were before anyone told you what a surname was supposed to make you.”
That sounded noble.
It was also:
incomplete.
“Did his family know?”
Mom looked away.
“One person did.”
“Who?”
She would not:
answer.
I became angry.
“You’re dying.”
“I know.”
“That means you don’t get to leave this as some half-story.”
She flinched.
I immediately regretted:
it.
Then she said:
“I made a decision when I was twenty-nine because I was scared and grieving.”
“What decision?”
“I believed someone I should not have believed.”
“Who?”
Again:
silence.
Then:
“If you ever meet Henry Sterling, judge him on what he does after he learns.”
Henry.
Not Jonathan.
I remembered the name.
“What about Victoria?”
Mom’s expression changed.
Not anger.
Something closer to:
disgust.
“Be careful with Victoria.”
That was all.
Two weeks later Mom entered:
hospice.
Then morphine, exhaustion, confusion.
The conversation never returned.
After she died, I found:
no Sterling correspondence.
No photographs.
No letters.
Nothing except:
the ring.
At least, that was what I thought.
Then Henry called me the morning after the yacht-club incident.
I had not given him my number.
The catering company had, after I filed an incident report concerning:
Victoria.
Henry’s voice was controlled.
“Claire, I’m asking permission to tell you something about Jonathan.”
I sat on the edge of:
my bed.
“Okay.”
“He was my younger brother.”
“I know that part.”
“He was thirty-one when he died.”
“How?”
“Boating accident off Block Island.”
“Was he married?”
“No.”
“Engaged?”
“No.”
“Did you know my mother?”
A long pause.
“I met Catherine twice.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“Before Jonathan died.”
“What did you know about them?”
“That he was serious.”
“How serious?”
Henry exhaled.
“He told me he was thinking about marrying her.”
I stared at:
the wall.
Then:
“Did he know she was pregnant?”
“I didn’t know she was pregnant.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Henry understood.
“I don’t know.”
Then:
“But if what you told me last night is accurate, the timing suggests he may have.”
I looked toward the ring on:
my table.
“What did Jonathan tell you about the ring?”
Henry became quiet.
“That’s why I need to see you.”
“Why?”
“Because there were only three rings made with that crest and those initials.”
“One was mine.”
“One belonged to our father.”
“The third belonged to Jonathan.”
Then:
“Jonathan’s body was recovered after the accident.”
I swallowed.
“And?”
“He wasn’t wearing his ring.”
Henry said the family assumed it was lost at:
sea.
Until last night.
Then he added:
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Four months ago our family trust hired a genealogical researcher.”
My pulse changed.
“Why?”
“We recently sold one of the family marina properties.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Before the proceeds could be distributed, the trustee needed confirmation of descendants in each family branch.”
Then Henry became very quiet.
“The researcher found someone named Claire Morgan.”
I stood.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Another pause.
“Victoria received the report.”
And now the yacht-club foyer made sense in a new way.
Victoria had not discovered who I was when the ring fell onto:
the floor.
She had recognized me before she ever grabbed:
May you like
my arms.
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