Page 112 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

I can practically see him nodding, all the way in Brookline. “His name was George. George Marlowe.”

“But I don’t understand. Had you never seen your birth certificate before? Surely George’s name looks nothing like Grandpa’s.” As the words leave my tongue, it strikes me that Charlie is not, in fact, my grandfather. My stomach twists into a knot.

“Believe it or not, I hadn’t. My parents got Greg and me passports when we were kids so we could travel to see Mom’s aunts in London. They always renewed before the passports expired, so I never had cause to look at my birth certificate. And when I married your mother, I just used the passport as proof of identity.”

“Wow.” I don’t know how, given all the information I’d had at my disposal, I wasn’t able to figure this out. I wonder if Oliver had; if this scenario was one of the plausible conclusions he’d drawn when I’d told him about my family drama.

I wonder also if I would have come to the same conclusion, were I less afraid to look closely.

“‘Wow’ is right,” Dad agrees. “I didn’t know what to do when I found out. At first, I didn’t want to rock the boat. Your grandmother was still reeling from losing her husband, and I didn’t think it would do her any good to add a son demanding decades-buried truths.”

He sounds so much like Laurel, there’s no question that the nurture side of the equation is strong in our family, regardless of the genetics behind it all. Although I guess Grandpa’s the only odd man out, in terms of DNA.

“I laid everything at your mother’s feet. I didn’t know what else to do. And I became a burden to her. She wanted to help me move past it; to reconcile with the past. She kept insisting it didn’t matter if Charlie was my biological father or not; he was my father in every way.”

“I would tend to agree with her there,” I admit. “But I doubt you were a burden.”

“Yes,” he sighs. “I agree with her, also. But I couldn’t let it go. I never got to meet my father, and I didn’t know why my parents hid it from me. I looked him up, and he’d died ten years earlier, so I would never be able to meet him, either. It was a lot to absorb all at once, you know?”

It’s a lot for me to absorb, and I’ve been getting it a little bit at a time. Plus, I’m another generation removed from it all. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for my dad. “Of course it was,” I say softly.

“I didn’t handle it well,” Dad continues. “I was depressed; I shrunk inward while I tried to process everything. I barely spoke to your mother for weeks, but it was nothing she did—my thoughts were just so wrapped up in everything I’d just learned.”

“I’m sure Mom understood,” I offer.

My father exhales sharply. “She did, at first. And she tried so hard to help. But my inability to deal with the situation drove a wedge between your mother and me. Eventually, it became clear I was hurting her by being so withdrawn. I couldn’t let that stand; you know how much I love your mother, Ivy.”

“I know,” I say quietly.

He’s definitely crying now; his emotions running every which way with this confession I secretly suspect he was dying to get off his chest. “Six months after Grandpa died, I went to your grandmother, and I asked her to explain. I just wanted to understand, so I could start to heal and fix things with your mom. Eleanor was so nervous; it was hard for her to open up to me. Even then, when I had half the truth already.”

Dad takes a deep breath. “She handed me her diary; told me it was all in there. So I read it. Her entries from that summer explained about George: about how he got her pregnant, then wanted nothing to do with her. She’d really loved him, she wrote. She wanted to marry him. But he left when the summer ended, and she didn’t know what to do. She knew her parents would be mortified. Janie was the only one who knew the truth. But Janie encouraged her to tell Charlie; she said he’d definitely think of something.”

“I guess he did.”

My father laughs. “Charlie was always the smartest guy in the room. He’d just met Simon, and they were covertly seeing one another, but obviously they couldn’t go public with it back then, society being as horrific as it was.”

“It’s heartbreaking,” I interject. “It really is.”

“I know.” Dad’s voice reflects his sorrow. “Whatever I’m telling you now, Ivy, I need you to know that your grandfather loved my mother. He loved her deeply and truly. They were best friends and soulmates, albeit platonic ones. And he felt that all the way back in 1953 when he proposed, and every day until he died.”

Hearing this warms my soul a bit. All the recent familial revelations have been casting doubt on everything I’ve ever known, including the way my grandfather treated my grandmother like she was the most precious thing on the planet. “I’m glad to hear that,” I reply honestly.

“Anyway, my father talked to Simon, and they came to an agreement. And then he came to my mother with his plan.”

“He’d marry her and raise her children as his own,” I whisper. “And she would keep his secret. And they’d travel to Ogunquit every year so he could see Simon, and no one would be the wiser.”

“I knew you were a smart kid,” my father jokes affectionately. “You get that from your grandfather.”

Even though this has all been so heavy, I smile at the idea that I inherited my wit and strategic thinking from Charlie. While we might not have shared genes, he’s no less my grandfather. The shared eye color is a bit of a head-scratcher, though, now that I think of it. Perhaps just a divine coincidence?

“Anyway,” Dad continues, “That was it. The diary laid it all out. And I read it, but I couldn’t handle the truth. I was heartbroken for all of them—for my mother, living a lie all those years, sacrificing herself at the altar of propriety. For Simon, who had to be at arm's length from the love he deserved. For my father, assuming the responsibility another man abandoned, kept away from the love of his life except for a fleeting few weeks every summer. It killed me,” he sobs.

“I’m so sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.

“Your mother tried so hard,” Dad continues. “She really did. But I was broken. I couldn’t even acknowledge any of it with your grandmother. I never gave her back the diary; I never tried to discuss it with her.”

It hits me all at once. “You’re the one who ripped out the pages.” It isn’t really a question.