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“Because when they closed, there was no other job in the area in that field to be found. By then, I had you and the house. Was hard to pick up and leave. So, I worked construction instead.”
“And just never mentioned your previous career? Until now.”
He shrugged. “Guess so.”
He remained silent, and so did I for a time. Was it really possible my father had been to college and had an entire career I knew nothing about?
Why would he lie?
“There must be something unique about the geology of this region that grows grapes for the wine,” my client mused.
“It’s true,” I said. “The glacially designed lakes provide the perfect drainage for the grapes.”
“Glacially designed lakes?” he asked.
“Sorry,” I said. “Can’t say I know much beyond that. But grape growing? Most people native to the Finger Lakes know at least why we have all these vineyards.”
A sudden vision of being in the vineyard with Charlee popped into my head. I pushed it away.
“Huge sheets of ice carved out the U-shaped valleys that hold Finger Lakes,” my father said. “When they retreated north about ten thousand years ago, glaciers left deposits of gravel that dammed streams and caused the depressions to become lakes.”
My client looked impressed. I was downright floored.
Was it really possible?
“You were a geologist,” I said.
Dad said nothing and watched as I worked. By the time the tattoo was finished, my mind had run a million miles around the idea that I could have grown into a man without knowing something so important about my own father. Why had he not told me?
It was the first question I asked when my client left.
“Didn’t matter. That was a different life.”
A life with a good job. And a wife. I never actually imagined.
Fuck. I really didn’t want to get into this right now. But he was sober. No time like the present.
“So why did she leave?”
That question had been on the tip of my tongue my entire life. That it took leaving for ten years to figure out who the hell I was, what I stood for, to actually say the words.
“I don’t know, Son. We were happy. Or I thought so, anyway. Now they talk about all that post-partum stuff—”
“Not just stuff, Dad. It’s a real thing.”
“Well, whatever. Maybe it was that. She just freaked out. Said she wasn’t ready for all of it. Never looked back.”
“All of it. Meaning me.”
“Not just you. Being married. Your mom was a party girl when we met. A lot of fun, and maybe too young to settle down.”
“How old was she when she had me?” The questions just spilled from my mouth now.
“Twenty.”
“How old when you married?”
“Nineteen.”
