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“I believe he was unaware he had a brother. His twin. Your father was Andrew MacTavish, born March 2, 1965.”
“Yes, but—”
“He was adopted, as an infant, by Marsha and John MacTavish.”
“Mr.…”
“Doyle. I understand this is confusing, it’s irregular. And I understand if you don’t feel comfortable inviting me to come in and explain. I’m staying at the Boston Harbor Hotel, and would be happy to meet you where you would feel comfortable. Let me give you my card. And this.”
He took a business card case out of his coat pocket, and a photograph. “This is Collin Poole. He was a close friend of mine, a lifelong friend. He died just before Christmas.”
“I’m very sorry, but…”
She trailed off as she stared at the photo.
“That was taken nearly thirty years ago. My wife took it, of Collin and me. I’ve seen photos of your father at about the same age. They were twins. Not quite identical, but it’s very close, isn’t it?”
“I don’t understand this.”
“How could you? I take it you haven’t done any DNA testing?”
“No.”
“They were born in Maine, in the house that’s been in the Poole family for over two hundred years.”
She had photos of her father at this age. She could see the differences—he’d worn his hair longer. He’d been a little taller, leaner, his chin more square.
But for those slight differences, she’d have sworn she was looking at her father.
“You’d better come in.”
“I appreciate it. I’m a Mainer, born and bred, but this wind cuts. You have his eyes. As I said, I’ve seen photos of your father, and I knew Collin very well. You have the same deep green eyes, from the Poole side of the family.”
Familyseemed wrong.Familyseemed impossible. “Let me take your coat.”
“Thank you.”
When he pulled off the cap, she saw the black of his eyebrows running through the silvery gray hair.
“I can make coffee.”
“I’d appreciate that. Just a drop of milk in mine.”
She felt numb. How could her father have had a brother—a twin—and not know it? How could her grandparents not have told him? How could they have separated brothers, taking only one as theirs?
And why hadn’t this uncle ever contacted her, or her father, if he’d known?
“You have questions.”
Mr. Doyle stood, studying photos she had on shelves along with pretty or interesting things that had caught her eye over the years.
“I’m going to try to answer them. Can we sit here, at the table? I also have some other things to show you, some papers.”
“All right.”
She set his coffee on the table, sat. “You said he died last month. Was he ill?”
“It’s kind of you to ask. I’ll try to explain that, too. First, I want to tell you Collin didn’t know he had a brother, not for many years. That was kept from him. He learned about your father shortly before your father’s death. From me. Genealogy is my hobby, a kind of passion really. I decided to research Collin’s as a gift. Do an extensive family tree, as it seemed there were missing pieces—or branches, we’ll say, on that tree.”
