Chapter 8
Four months later, Daniel took me to his father’s house.
Samuel Mercer lived north of Boston in a white clapboard house surrounded by oak trees.
He opened the door before we knocked.
Seventy years old.
Gray hair.
Thin frame.
Same blue-gray eyes as Daniel.
He looked at me and immediately began crying.
That was all it took.
No introductions.
No speeches.
He held my face in both hands.
“My God.”
I cried too.
“I’m sorry.”
He shook his head.
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good.
Then stop.”
He hugged me.
Over his shoulder, Daniel smiled.
Inside, Samuel had photographs.
Jonathan at eight.
Jonathan at sixteen.
Medical school.
A beach.
A hospital corridor.
And one photograph that made my knees stop working.
Jonathan was twenty-seven.
Standing beside my mother.
She was pregnant.
His hand rested over her stomach.
My stomach.
They were both laughing.
I touched the photograph.
“Dad never told me they saw each other while she was pregnant.”
Samuel looked confused.
“Richard took that picture.”
I turned.
“What?”
Samuel nodded.
“Of course.”
My mind stalled.
“Richard was there?”
“Many times.”
I sat down.
Samuel seemed to realize I did not know.
“Oh.”
“What?”
He looked at Daniel.
Daniel looked equally confused.
Samuel went to a cabinet.
He returned with an old VHS tape.
“Your mother asked me never to give you this unless Richard agreed.”
“Why?”
“I assumed he eventually told you.”
“Told me what?”
Samuel looked sad.
“Emily, Richard and Jonathan were friends.”
I stared.
“My father hated Jonathan.”
“No.”
“Everything I’ve heard—”
Samuel shook his head.
“Richard helped him investigate the foundation.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“He gave Jonathan access to his father’s records.”
The room spun.
Samuel continued.
“When Margaret became pregnant, Jonathan wanted to marry her.
Richard loved Margaret too.”
That I knew.
“But Richard told Jonathan he would step aside.”
I could barely speak.
“Why?”
“Because he loved them both.”
Daniel sat beside me.
Samuel’s eyes filled.
“Jonathan was supposed to meet Richard the night he died.”
I swallowed.
“For what?”
“To give him the evidence.”
“And after the accident?”
“Richard came here.”
Samuel looked toward the windows.
“He sat on my porch until sunrise.”
My eyes burned.
“He blamed himself.”
“Yes.”
“Why did he never tell me?”
Samuel hesitated.
“You should ask him.”
I did.
That night.
I drove to my parents’ house alone.
My father was in his study.
For the first time in decades, the room contained cardboard boxes instead of staff binders.
He was dismantling his professional life.
I placed the photograph on his desk.
He went still.
“Where did you get that?”
“Samuel.”
Dad sat slowly.
“You took this.”
“Yes.”
“You were Jonathan’s friend.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you let me believe otherwise?”
He looked toward the fireplace.
“Because I wasn’t sure you would understand.”
“That is becoming the family motto.”
A faint smile.
Then nothing.
I sat across from him.
“Tell me.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“I met Jonathan in college.”
“You went to different schools.”
“There was a rowing competition.”
“You rowed?”
“Briefly.”
I smiled despite myself.
“He insulted me within six minutes.”
“That tracks.”
“He told me I looked like a man who used hair product before breakfast.”
I laughed.
Dad smiled.
“He was right.”
“What happened with Mom?”
His smile disappeared.
“I loved Margaret.”
“And she loved Jonathan.”
“Yes.”
“That must have hurt.”
“More than I knew a person could hurt and remain alive.”
The honesty startled me.
“But you remained friends.”
“I tried.”
“And when she became pregnant?”
“I was happy for them.”
“You married her later.”
“After Jonathan died.”
“Why?”
My father looked at me.
“Because she was alone.”
“That isn’t love.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“That isn’t why I married her.”
His voice became softer.
“I married her because I still loved her.
And because she finally understood that loving Jonathan did not mean there was no room in her life for anyone else.”
“What about me?”
His face changed.
“You were different.”
I tensed.
Then he smiled.
“You were mine the first time I felt you kick.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Your mother was seven months pregnant.
Jonathan was at the hospital.
You kicked while she was sitting beside me.”
Dad laughed softly.
“I put my hand on her stomach and you did it again.”
Tears filled his eyes.
“I remember thinking, well, there you are.”
I looked down.
“You never felt like I wasn’t yours?”
“No.”
“Not once?”
“Emily.”
He came around the desk.
Kneeling beside me, Richard Whitmore—the man who negotiated billion-dollar deals without blinking—took both my hands.
“Jonathan gave you life.
I was given the privilege of staying for it.”
May you like
I cried.
So did he.
