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Archie blinked, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. The only light spilled in from the small, round portholes lining the sides of the hull. A faint smell lingered in the air—teak oil, mingled with the sharper scent of salt, and beneath it, something warmer, like aged leather and old books. The cabin was compact, meticulously maintained. Brass fixtures glinted in the low light, and a narrow wooden table stretched down the center, flanked by cushioned benches upholstered in dark blue, their fabric slightly sun-faded.

Along one wall, a small galley with neatly stowed utensils and a row of mugs hung from hooks, all unmoved since John’s last outing. Beside it, a built-in bookshelf held a mix of nautical charts, philosophy books with cracked spines, and a handful of guidebooks—Mariner’s Almanac, The Northwest Coast. A wooden compass rested on the shelf beside them, the lacquered casing worn but well-kept. Next to the compass was a framed black and white photograph he remembered well. John and himself a decade earlier. John was laughing in the sun, one hand resting on Archie’s shoulder, and Archie, one hand on the helm of El Fantasma Blanco, one hand shoving back his wind-blown hair, his eyes squinting against the light.

Lying face up in front of the photo was a white envelope.

Archie

Archie hesitated. His mouth felt dry, his heart pounded heavily as if he finally faced some long-awaited threat.

What the hell was the matter with him?

Did he want to know or not?

Know what?

But, of course, he already knew. Had been coming slowly, reluctantly to this now inevitable realization from the moment Ms. Madison had read aloud John’s final words Archer Everett Crane, who I have long considered my beloved son…

He slid his finger under the flap and ripped open the envelope.

Dear A.,

If you’re reading this, please forgive me. It was always, always my intention to tell you the truth in person, to honestly answer any questions, to reassure you on every point. I hope with all my heart that I can eventually burn this letter unread.

When I was a young medical student, I applied for a residency at a top-tier teaching hospital in Los Angeles. Like you, when I was growing up, I found Twinkleton and even Oregon too provincial, too insulated. I wanted to see what the wide world had to offer. I was very happy when I was accepted, and my years in Southern California were some of my most rewarding.

But I was a little shy back then, and a little homesick. I didn’t have a wide circle of friends in Los Angeles. When I had time off, I used to go sailing or to museums. One day I met a very young and very pretty docent at the Huntington Art Museum. Her name was Carolyn Barclay. We began going out and I quickly fell in love. I knew that Caro was recovering from a painful breakup, but I believed that, in time, she might love me as well.

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Your mother eventually reunited with the man she truly loved. Though Caro was pregnant, Scott Crane had no hesitation about marrying her and becoming a father to our unborn child.

I was not happy about any of it, but I was particularly not happy about relinquishing custody of you. I could have—and threatened—to fight for custody. But I still loved your mother and, ultimately, I couldn’t do it. She promised that she would keep me regularly updated on you, and that when you turned eighteen, she and Scott would tell you the truth and, if you were willing, I would finally be able to be part of your life.

Again, I was not happy. But I was a single man with a very busy medical practice, and I was afraid that taking you from your mother was not the right choice for you.

When you came to live with me, I intended to tell you the truth right away. But it would have been one more shock, one more trauma, and you had lost too much already. I decided instead to stick to the plan and tell you when you turned eighteen. But when you turned eighteen, your friendship with Beau Langham was starting to fray, and again I was afraid to take anything else from you.

And so, the years passed.

I’m hopeful that the next time we’re able to spend some time together, I’ll be able to tell you all of this, and that it won’t be as painful as I fear it would have been when you were a boy. The simple truth is that you have been loved from the moment you were conceived. By your mother and by both your fathers. The years you spent beneath my roof were, without question, the very happiest of my life. I could not have asked for a finer son.

There’s so much more I’d like to say. My hope is that I’ll be able to say these things to you in person one day soon.

With all my love,

John

John’s face twisting in that final pained effort to speak. “Some... “

Son.

With his dying breath he had tried to say the word.

Archie did not realize at first that he was crying.

It was not until the print blurred and he tasted tears that he became aware that he was sobbing in the gently rocking cocoon of the yacht’s cabin. Crying for John, for his parents, for Kyle, for the time he and Beau had lost—and a future he wasn’t sure he had the courage to try for.

Once he started, he couldn’t seem to stop, and it was as raw and painful as being torn apart. Why did people say crying relieved stress? He felt like he was drowning.

Time passed.