When We Meet Again Read Free

it had been painted after my column had run, by someone who used our family photo as a model? But I knew that wasn’t true; the thick paper was slightly yellowed at the edges, suggesting that it was many years old, and the expression on the woman’s face was exactly like my grandmother’s when she was deep in thought, though in the photo that had run with the column, she’d been softly smiling. I was almost certain that it had been painted by someone who knew her. But was the note implying that my long-lost grandfather had been the artist?
    I had to figure out where this painting had come from. Walking over to my computer, I googled the name of the gallery, then dialed the phone number posted on its website.
    But as the phone rang several times I quickly did the math and realized that it was already nearly 9 p.m. in Munich. I wasn’t surprised when an answering machine picked up. I didn’t understand a word of German, so I had no idea what the outgoing message said, but after it beeped, I began to speak, hoping that someone there spoke English.
    “Hi. My name is Emily Emerson, and I just received a painting from your gallery with no indication of who the sender is. It’s a portrait of a woman standing in a field with a beautiful sky behind her. Could you please call me at your earliest convenience?” I left my number, hung up, and spent the next ten minutes in my kitchen, simply staring at the familiar face of my grandmother. Finally, I picked up the phone again, took a deep breath, and called the last person I wanted to talk to.
    “Hi,” I said when my father answered. His deep voice was achingly familiar, though I hadn’t spoken with him in nearly eight months. “It’s Emily. I—I need to show you something.”
    “Emily?” I hated how hopeful he sounded. It was as if he thought I was finally opening the door to a relationship. But that wasn’t what this was. “Of course. I’ll be right over.”

CHAPTER TWO
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    M y father arrived thirty minutes later, dressed in crisp charcoal pants, a pale blue shirt, and a gray tie. It appeared he’d just come from the office. He looked thinner than he had the last time I’d seen him, at my grandmother’s funeral in February, and I was struck by how much he’d aged. His hair had gone almost completely white, and the creases on his face were deeper than ever.
    “Hi, sweetheart,” he said, gazing at me hopefully from the doorstep.
    “Come in,” I said, turning away and walking toward the kitchen before he could try anything embarrassing like a hug.
    My father lived in Orlando now too; he’d come here from Miami seven years ago, apparently in hopes of reestablishing a relationship with me. He’d even opened a branch of his firm, Emerson Capital Investments, on Orange Avenue downtown so that he’d have a reason to be close by. I wanted to be in Orlando more often so that we could have a shot at getting to know each other, he’d told me when he first called out of the blue. Since then he had telephoned dutifully every two weeks, but I almost always let his calls roll over to voice mail and deleted most of his messages without listening. After all, what was there to say?
    He’d left my mother and me when I was eleven to marry a twenty-four-year-old assistant at his firm. Her name was Monica, and the first time I’d met her, I’d told her I hated her and that she had no right to break up my parents’ marriage. She, in turn, had told my father that she wanted nothing to do with a little brat like me, a sentiment he’d repeated to me apologetically a few weeks later when he explained why I wouldn’t be hearing from him much in the future. He’d moved to Miami before I finished seventh grade, and for the next decade—as long as Monica was in the picture—I had almost no contact with him. It was like he’d forgotten he had a child in the first place.
    He tried to reconcile with me after their divorce, but as far as I was concerned, it was too late. Walking