When We Meet Again Read Free Page B

possible. My mother couldn’t explain what happened to him, but some stranger in Germany mysteriously knows our family secrets? It just doesn’t add up.”
    “I know. But what if it’s true, though? What if Grandma Margaret really was the love of your father’s life?”
    My father looked away. “And he just vanished? Never looked back? And now someone’s sending random, cryptic messages saying that he never stopped loving her?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s unlikely.”
    Something dark was simmering inside of me all of a sudden. “What’s unlikely? That he loved her but still managed to leave her behind?”
    “Well, yeah. You don’t just walk away from the people you love like that.” He glanced at me, and suddenly, he seemed to realize what he’d just said. “Emily, I didn’t mean me and you. It’s not the same situation.”
    I blinked a few times, any rapport between us gone in a flash. “Sure. Like father, like son, I guess.”
    He waited until I met his gaze. “Emily, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. There’s nothing I can ever say or do to change what I did.”
    “Then why do you keep trying?” I hated the coldness in my voice, but it’s what I reverted to every time I talked with my father. It was just easier that way.
    “Look, I left because of my own baggage, my own shortcomings. And I need to try to explain that to you. I need to make it up to you.”
    “Please stop.” I felt suddenly exhausted. “I hear what you’re saying. But it doesn’t change anything.” I paused and looked down at my grandmother’s face.
    “I know.” After a moment of silence, my father cleared his throat. “So what do you plan to do about the painting, Emily? What are you thinking?”
    I took a deep breath. “I need to find out who sent it and what they know. I want to understand what happened.”
    “I do too. And I’ll help you in any way I can.”
    I turned away. “Thanks, but I can do this on my own.”
    “Then why did you call me?” My father’s tone was gentle, but I felt defensive all the same.
    “I don’t know. I thought you might know something that could help. But I guess I was wrong.”
    My father turned to stare at the painting. “All I know,” he said after a while, “is that I grew up without a father. And then I turned around and did the exact same thing to you.” He looked up and gave me a sad smile, and then, after giving my arm a quick squeeze, he headed for the door. “Believe me, I want to get to the bottom of this too.
    “Emily,” he said, pausing at the threshold. “I’m glad you called.”
----
    The phone rang the next morning just past six, jarring me out of a nightmare about my father and Monica standing at my mother’s grave, taunting me.
    “This is Nicola Schubert of the Galerie Schubert-Balck in Munich,” said the heavily accented voice on the other end as soon as I picked up. “I am returning a call from Emily Emerson. You are Miss Emerson?”
    “Yes, that’s right.” I was instantly awake as I reached for a notepad and pen.
    “I do hope I am not calling too early. But I wanted to get back to you as soon as possible.”
    “No problem,” I said quickly. “I was trying to reach you because I received a painting from your gallery and I—”
    “Yes, yes,” Nicola interrupted. “I am aware. But I am afraid there is not much I can tell you. Of course The Girl in the Field with the Violet Sky is a beautiful painting.”
    “The painting has a name?”
    “No, no, it is just what we are calling it. It arrived with very few details.”
    “But who sent it to you?” I asked. “And why?”
    “That’s what I am trying to tell you. I truly do not know. It arrived by courier with a typewritten note.”
    “Do you still have it?”
    She snorted. “Surely not. I recycle. But I can tell you what it said. It said that money had already been wired to the gallery, and that it should be more than enough to pay for the restoration and the shipping—which it