When We Meet Again (22 page)

“But who is she?” I asked, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

He hesitated. “Ingrid Gaertner. The widow of the famed realist painter Ralph Gaertner.”

My father and I exchanged looks. “So the painting
is
a Gaertner?” I asked.

“Oh, no, no, of course not. The painting we’re speaking of is obviously quite different from his work.” He frowned, and I had the feeling he thought my question was foolish. But then he added, “That said, the technique is very similar to Gaertner’s. My guess is that the work is by one of his students. He occasionally mentored other artists early in his own career.”

I leaned forward. “Could a man named Peter Dahler have been one of the artists he worked with? Have you heard of him?” What if somehow, all these years later, Gaertner’s widow had discovered my grandparents’ love story and was trying to tell me something?

“No,” Walter said after a pause. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. But I’m sure there were many artists he took under his wing who never received the acclaim that Gaertner did.”

“And you don’t have any contact information for Ingrid Gaertner?”

He chuckled. “No one does. She’s very private. In fact, I’m fairly certain I’m one of the only ones in the art world who has heard from her since her husband’s death.” He puffed up his chest proudly as my heart sank.

“Well, if she calls, can you give her my number?” I asked, scribbling it on a piece of paper and handing it to him. “Can you explain that both I and my father, Victor, are here because we want to know what happened to my grandfather?”

“Certainly.” He took the piece of paper from me and slipped it into one of his desk drawers. “In the meantime, you might be interested to know that there’s a Gaertner exhibit currently on at the Schwab Gallery in Savannah, which is only three and a half hours from here. Perhaps you might find the curator there, a woman named Bette Handler, more helpful. Bette’s a bit of an expert on Gaertner; I believe a few of the paintings in the exhibit are on loan from Mrs. Gaertner’s private collection, so she may have some contact information for her. Would you like me to make a call and set up a visit for you for tomorrow?”

“Yes, please.” I glanced at my father while Walter dialed a number and spoke briefly with Bette Handler’s assistant.

“Is one in the afternoon acceptable?” Walter asked, covering the mouthpiece. My father and I nodded, and Walter confirmed the appointment time before hanging up. “Well, if there isn’t anything else . . .”

We took the cue to stand up and head toward the exit. He showed us out the front entrance, locking the door behind him.

“I feel like we’re getting closer,” my father said as we walked back to the rental car. “But the question is, why would Ingrid Gaertner send you the painting anonymously? Why wouldn’t she just explain the whole thing? It’s all so strange.”

“I know. But maybe it’s because she keeps to herself, like Walter Pace said. Maybe she doesn’t want anyone to contact her.” My dad pulled out of the museum and back onto Peachtree. A few minutes later, we were snagged in rush hour traffic on I-85 headed back toward our hotel at the CNN Center downtown. For the first portion of the drive, we were both silent, lost in our own thoughts.

“Dad?” I asked after a while as we inched forward on the highway, barely making any progress.

He turned to me. “Yes?”

I took a deep breath. “What are you supposed to do when it’s too late to fix something that’s happened in the past?” I couldn’t believe I was asking him for advice, but being here in Atlanta, I couldn’t stop thinking about Nick and the terrible thing I’d done by walking away and denying him the chance to know his child. “I just have the feeling that time is running out.”

He stared at me for a long time. “How did you know?”

It wasn’t the answer I expected. “How did I know what?”

His face had gone white. “It’s not too late, honey,” he said after a moment. “You’re wrong about that. There’s still time to fix things between us. And the doctors are optimistic.”

“Wait, wait.” I held up my hands. “I wasn’t talking about me and you.”

“Oh.” He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. What were you asking about?”

“No. You can’t change the subject now. What do you mean about the doctors being optimistic? Is something wrong?”

He clenched the steering wheel and stared straight ahead, although we were hardly moving. “I have cancer, Emily,” he finally said quietly. “But I should be okay. I’m seeing a very good oncologist at Shands in Gainesville, and he has me in a trial that we both feel very positive about.”

“Cancer?” I repeated, stunned. I shouldn’t be feeling this devastated; after all, I had already lost my father in all the ways that were important. But he’d been working his way back into my life for a while now, and I had finally opened the door a crack. I’d thought we had all the time in the world to fix things. “What kind?”

“It’s in my liver.”

“
Liver
cancer?”

“I’m going to be fine,” he said firmly. “I’m responding well to the chemotherapy. My doctor is very optimistic.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He paused. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

The words wounded me. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you felt that way. But I do care. Of course I care.” I stared out the window and tried not to cry. “You’re really going to be okay?”

“Emily, right now, I feel fine.” He nudged me. “Now what were you trying to ask me about?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I murmured, still reeling.

“Of course it matters.” Traffic was moving again, and we moved toward our exit at a crawl. “And in answer to your question, it’s never too late to try to fix something you’ve done wrong, whatever it is. It’s what I’m trying to do now.”

I hesitated. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be better to just let the other person live in peace without burdening them with your guilt?”

“Is that what you want from me? To be left in peace?”

I hesitated. “No.”

“Good.” My father glanced at me. “Do you want to tell me who you’re talking about?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He thought for a minute. “And you hurt this person?”

“Yes. A long time ago.” I hesitated. “And it wasn’t just that I hurt him. It was that I made some choices that impacted his life too, and he doesn’t even know about some of them. I—I have a lot to apologize for.”

“Then it’s something you should try to fix, if you can. That’s what I think, anyhow. Hurt never really goes away, does it?”

We rode in silence the remainder of the way back to the hotel, and when we got there, my father pulled into the valet line and turned to me. “I’m pretty tired, but if you want to grab some dinner, I could meet you after I freshen up.”

“No, you should get some rest.” I took a deep breath. “There’s actually something I need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

I hesitated. Nick’s office was less than a mile from here. I knew I wouldn’t have time before we left town tomorrow to catch him. If I wanted to reach out in person, I’d have to do it now. My father was right; I needed to try to fix what I’d broken, even if it was impossible. Even if it terrified me. “Yes. It’s time.”

My father smiled. “Good luck, then.” He handed me the keys, and I walked around the car to the driver’s seat. He leaned in and squeezed my arm. “I’ll leave your room key for you at the front desk. Give me a call when you’re back, and maybe we can meet for a bite.”

“You’ll be okay?”

“I’m fine, Emily. Go do what you need to do.”

I nodded, and as I pulled out of the lot and back onto Marietta Street, I looked back to see him staring after me. He raised one hand in a small wave, and then I turned the corner and he was gone. I was all alone, and I was finally about to do what I should have done a long time ago.

N
W Creative, the advertising agency Nick owned, was located on Poplar Street, just nine blocks from the hotel. It was pathetic that I knew that, but between his website and his company’s Twitter feed, I always knew far more than I should. He had designed ads for charities, and he had several regular clients whose campaigns were always award winning. I imagined him as a real-life Don Draper, building an empire. I was proud of him, although I had no right to be.

It was strange that I still cared, but I couldn’t turn those feelings off. He was like a guilty addiction, something I knew I should be quitting but that I had found impossible to put behind me. And so, nearly nineteen years after I’d last seen him, I was standing on the sidewalk outside his building, looking up at the fourth floor, wondering whether he hated me.

“You going in?” asked a delivery driver who had somehow materialized in front of me, a package tucked under his arm. “Or are you just going to stand there?”

He was holding the door open and looking at me with mild annoyance. I cleared my throat and made the only decision I could possibly make. “I’m going in,” I said. I could practically feel his eye roll as I hurried past him and pressed the button for the elevator. He followed me into the building and disappeared down a hallway, muttering to himself, just as the elevator doors slid open. I took a deep breath, stepped in, and hit the button for floor four.

When the elevator dinged and the doors opened several seconds later, I found myself staring straight at Nick’s company logo—an
N
overlapping a
W
—and I realized that his office wasn’t just located on the fourth floor, it
was
the fourth floor. I swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that had sprung to my eyes. He was okay. His life had worked out. I was thankful for that.

“Can I help you?” asked the dark-haired, twentysomething receptionist sitting under the giant logo. She was pretty, and for a moment, that made me hate her in a terribly irrational sort of way.

“Um, yes,” I managed. “Is Nick Walker in?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No.” I hesitated. How could I explain why I was here?
You see, I once gave birth to your boss’s baby, but the thing is, I never told him, and I’m here to finally face up to it.
“I’m an old friend.”
He was the love of my life, but I threw him away, because I was terrified.
“I was in town, and I thought I might drop by to say hi.”

She gave me a strange look, as if she’d heard the words in my head instead of the words I’d said aloud. “It’s your lucky day,” she said. “He’s still in. Who should I tell him is here?”

“Emily.” It was all I could manage. And somehow, I knew he would know.

She nodded and stood up. I watched her walk to the back of the building, where she knocked and entered an office. I nervously smoothed my skirt as I waited. A moment later, the receptionist emerged, looking flushed. But I barely saw her, because there was another figure emerging from the doorway behind her, his eyes fixed on me.

Nick.

He was two decades older than the Nick I remembered, graying around the temples, laugh lines and crow’s-feet spidering gently across a face that had been smooth and youthful the last time I’d seen it in person. His shoulders were broader, his frame bigger. I had left a boy behind, and he’d become a man—a dark-haired, solid, gorgeous man.

He was staring at me, his gray eyes flickering like the sky before a storm. I stared back, and for a moment, every single word I’d rehearsed, everything I thought I’d say, was lost to me. If someone had asked me my own name in that moment, I’m not sure I would have known it. All the pieces of my life were tumbling around in my brain, finally settling into an alignment that left me only one crystal-clear thought: leaving Nick Walker was the stupidest thing I’d ever done.

“Miss?” I could hear the receptionist’s concerned voice, but she sounded very far away. “Miss?” she asked again, more loudly this time. She was probably wondering why the air was crackling between us, why her boss was staring at me like he’d seen a ghost, why neither of us had said a word yet. “Miss, would you like to step in to Mr. Walker’s office?”

“Yes.” It was the only word I could muster, and silently, Nick moved aside as I drifted toward him. As I passed, my arm brushed against the cool gray of his crisp shirt, and I breathed in deeply, taking comfort in the fact that all these years later, he still smelled faintly of Ivory soap. I felt a powerful surge of attraction and did my best to quell it.

“Have a seat.” They were Nick’s first words to me in nearly nineteen years, and I was struck both by the way his voice had deepened and the icy edge to it. I took another deep breath to steel myself and sat down in the chair he had gestured to. A moment later, he was sitting behind his desk, and I wondered if he was aware, as I was, that it felt like a tangible barrier between us.

Silence descended. I knew he was waiting for me to say something, to explain why I was here, but I couldn’t. So instead, I gazed around his office, soaking everything in. There were splashy, retro drawings on the wall, and I realized they were early mock-ups of some of the ad campaigns he had done. There was also a framed diploma from the University of Georgia and a framed award from the Atlanta Ad Club. On his desk were several photos, and as I leaned forward, I could see just one of them, which was facing slightly outward. Nick was in the middle of the frame with a gorgeous blond child on each side—a little girl and a little boy. I felt a sudden crushing weight on my sternum as I managed to choke out, “They’re beautiful, Nick.”

He followed my eyes to the photo, and his eyes lingered there for a moment. “They’re Abby’s kids,” he said, and suddenly, I could breathe again. Abby was his little sister. The kids weren’t his. Did the great sense of relief I felt make me a terrible person? But then he added, “My wife and I . . .” before trailing off. My heart sank, and I looked away, blinking furiously to dry my eyes. “I don’t have any children,” he concluded firmly. I looked back at him, and he held my gaze for a beat. “What are you doing here, Emily?”

I took a deep breath. The could-have-beens didn’t matter. He had a wife. He had a life that didn’t include me. And I had no one to blame for that but myself. “I owe you an apology.”