When We Meet Again (9 page)

“So what’s this favor?” Scott asked after a pause.

“I need you to run a database search for me, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah, so you’re calling about business.”

“Well, it’s actually more of a personal thing.”

“Now I’m intrigued.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Want to meet me at Casey’s in a few minutes? I’ll buy you a drink, and you can tell me all about it.”

“How about breakfast instead? My treat.”

“Make it Dexter’s tomorrow morning at nine, and you have a deal.”

I smiled. It had been our favorite brunch spot when we were dating. “I’ll see you there.”

“Great. And Emily?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss you.”

I paused, surprised. But did he mean it, or were they just empty words? “I miss you too,” I said, not entirely sure whether I was telling the truth. “See you in the morning.”

I
woke up the next day thinking of Catherine, as I often did. I went for a run around Lake Eola, and as my feet pounded the pavement, I let my mind wander back to the night Nick and I had conceived her. The ridiculous irony of it was that we’d only slept together once; we were like one of those this-could-happen-to-you after-school specials. I’d told my mother two days later that I’d lost my virginity, because we’d had the kind of relationship where we shared everything, even the things you weren’t supposed to tell a parent. “Just be careful,” she’d said, and later, after she had died and I thought back on the conversation, I had the strange feeling she could see into the future. “The decisions you make now will impact you forever. And you’re still so young, Emily. If he really loves you, he’ll be there when you both grow up. No reason to rush things.”

But it hadn’t felt like a rush. It had felt inevitable. Nick was different from other guys our age; he was funny and a little nerdy and wore his heart on his sleeve. While other guys seemed to delight in pressuring girls to go to third base and then ignoring them, Nick wrote me endearingly corny poems and drew little cartoon pictures of us, which he slipped into my locker between classes. Every kiss with him felt magical, because he always took his time, cupping my cheek with one hand and resting the other gently on the back of my head, as if he was cradling something delicate and important. His mouth on mine was always tender, deliberate, and sometimes, although my body was responding and my heartbeat quickening, I forced myself to pause and savor the sweet slowness of the moment, the fact that Nick always seemed to treat each kiss like the very first one.

On the night we’d slept together—in his bedroom, when his parents were out at a work function for his dad’s office—he’d asked me if I was sure I wanted to do this.

“I love you, Emily,” he’d said, his pupils dilated and his voice husky as he looked into my eyes. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure. We don’t have to do this.”

But I could tell that he wanted to as much as I did, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that this was the right thing. “I know. I want to lose my virginity to you,” I’d said firmly.

His response was a guttural moan as his lips fell on mine again. After that, he’d taken his time, slowly peeling my clothes away from my body. He’d run his fingers and then his lips over every inch of me until I was practically begging, although I was terrified of what it would feel like. He’d felt my fear, and he’d waited until it had melted away in a haze of anticipation and ecstasy before he finally slid between my legs.

I’d cried out, and his face had filled with concern for a second, but I’d pulled him toward me before he could say anything, and my body took over, rising and falling in rhythm with his. I’d never felt so close to someone before, so intertwined with another person, and when we were finished, lying sweaty and smiling and tangled in his sheets, I swore I would never forget the way I felt that day.

And I hadn’t. I’d tried to, because it wasn’t normal to be thinking all these years later of the night I’d lost my virginity. But that day had been a force that changed my life in more ways than one. And at the times I’d felt the loneliest over the last eighteen years, I’d sometimes retreated to those lost moments, to that feeling of total and utter belonging and connectedness I’d felt with him that night.

But my mother had died three weeks later, and after that, everything had changed. It had to. I didn’t know how to believe in anything anymore. Even Nick.

After my run, I showered, changed, shook my thoughts of Nick off, and walked to Dexter’s, about a half mile from my house. Unsurprisingly, Scott was twenty minutes late, but he hurried in full of apologies about how he’d closed the bar down last night and had slept through his alarm this morning. Instead of making me feel annoyed, his excuses—a reminder of the way things had been between us—just made me weary.

“Look, Emily, I’m really sorry,” he said after he’d ordered a cup of coffee and looked at the menu.

I just looked at him.

“For everything,” he elaborated when I didn’t say anything. “For the way things ended between us. I was wrong, and I’m sorry. I was a crappy boyfriend. I see that now. I took you for granted, and I screwed everything up.”

I took a deep breath. “I’m not very good at the girlfriend thing either,” I admitted. “It wasn’t all your fault.”

He nodded, accepting this. “What do you think about trying again?”

I blinked at him a few times. “Why would it work this time around?”

He shrugged. “Maybe it would, and maybe it wouldn’t. But I always felt like we were good together, Emily. We had fun, at least.”

“But there’s more to a relationship than having fun, isn’t there?” I hated the way I sounded, but I knew I was right. “There’s that feeling of really
getting
each other. And I don’t think you ever really got me.”

Scott shifted in his chair. “I could try harder. To get you, I mean. Maybe we should just see.”

We were interrupted by the arrival of our waitress, who took our breakfast order: the restaurant’s specialty eggs Benedict and a glass of orange juice for me, a breakfast BLT and Bloody Mary for Scott. When she walked away, I dove right into my request before Scott could return to the subject of us, because frankly, I didn’t know what to say.

“I was hoping you could do me a favor,” I began.

“Ah, the mysterious favor that summoned me here at the ungodly hour of nine a.m.” He glanced at his watch and grinned. “Well, nine thirty. So what is it? What can I help with?”

“It’s about my grandfather.”

“I met him, right?”

I sighed. I knew I’d told him about my family, about how Grandma Margaret had raised my dad alone. I’d also told him that my mother’s parents had died before I was born. If he’d given a shred of thought to it, he’d realize there was no way he could have met my grandfather—but that was Scott in a nutshell. “No,” I said. “But I’d love your help in tracking him down.”

As Scott leaned forward and listened intently, I told him the short version of Jeremiah’s story, concluding with the fact that the man who was probably my grandfather was named Peter Dahler and had wound up back in Holzkirchen, Germany—close to where the painting had been mailed from.

“So what do you think?” I asked. “Could you track this Peter Dahler down?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “Of course our database does a much better job of finding people within the United States, but my friend Neil works for the London
Times,
and he might have access to some resources that I don’t. Either way, write down the details, and I’ll give it a try.”

I dug in my purse for the notes I’d written earlier about Peter Dahler, including his name, his middle initial, his potential age range, and the address in Munich from which Grandma Margaret had received the last letter. I handed the paper over to Scott. “Here’s everything I know.”

Scott scanned the piece of paper and nodded. “Okay. I’m on it.” He slipped the paper into his shirt breast pocket. “I’ll get started when I get in to work today.”

“You’re the best. I owe you one.”

He arched an eyebrow and leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Our food arrived five minutes later, and as we ate, we caught up on each other’s families and friends. I was happy to hear that Scott’s little sister was getting married in the spring, and he seemed surprised but pleased to hear I’d spoken with my father a few times. “I always thought you should forgive him,” he said.

The words rubbed me the wrong way. “Sure. Everyone should go around screwing me over, and it’s just my job to let it go.”

Scott’s smile faltered. “That’s not what I’m saying. Just that family means something.” He patted the pocket where he’d put my Peter Dahler notes. “But you know that. After all, you’re trying to track down your granddad, aren’t you?”

Twenty minutes later, I insisted on paying since Scott was doing me a favor, and we walked together to the door, where Scott gave me a quick hug good-bye. “Think about what I said about me and you, okay? Life’s short; you have to seize the opportunities and all that, right?”

“Right,” I said, but I wasn’t thinking of him. I was thinking of all the opportunities I’d squandered in the past and wondering if it was too late.

I was home by 11:15, and after studying the painting for a while more, as if it could tell me something, I dug out the information Jeremiah had given me for Julie Candless, Louise’s granddaughter.

I dialed her number, and someone picked up after just two rings. “Hi,” I said tentatively. “I’m looking for Julie Candless.”

“You’ve reached her.”

“My name is Emily Emerson.” I was lousy at figuring out family trees, but I took a stab in the dark. “I think I’m your second cousin. Or your second cousin once removed or something like that.”

“I don’t have a cousin named Emily.”

“I’m Margaret’s granddaughter,” I told her. “Margaret was your grandmother Louise’s sister, I think.”

“Oh, right.” She sounded surprised. “But how’d you get my number? I don’t think my grandmother talked to her sister in, like, sixty years.”

“Do you know Jeremiah Beltrain? I met with him yesterday. He thought you might know some things about my grandmother and her past.”

Julie hesitated. “I doubt I know anything you don’t, considering I never even met her.”

“I’m specifically wondering about the years she lived in Belle Creek. Especially the end, when she apparently fell in love with a German prisoner of war. I think he might be my grandfather.”

“Your grandmother never talked about it?”

“No.” I glanced across the room at the painting. “I think he really hurt her. But now I’m wondering if there’s more to the story.”

Julie was silent for so long that I began to wonder if she’d hung up.

“Julie?” I ventured.

“Are you still here in Belle Creek? Do you have time to swing by my house?”

My heartbeat picked up, and I glanced at my watch. “I can be there by about two fifteen. Will that work?”

“Yeah, I guess. Let me give you my address. But I hate to get your hopes up. I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to help you. I just have some letters and stuff.”

“Letters?”

“I’ll show you when you get here.” She gave me her address and directions, and then we hung up with a promise to see each other soon.

Two and a half hours later, I was pulling off the main road into Belle Creek, noting once again what a different world it was here. As a longtime Floridian, I knew that most of the state’s big cities, including Orlando, had cow pastures, orange groves, and farms on the outlying edges of their urban sprawl, but the setting in Belle Creek was somehow different from all that. The buildings on the town’s tiny main square all looked like they were built in the 1920s or 1930s, and the rest of the town seemed to match. It was clean and well preserved, but it also felt trapped in time.

As I made my way out toward Julie’s house, I passed field upon field of sugarcane, the stalks swaying in the breeze like giant blades of grass. I rolled down my windows to get a better look and was surprised to discover they smelled faintly like creamed corn. White egrets pecked at the dirt, and vultures circled lazily overhead. When the wind picked up, the rippling fields sounded like they were whispering. The featherlike plumes atop some of the stalks were so wispy and insubstantial that they appeared to float like fairies above the earth.

I slowed down to a crawl and tried to imagine my grandmother here. When she met Peter, she would have been roughly the same age my daughter was now, I realized with a start. It was as hard for me to imagine my grandmother at eighteen with her whole life before her as it was for me to imagine Catherine at eighteen with her whole childhood behind her. I had the overwhelming sense that in both cases, time had moved too quickly.

I continued down the dirt road until I was at the end of a huge expanse of sugarcane. I knew that Jeremiah’s house was off to the right, behind a small thatch of palm trees, but at the fork in the road, I turned left instead to head toward Julie’s. I pulled into the third driveway I came upon, about a mile down on the right, just as she’d directed.

The house was wooden and painted yellow, and although it looked old and ill-constructed, it also appeared well kept. There was an old, maroon Toyota Corolla out front and a child’s bike tipped into a neat bed of marigolds. I parked behind the Toyota and walked up to the front door.

The woman who answered looked about a decade younger than I was, but I could see the family resemblance. She had my grandmother’s eyes, slightly almond shaped with long lashes, and the same narrow chin. “Julie?” I asked.

“You must be Emily.” She looked me up and down. “Come in.”

She ushered me into a brightly lit kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been remodeled since the 1970s. “Can I get you a glass of lemonade or anything?” she asked as I sat down at the chipped kitchen table.

“That sounds great.”

She was silent as she poured two drinks, then she sat down across from me, pushing one of the glasses across the table. I took a sip and smiled at her. “Thanks so much for having me over on such short notice,” I said.