I’d nodded, thinking about how nice it felt to be his daughter again. And I thought, too, that knowing we’d reconnected in the end might make my mother smile. I’d spent years thinking that a reconciliation with my dad would be a betrayal of her, but I now realized that she’d probably want most of all for me to be happy.
Two weeks before he died, my father had asked me about my daughter for the first time since we’d discussed her in Atlanta. “Did she look like you?” His skin felt cold and clammy as he reached for my hand, his grasp weak, and I knew he was slipping away.
“Maybe a bit. But I saw Nick in her more than I saw myself. She had Mom’s nose and your facial expressions.”
“She looked like me?” His eyes were suddenly watery.
“A little. She was healthy, Dad. Seven pounds, three ounces, even though she was three weeks early. She was due on October 31, but she arrived screaming her little lungs out on October 8.” I smiled, and he smiled back. “I had her at Bayfront Medical Center in St. Pete, and I didn’t know a soul in that city except for Grandma Margaret. I think the moment they came to take her away was the most alone I’d ever felt in my entire life. I hadn’t realized during the time that I was pregnant with her how comforting it was to know she was right there with me. But having her taken was like losing a part of myself. I wish I’d understood that sooner.”
“It seems like the most important lessons in life are the ones we grasp far too late,” my father said.
“Yeah.” I knew he wasn’t just talking about Catherine. “You know, I went to Mom’s grave a couple months ago. I asked her to help me find Catherine, just so I could know she was okay. Do you . . . do you believe in stuff like that?”
“That your mom can hear you in heaven? I think anything is possible, honey.” My father started to say something else, but whatever it might have been was lost in a fit of coughing.
Later, after I’d grabbed a soda from the machine down the hall and a nurse had brought in a glass of water for him, he’d raised his cup in the air. “To second chances, however they happen,” he’d said, looking me in the eye.
“I can drink to that.”
“You deserve every happiness, Emily,” he’d murmured. Two weeks later, he was gone. And somehow, in the wake of his death, I had gone from having no family to connecting with the people who had once been a part of my grandparents’ life, in one way or another. I had visited Belle Creek in January to tell Jeremiah and Julie in person about the true story of Peter and Margaret, and they’d both called several times since. I’d reached out to Franz, who sent flowers for my father’s funeral, and I talked on an almost weekly basis to Arno Fromm, who loved to share stories of his memories with my grandfather. I felt like I was discovering pieces of my past at every turn, and it made me feel somehow like the circle of my family’s life was almost complete.
Maybe that’s what the rainbow this morning was trying to tell me—that it was okay to reach for all the colors of joy, all the happiness I could find, just like my father had said. The only thing missing was Catherine, but I knew that was something I’d have to learn to live with.
I did two loops around the lake and headed back toward my house, lost in thought. The rainbow had faded as the day grew brighter, but it was still just slightly visible, beckoning me home. I had just turned the corner from Shine Avenue onto my street when I saw a woman at my front door, her back to me. She was knocking, and in her left hand, she was clutching a piece of paper.
“Can I help you?” I called out as I reached the bottom of my driveway.
She whirled around, and I stopped in my tracks. I knew instantly who she was.
“Excuse me,” said the woman—a girl, actually, an eighteen-year-old. “But I’m looking for Emily Emerson.”
“That’s me,” I managed to say.
“Oh. Well, I’m, uh, I’m Megan Clark.” She paused, seemingly unsure of how to continue.
“Megan,” I repeated with a smile.
“Well, the thing is, I think you might be my biological mother.” The girl held up the piece of paper in her hand and waved it uneasily. I took a few small steps toward her, my vision blurring as my eyes filled. “I got this letter a few weeks ago,” she continued. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come, but I just wanted to think about some things before I met you. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course it is. It’s more than okay.” I couldn’t stop staring at her. She was beautiful; she had Nick’s eyes, my high forehead, and a button nose that reminded me of my own mother. She had the same dimples as Nick’s sister, Abby, and a narrow chin that looked just like my father’s. She was the best of all of us, but she was her own person too. “You said you received a letter?”
“Yeah. From a guy named Victor Emerson. He said he’s your dad. My granddad. Is that right?”
I stared at her in disbelief and took a few more steps so that I was standing just in front of her. I ached to reach out and touch her, to pull her into my arms just to make sure she was real, but I didn’t want to scare her away. “Yes. He is. Um, he was. But how . . . ?”
Megan handed me the letter, which was dated December 15, just five days before my father died. “See for yourself.”
I began to read, my heart in my throat.
Dear Megan,
I’m afraid that this letter probably feels very out of the blue to you. My name is Victor Emerson, and I believe I’m your biological grandfather. If you don’t want to find your birth family, I offer my deepest apologies for contacting you; you are certainly free to discard this letter. But if you have ever wondered about where you came from, I’d love to tell you a little.
I found out only recently that my daughter, Emily—to whom I fear I’ve been a terrible father—had a daughter of her own and gave her up for adoption years ago because she thought she was giving that child a better life. I’ve hired a private investigator who tells me that child is you. Every day, Emily has wondered and worried about what became of you. So even if you’re not ready to meet her—even if you have no interest in ever meeting her—please know that you’ve been loved deeply since the day you were born. I know she would want you to know that.
It may be difficult to understand, but regardless of the choices we make, love doesn’t go away. I know without a doubt that Emily has loved you every day of your life, just as I’ve always loved her. Please don’t feel any obligation to reach out to her—I know she doesn’t want you to feel any pressure—but if you’ve ever wondered about the woman who gave birth to you, I know she would love to explain what happened, and I think you’ll understand.
I used to believe that in life, we would always have a million more opportunities to make things right. “Why do the hard things today when I can do them tomorrow?” I would ask myself. But in recent months, I’ve come to realize that tomorrow is never a guarantee and that if we don’t say and do the important things in life now, we may never have the chance.
Megan, I’m including Emily’s phone number and address below, as well as the details of her child’s birth so that you can confirm that they match the details of your birth. Again, you have absolutely no obligation here, and I know Emily does not want to interfere in your life. But if you’ve ever wanted to know about your past, and about the woman who gave birth to you, this should be all you need to reach out. Please know most of all that you are loved—by her, and now by me too—and if there’s anything you ever need, you only have to say the word.
I wish I’d had the chance to meet you.
With love always,
Victor
When I was finished reading, I looked up at Megan, who had tears in her eyes. How strange and unpredictable life could be. “Megan, I’m so glad you came,” I said, handing her the letter. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”
“Really?” she asked in a small voice. “I always kind of figured you’d just forgotten and moved on.”
“Not for a second.”
“I just—I need to know why you did
n’t want me. I need to understand.”
“It was never that I didn’t want you. Never. But come in. Please. I’ll tell you everything, okay?”
Megan looked at me for a long time. “Okay,” she said finally.
I pulled the key from under the mat and opened the door. Megan took a deep breath and walked inside, then she stopped short, staring at the painting on her left, the one that Ingrid had given me, the one that hung on my father’s wall until he died. “That looks like a Gaertner,” she said. “Well, not the faces, obviously. But geez, it looks just like one of his skies. I actually wrote my college entrance essay about his art.”
“You did?” My heart skipped. “It is a Gaertner, actually.”
“But it’s a print, right?”
“No. It’s an original.” I watched as her jaw dropped. “How do you know about Gaertner?”
“I paint a little. He’s always been my favorite.”
I stared in disbelief. “Would you believe me if I said art is in your blood?”
She laughed. “Really? That’s cool. I’m going to the University of Florida in the fall to get a BFA in painting, hopefully.”
I smiled. “I went to school there too. For journalism.”
“You’re a Gator? That’s so cool. So can you tell me why you have a Gaertner original? I mean, this has to be worth like a hundred thousand dollars.”
“I’ll tell you the whole story,” I said. “But first, can I ask you something?”
She nodded.
“Have you had a good life? I mean, your parents, are they good people? Are you happy?”
She reached out and touched my arm, the first time we’d made contact in more than eighteen years. “Yeah. Everything’s been good. My parents are awesome.”
“Good,” I whispered. “I’m so glad.”
And as Megan began to tell me, haltingly, about growing up in Sarasota, about her little sister, Anne, and their dog, Dexter, and about her mom, Heather, and her dad, Martin, I realized something. Although the reasons behind giving my daughter up were the wrong ones, the outcome was right. Maybe I was never meant to be her mother. She’d had a good childhood.
And finally, I could feel myself beginning to let go of all the guilt I’d carried for so long. Maybe I was never meant to bear it in the first place. And maybe in order to move into the future, I finally had to let the past stop controlling me once and for all.
“Victor,” Megan said after a moment. “My grandfather, I mean. Your dad. Does he live around here too? He only gave me your number and address, not his.”
I hesitated. “I’m sorry, but he died a few days after he sent you that letter, Megan.”
Her mouth opened in a small o of surprise. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too. He would have really loved meeting you. I think it would have made him really happy to know that the two of us were standing here together now.”
Her brow furrowed. “Were you real close to him?”
“Yes. In the end, I think I was.” I could feel my eyes beginning to sting, so I changed the subject. There would be more time to tell Megan about my dad—and my mother and grandparents—later. “You know, your father’s going to want to meet you too.”
Her eyes widened. “He’s here?”
“He’s in Atlanta. But I bet he’ll be on the first plane down once I tell him about you.”
“Really?”
I nodded. I could hardly wait to tell Nick, but I wanted to stay here, in this moment, with Megan for as long as I could. “Do you want something to drink?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Just some water or something.”
“I’ll be right back.”
When I returned a moment later with two water bottles, Megan was staring at the painting, her back to me. She spun around, a look of awe on her face, when she heard me behind her. “That’s you in the painting. Isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Me and your grandfather and your great-grandparents.”
“For real? Ralph Gaertner actually knew you?”
I thought about that for a moment. “In a way, I think maybe he always did.”
She shook her head and turned back to the painting. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, and I didn’t know whether she was talking about the painting or about this moment.
“Yes,” I said to my daughter. The bright future I’d always searched for, the answer to everything, was finally here. “It really is.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
A huge thank-you, as usual, to two of my favorite people in the world: my amazing literary agent, Holly Root, and my awesome editor, Abby Zidle. I feel very grateful not only to have such a wonderful professional relationship with the two of you but also to count you as treasured friends. Thank you for believing in me, fighting for me, and helping me to become a better storyteller.
To my wonderful publicist, Kristin Dwyer: You are such a rock star, dude. It’s not just the skillful and perfect way you spell your gorgeous first name—wink, wink—it’s just your all-around coolness and generosity.
A huge thanks to the incredible Dana Spector, my film agent, who could probably negotiate a deal underwater, with her hands tied behind her back, if she had to. You’re amazing, mama! And to the lovely Heather Baror-Shapiro, who has helped bring my books to the world: I can’t thank you enough.
I’m also very grateful to Marla Daniels, Louise Burke, Jennifer Bergstrom, Jen Long, Liz Psaltis, Diana Velasquez, Melanie Mitzman, Mackenzie Hickey, Laurie McGee, Christine Masters, Alexander Rothman, Chelsea McGuckin, Taylor Haggerty, Julianna Wojcik, Ashley Lopez, Kim Yau, and the rest of the wonderful folks I work with at Gallery Books, the Waxman Leavell Literary Agency, and the Paradigm Talent Agency.
To Eva Schubert (my first German editor) and Elisabetta Migliavada (my Italian editor): I can never thank the two of you enough for your support, your encouragement, and your friendship. Thanks also to the team at Blanvalet (especially Julia Natzmer and Nicola Bartels) and the team at Garzanti (especially Francesca Rodella and Ilaria Marzi), as well as my many wonderful foreign publishers, editors, and publicists. Special thanks to Bettina Schrewe and of course Farley Chase. I feel so lucky to have all of you in my life—and to be able to reach so many readers around the world with your help.
I had the wonderful experience of meeting screenwriter Heather Hach through my previous novel, The Life Intended, and I’m so lucky to count her now among my close friends. I’ll always think of you as “the friend intended!” I’m so excited for all the wonderful things to come in the future, and I’m so grateful for your friendship and support.
I couldn’t have written this book without the help of Butch Wilson at the Clewiston Museum and Gregory Parsons at the Camp Blanding Museum. The two of you were enormously helpful in helping me to understand the lives of German POWs in Florida during World War II. Special thanks to painter Melissa Wolcott Martino for providing some eleventh-hour art assistance.
Thank you to all my wonderful writer friends, especially my sounding board and writing soul mate Wendy Toliver, and the Swan Valley gang: Jay Asher, Linda Gerber, Alyson Noel, Aprilynne Pike, Allison van Diepen, and Emily Wing Smith.
I’m very lucky to have some of the best family members in the world, especially my mom Carol, my dad Rick, Noah, Karen, Dave, Barry, James, William, Johanna, Janine, Donna, Wanda, Mark, Brittany, Jarryd, Chloe, Bob, JoAnn, Steve, Janet, Anne, Fred, Jess, Greg, Merri, Derek, Eleanor, the Troubas, and Courtney. And thanks to my wonderful friends, especially Kristen Bost, Eddie Bost, Colton Bost, Marcie Golgoski, Melixa Carbonell, Lisa Wilkes, Lauren Elkin, Scott Pace, Walter Caldwell, Jon Payne, Christine Payne, Brendan Boyle, Kelly Galea, Nick Harris, Sara Sargent, Amy Tan, Courtney Dewey, Amber Draus, Megan Combs, Scott Moore, Megan McDermott Lewis, Trish Stefonek, Robin Gage, Wendy Jo Moyer, Chad Kunerth, Gillian Zucker, Chubby Checker, Jay Cash, Pat Cash Isaacson, Andy Cohen, Sanjeev Sirpal, Kat Green, Ben Bledsoe, Joe Grote, Kathleen Henson, Andrea Jackson, Nancy Jeffrey, Karen B
arber, Lauren Billings Luhrs, Zena Polin, Kerry Reichs, Daryn Kagan, Samantha Phillips, Kate Atwood, Christina Sivrich, Amy Ballot, Jason Cochran, Al Martino, Karen Leigh, and the rest of those I know and love. I know I left people out . . . I’m just so darned lucky to have so many great people in my life! I could go on for pages!
A special thanks to the lovely Aestas (of Aestas Book Blog), Jenny O’Regan, Melissa Amster, Amy Bromberg, and all of the other bloggers who have been so wonderfully supportive over the years.
And finally, to Jason: I’m so happy and proud to be your wife. I couldn’t be more excited about the new adventures ahead.
Don't miss Kristin Harmel's "immersive" (Publishers Weekly), "enthralling" (Fresh Fiction), international bestselling novel, THE SWEETNESS OF FORGETTING, and her other novels!
A baker in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, must travel to Paris to uncover a family secret for her dying grandmother—and what she learns may change everything.
The Sweetness of Forgetting
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A captivating novel about the struggle to overcome the past when our memories refuse to be forgotten, on sale now!
The Life Intended
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A woman with only a short time to live discovers she can repeat the same day over and over until her life feels complete.
How to Save a Life
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When We Meet Again Page 31
