When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

  Alice closed her eyes, trying to dispel the image, to imagine him as he was when she’d first met him: the gentleman everyone thought him to be.

  “He won’t come for his baby,” she murmured. The knowledge that he was no longer in the country was her only comfort.

  Outside the wind had worsened, howling along the street as tree branches battered against windows, the same storm that had been lashing the south coast for days.

  Her mother moved closer. “God forgive you, Alice. And may he forgive me too, for helping you.”

  Then Ruth was gone, her footsteps on the wooden staircase echoing noisily through the cold, empty house.

  Left alone to finish packing, Alice considered whether she should tell her mother the truth. But while Ruth might believe that she’d fought the first time, would she believe that Alice couldn’t resist him the time after that? Or that he’d promised a future for them, before admitting it wasn’t one in which she’d be his wife?

  Tears rolled down her cheeks as she opened the wardrobe door and pulled the closest garment from its hanger before realizing that the dress barely fit her anymore; none of them did. As she closed the door, Alice caught her reflection in the mirror on the other side—bloodshot eyes sunken in their sockets, her skin paler than usual, its tone uneven, her cheekbones sharp under the harsh light of the bulb—and she was struck by how different she looked, as well as how foreign her life and her body had become. It wasn’t just because of what had happened to her but also because she was leaving her old life behind; when she returned, everything would be so changed.

  Over the past few years she and Ruth had needed to get used to many strange situations, things that didn’t make sense, and this was just as impossible to reconcile.

  How can my world have cracked apart to reveal the worst of human nature and the best of it? How do I feel so much hatred and yet have so much love to give?

  She’d managed up until now because she’d believed that she wasn’t alone; that she had Ruth’s love and support, but did she? Her mother’s moods were increasingly unpredictable, just as they’d been after her father’s and brother’s deaths. The prospect of an illegitimate grandchild might be too much for her after all; perhaps she was too mentally fragile to cope.

  Alice crossed the hallway to William’s room, stopping halfway to check that Ruth was still downstairs. She was moving around in the kitchen, and Alice pictured her as she’d once been, softer and warmer.

  Then Alice crept into the darkened bedroom that she wanted to turn into a nursery but that Ruth didn’t want touched. It was two years since the destroyer William served aboard was sunk off Norway, and although to Ruth his room was a reassuring shrine, Alice knew that it would never bring her brother back.

  With the door firmly closed, she switched on the light and sat on the edge of William’s bed, gazing around at the cupboards they’d hidden in and the furniture they’d made makeshift camps from. A locked glass cabinet held souvenirs and their father’s gun, with which he’d taught them both to shoot when they’d gone hunting in the countryside. Soccer cards were still stuck to the wall above William’s bed: Arsenal’s winning team from the 1936 FA Cup Final. He’d gone with their father, returning home more excited than she’d ever seen him before, face lit up, talking twenty to the dozen. The team had only won by one goal, but they were both so exhilarated, which she understood only came from being a true sports fan. Their family dinner that night was a real celebration, as if Christmas had come early. She remembered the occasion well because it was one of their last meals together.

  And what if William were alive now? Would he be as shocked and appalled as Ruth, or would he look to punish Rupert; perhaps make him marry Alice? She wasn’t sure how William would have reacted to the awful scenes when Ruth had first found out, or Alice’s refusal to put the baby up for adoption as her mother had initially insisted she should. Would William or their father have agreed with Ruth that Alice had ruined her life?

  Alice spread her fingers across the top of William’s eiderdown, feeling the bumps of the well-worn fabric and the damp of the untouched bed, and thought about the day her mother had come up with the plan. Alice had felt disbelief and then warm gratitude flood through her. It had seemed that Ruth’s motivation flourished from either duty or the protective instincts of a mother, and Alice had felt relief—that was, until Ruth had looked at her with disdain and said, “Thank the Lord that your father’s not here to see you like this.”

  Four

  New York, March 1943

  Theo crossed Astor Place onto Fourth Avenue, enjoying the ease with which he navigated these streets, so much less crowded than the Upper West Side, where he lived. The last time he’d been to Book Row was six months ago; he’d ridden the subway downtown from the Bronx when the Yankees had just beaten the Boston Red Sox to win their thirteenth game. He hadn’t worn a suit and fedora, as he did now, but chinos and a leather jacket, his Yankees cap covering most of his thick dark hair, his lean figure making him look like one of the athletes he’d just seen at the stadium. He’d played baseball through college and supported the Yankees since boyhood, when he’d gone to every home game with his pop, and the win that day had felt like a good omen. He’d proposed to Virginia that same night. He still felt like the luckiest man alive that she’d said yes, and while he had business on Book Row he also wanted to get a special birthday gift to give her that evening.

  He walked briskly, overtaking the taxicabs and buses that were bumper to bumper beside him, dwarfed by towering office blocks and three-story brownstones. His smile broadened at the thought of seeing Virginia and of her soon becoming his wife. Passing carved stone entranceways, he strode under striped roof canopies, avoiding the rows of wooden bookstands and the metal fire escapes that zigzagged up to the clear blue skies. “Mrs. Virginia Bloom,” he muttered to himself. The words had a special cadence.

  The view up toward East Thirteenth hadn’t changed since he’d worked there as a boy in his parents’ bookstore. His father had hawked copies of the classics, while his mother had done two-bit haircuts in the back when business was slow. It was then that he’d read anything and everything he could get his hands on, which accounted for a lot. Not only did it help him academically, but his popularity grew as he was able to answer all his peers’ questions about girls—as well as the usual popular and rare books, there was always plenty of anatomy and erotica on hand.

  When he neared the corner of East Eleventh Street, Theo caught the aroma of chargrilled meat as Tony’s Deli came into view. Just along the street the Brussel Brothers bookstore greeted him with its familiar grids and squares, its rows of shelves backing onto the front windows. Ike and Jack Brussel had been trading long before and after Theo’s parents. Ike was a bear of a man who talked with his hands, and he wasted no time jumping up to hug Theo as soon as he walked in. “Good to see you, buddy,” he said, releasing him and gripping him by both shoulders as he looked him up and down.

  “You too, Ike. How ya keepin’?”

  “Can’t complain, can’t complain.” Ike took a step backward. “So, what brings you down here?”

  “Looking for a gift, for Virginia. And I heard you had some trouble you might need help with.” Theo glanced around. The symmetry of the window display was mirrored inside with its neat ranks of bookcases, and the shop looked and smelled the same as it had the last time he’d visited—the same as ten years ago, probably: ink, dust, promises. And there were still plenty of customers, sitting in chairs or standing, heads bowed, open books resting in their hands. But the once-overstuffed shelves looked a little depleted, with gaps where volumes lay on their sides instead of standing horizontal.

  Ike followed his gaze. “Donations for the troops.”

  “Of course, good for you,” Theo said, patting Ike’s shoulder. “So, the association—”

  “Ah, yeah. Those morons. You’d think they’d have bigger fish to fry
, but oh no”—he raised his arms—“they’ve decided to make our lives a misery.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Take a seat,” Ike said, hands on the move again.

  Theo sat on the worn leather chair in front of the desk as Ike shuffled through piles of books and mountains of papers, lifting several cold cups of coffee out of the way until he found a wooden cigarette box. He flipped open the lid and held it out to Theo.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking one before pulling his solid gold lighter from his pocket.

  Ike didn’t take his eyes off the lighter the whole time, and when he took his cigarette out of his mouth, he exhaled a long slow whistle with his cloud of smoke. “You sure are marrying up.”

  “Yeah,” Theo said. “It was a birthday gift from Virginia, and all she’s gettin’ from me is a lousy book!” He gave Ike a crooked smile, his small mustache tilting upward.

  “So, you set a date?”

  “She’s got her heart set on Valentine’s Day. I’m thinking about it, but it’s kind of corny, to tell you the truth. I’d rather just go to the country and do it quietly, but you know women.”

  “I do. Which is why there isn’t going to be a fourth Mrs. Brussel.”

  Theo laughed, knowing his friend wouldn’t be able to help himself if the right woman walked into his store.

  Ike asked, “How’re Samuel and Madelaine?”

  “They’re doing okay. Pop’s getting some extra help now he’s not so mobile, gives Mom a break. He’s gained a few pounds since he stopped working.” Theo raised his eyebrows. He was making light of the situation; he had learned few people really wanted to know the truth, which was that his father wasn’t doing well at all. The doctors couldn’t get his insulin levels right, and his swollen legs meant he walked less and less, exacerbating his condition. If only he’d taken notice of the honey urine earlier, or lost weight as the doctors had advised him years ago.

  “That’s good,” Ike said. “I should visit. . . .”

  “It’s okay, they understand. It was seven days for them too, once. They remember what it’s like.”

  Ike wasn’t getting any younger; strands of fine brown hair were combed across the top of his balding head, and his beard was wispy and gray. He wore his clothes loose, but Theo could see that his pants were hitched high around his rotund stomach; it was the sedentary job and the temptations of the area.

  “Tell me about the association . . . what are your plans?” he asked.

  “You know what cowards those city officials can be. They just got nervous and tried to make us move the stands from the sidewalks. You know we can’t do that—it’d be bad for business. Besides, those stands have been there longer than any of us.”

  Theo already knew the background but also how much Ike liked to chat—he was informally known as the grandfather of Book Row. Over the weekend, Theo’s father had told him all about how the labor troubles and worker strikes had made the authorities cautious. Just as Ike said, the New York City authorities had asked the sellers on Book Row to remove their stands. They’d fought back by forming the Fourth Avenue Booksellers’ Association, and now they needed help getting things to the next level when the authorities had refused to take any notice of them. These seven blocks between Astor Place and Union Square had been home to more than thirty bookshops since the end of the last century, and there were nearly as many stories about them as between the pages of the books they sold.

  “No, that wouldn’t be good for business at all,” Theo replied, holding Ike’s gaze.

  He had spent his childhood discovering the landscape of each shop. He could have told you which one had the best corners for hide-and-seek or the best for browsing. By the age of twelve he could advise book hunters on the best store for ephemera and which ones specialized in history or philosophy. He’d devised his own tour, which took book hunters from shops infamous for their erotic literature to those famous for first editions, then down into the basement of Schulte’s store, and to the three-sided balcony where book-lined alcoves were lit by bulbs that browsers had to turn on. Theo had planned it carefully, through a labyrinth that escalated the mystery and excitement accompanying the journey into any new book. Each store was unique, and to Theo, and the others who lived and worked there, Fourth Avenue was a neighborhood made of books as much as it was of bricks and mortar.

  “Look,” Ike said, leaning forward and resting his arms on the desk, palms clasped together, “I don’t want to make a big deal of this when we’ve got bigger problems, our boys bleeding in the Pacific, but it’s important. It’s New York’s heritage, our history—”

  “I know, Ike. I agree. Which is why we’re going to do something about it. You leave it to me.”

  “Thanks, Theo. I appreciate it.”

  There were a few benefits to working at one of New York’s largest publishing houses, and having the ear of some of the city’s most influential figures and officials was one of them.

  * * *

  Virginia sat in a booth at the Blue Angel, gray silk dress flowing like a waterfall across her pale skin, diamanté necklace reflecting off the spotlights to create starbursts on the wall behind her. She leaned back in the chair, one hand resting elegantly in her lap, the other playing with the stem of her cocktail glass while she watched the band, legs jiggling with the rhythm.

  Theo’s desire caught him off guard, and he stood admiring her for a moment, until she saw him and waved him over. He had offered to pick her up from the Red Cross sorting station where she worked, but she’d said she was having a drink with friends and would meet him at the Angel. Now he was beginning to wish they were at home and he had her all to himself, but he knew she’d been excited to celebrate here. It was Max Gordon’s latest venue, and they’d been lucky to get a table as Manhattanites flocked to try it. Max’s established club, the Village Vanguard, was already a New York institution, where you never knew what mix of poetry, cabaret or comedy you might be entertained by on any given night, but Virginia had said she wanted a new club with new artists to see in her twenty-fifth year.

  Theo knew which one he’d rather be at, he thought, as he made his way up the ostentatious staircase, hand running along the decorative chrome handrail, the smell of new carpet barely disguised beneath the oversweet scent of lilies in vases and the heavy veil of cigarette smoke. The band played a Dizzy Gillespie number that he recognized—only twice as loud as it should have been—and the crowd was mixed: at a glance, Wall Street suits and struggling starlets, high-ranking servicemen and the usual uptown socialites. It wasn’t his scene, but he suspected that Virginia wouldn’t be disappointed. She had a lot to feast her eyes on: men lounging in plush velvet chairs, and women sipping from crystal glasses that waiters kept filled. And as he wove through the extravagantly dressed crowd toward her table, he wondered if it helped some of them to forget that there was a war on.

  “Happy birthday, beautiful,” he said, sitting down and placing the gift in front of her. When he leaned close to kiss her, her delicate lips responded, bittersweet with alcohol and lipstick. He sat back and smiled, staring into her dark eyes, then noticed her teasing half smile and the rosy gleam on her cheeks. “What’re you having?”

  It was too noisy to hear her reply, the saxophone taking over the room as it reached its outro, the musician twisting and bending as he hugged his instrument.

  “C-o-s-m-o-p-o-l-i-t-a-n,” she mouthed slowly, then moved her lips close to his. “But I’ll have another one of those first.”

  He turned so their lips brushed, and they kissed again. “How’s my birthday girl? Has it been a good day?”

  “It’s been a wonderful day,” she replied brightly.

  “Well, we’d better make sure it’s a wonderful evening then too.”

  “There’s just one tiny hitch . . .”

  It was unlike her to spring surprises.

  “Do I need to ord
er a drink?” he asked.

  “Yes, I think you’d better,” she said, anxiously tucking strands of her ebony hair behind her ears.

  Theo waved the waiter over, ordered another cosmopolitan and a Scotch, then pushed the present toward her. “Are you going to open it?”

  “As long as I don’t have to give it back?”

  “Oh, it’s that bad?”

  Virginia grimaced then tore open the paper, her face lighting up when she saw the title, The Moon Is Down. “It’s wonderful! Thank you.”

  “It’s autographed,” he said, as he stretched his long limbs out in the booth.

  She opened the cover and read the inscription on the title page.

  He’d been pleased to find the signed copy of John Steinbeck’s latest novel at Brussel’s, since he remembered her brother, Saul, telling him how much she wanted to read it. Theo had met Saul at Columbia, where he’d studied English and philosophy, although his real education had been on Book Row. He’d moved on to business affairs, but his love of bookselling—the grime on your palms, the special requests, the change ricocheting in the register—had never left him.

  The drinks arrived, and Theo took a sip as he readied himself for her news. “I thought you could hide Hadley Chase inside,” he said with a wry smile.

  Chase’s book had been taking the world by storm: No Orchids for Miss Blandish was a tale of sex, crime and kidnapping that couldn’t be read in polite society, but could be concealed behind the cover of another book.

  “Good thinking,” she said, and gave him an exaggerated wink.

  “So, I’m all ears. What’s the news?”

  “Daddy wants you to go to England. He’s going to ask you tomorrow.”

  “Really? Why?” It was the last thing Theo had expected. He wasn’t sure how he was going to decline, but there was certainly no chance he could think about leaving now—even if he could get on a flight, which was highly unlikely.