Free When We Meet Again by Kristin Harmel Page B

truth,” I said. “I’m just not sure she knew it herself.”
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    Myra dropped by for a drink that night at nine thirty, after she’d put her daughter, Samantha, to bed. Her husband had been happy to stay home on their couch watching football, and Myra had practically begged me over the phone to give her an excuse to get out of the house. We lived four blocks from each other in the historic Colonialtown neighborhood just east of downtown Orlando, where the homes dated back to the 1920s and the streets were tree-lined and filled with joggers and dog walkers.
    “Sometimes, the two of them just drive me crazy,” she said, settling into an Adirondack chair on my front porch as I handed her a glass of chardonnay. She took a long sip as I sat down on the chair beside her. “I mean, if I have to hear Jay say one more word about how great the New England Patriots are, I might actually have to strangle him. And Samantha is in this phase now where she refuses to go to bed at her bedtime, because she’s afraid she’s missing whatever else is going on in our household. Apparently in her four-year-old brain, the moment the lights are out in her bedroom, the living room turns into a full-on disco filled with Sesame Street characters.”
    I laughed and clinked glasses with her. “Now I have a mental image of you doing the hustle with Big Bird.”
    “Nah, I only dance with Elmo.” She smiled, and I felt a little stab of pain in my heart as I thought about all I’d missed out on with my own child.
    I shook my head and forced a smile. “So you’ll never believe where I was today.”
    “Somewhere more exciting than the Sesame Street disco?”
    I laughed and recapped the arrival of the painting, my meeting with my dad, and my visit with Jeremiah. When I finished, Myra was staring at me, her eyes wide.
    “I don’t even know where to begin,” she said. “I mean, you voluntarily reached out to your dad ? That’s huge. And you’re finding out that sweet little Grandma Margaret had some kind of sordid love affair with a German prisoner?”
    “I don’t know that it was sordid, exactly.”
    She waved me off. “Don’t rain on my parade, lady. This is splashier than a soap opera. Seriously, though, what are you going to do next? You have to find this Peter guy!”
    “I know.” I avoided her gaze as I added, “I’m going to call Scott in the morning to ask for his help.”
    “Scott,” she said finally, her voice flat. “Scott Caruso, who dumped you last year because, according to him, you didn’t have enough time to dedicate to him.”
    “Yes.” I cringed.
    “Scott, who had a new girlfriend within a week. After dating you for seven months.”
    “I was never really that serious about him anyhow.” I avoided her gaze.
    She sighed. “But when are you serious about anyone, Emily?”
    “So now you’re on Scott’s side?”
    She snorted. “Hardly. You know I never thought he was right for you. I wanted to throw a party when the two of you broke up. But you have to admit, in the whole time I’ve known you, you’ve never really thrown yourself into any relationship. You just kind of coast along, waiting for it to end.”
    I shrugged and looked out at the darkness beyond my front porch. How could I tell her that the last time I’d really loved someone was eighteen years ago, when I was head over heels in love with Nick? I’d always thought I’d find someone else who I felt that way about, but half a lifetime later, I was still looking—and still thinking of the high school boyfriend I’d walked away from. Clearly there was something wrong with me. “Can we change the subject?” I muttered.
    Myra gave me a look. “Why not? We always do.”
    I ignored the dig. “Okay, so I’ve been thinking about this supposed grandfather of mine all day. I just can’t piece it together. My grandmother was such a cautious person, and she always seemed to know when someone wasn’t a good person. The thing is, I can’t figure