When We Meet Again Read Online Free

was. The letter said that the painting had been kept for many years in a room that was too damp, and the sender was concerned that before the painting was sent on, it should be restored to perfect condition. The sender also included a sealed envelope and asked me to include it with the painting. Perhaps the sender included some information there.”
    “No,” I said with a sigh, thinking of the cryptic note. “Do you know where the painting was sent from? Another gallery in Munich?”
    “To be honest, one of my assistants processed the paperwork. So I have no knowledge of the painting’s origin.”
    “Could I speak with the assistant?”
    “Bettina? I’m afraid she quit a month ago.”
    “Is there any way to get in touch with her?” I could hear the desperation in my own voice. “I’d just like to ask if she remembers anything about where the painting came from.”
    Nicola sighed. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. She didn’t leave us on good terms.”
    I could almost feel each possible lead slipping away, one by one. “Do you have any idea why the painting was sent to your gallery specifically?”
    “Because I am one of the foremost restoration specialists in the world for this type of art, obviously.” I could tell by her clipped tone that I’d offended her. “And clearly the sender was aware of my gallery’s reputation.”
    “And you don’t know who the painter is?”
    She hesitated. “No. I do not.” There was something in her voice that told me she knew more than she was saying, but before I could ask anything else, she continued, “Now, Miss Emerson, it is imperative that I return to my customers. I just wanted to give you the courtesy of a return call. I hope you enjoy the painting. It is very beautiful. I was struck by the skill of the artist’s brushwork, and I must say, I enjoyed the restoration.”
    “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
    “Do you know a lot about art?”
    “No. Not really.”
    “Then I’m afraid my technical explanations would be wasted. Things can’t really be explained properly over the phone anyhow. Please, enjoy the painting. Good day.” She hung up without another word, and I was left holding the phone and feeling even more confused than I’d felt the night before.

CHAPTER THREE
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    SEPTEMBER 1944
    I t was just after 7 a.m., and Peter Dahler stood alone in the middle of an endless sea of rolling green. If he squinted, he could imagine he was in a boat in the middle of Hackensee Lake, Franz beside him, his father manning the oars, his mother with her head tilted to the sky, warming herself under the rays of the sun. But those days were long gone.
    The sky that lived in Peter’s childhood memories was a crisp, glacial blue, but here in the swampy farmland rolling toward Lake Okeechobee, the first light of morning would turn the sky a startling cobalt, then a velvety indigo, melting into a soft violet. During that first hour of dawn, the heavens would cast a shadow over the soaring sugarcane stalks, turning the infinite fields of cane water-blue as their long, gentle fingers rippled like waves in the breeze.
    “You planning to work? Or you gonna gaze at the sky all morning, Dahler?” Harold’s voice wafted across the stalks, jarring Peter back to reality. He glanced over his shoulder and forced a smile at his favorite guard, the one willing to break the rules once in a while to give Peter a glimpse of the beautiful sunrise. Most days, the prisoners started work at nine, and from their encampment south of Okeechobee, there wasn’t much of a view. Their barracks were nestled in a tangle of trees on the edge of an overgrown swamp, a reminder, Peter supposed, that if they tried to run, there was nowhere to go. But Harold, who was the kind of person Peter might have been friends with under different circumstances, seemed to understand that sometimes a person who’s seen so much ugliness in the world needs a little beauty too.
    “Sorry,” Peter