When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

  In fact, by the time she fell asleep, she was fairly certain that Theo Bloom was the best of men.

  Twenty-six

  London, April 22, 1943

  “Theo, Theo! Wait a moment!” a voice called from across the sun-drenched square.

  When Theo swung round, George was walking briskly, wooden cane tapping the ground as he hurried toward him.

  “Morning, George. No Nelson today?” Theo asked as the older man drew close.

  “Tucked in his basket when I left. Dreaming of chasing ducks and swimming in their pond, I expect.” His chin folded into jowls as he spoke, making him look just like his trusted Labrador.

  “Good to see the weather finally brightening,” Theo said, altering his stride to keep pace with George.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” George said, glancing sideways at Theo as they continued toward the office. “I’ve been meaning to have a word.”

  Theo’s fingers flexed inside his tight leather gloves, suddenly feeling trapped, and he tried not to frown. “What is it, George?”

  “How long have you been here now . . . a month?”

  “Just over.”

  The city had been a revelation to him in that short time; George had loaned him a small but luxurious apartment in Mayfair, and the treasures he’d discovered in the nearby streets and lanes were never-ending. He’d told Virginia, who’d briefly come on the phone line with Walter, about how he’d walked three different ways to the office, each time coming across centuries-old churches and miniature timber-beamed public houses. But he had felt something shift in the past few weeks, and perhaps George had noticed it too—and seen how comfortable he was getting.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said, glancing at Theo. “It’s certainly gone quickly.”

  Theo nodded.

  “So, you’ve got a good measure of the place?”

  “I’d like to think so.” Theo slowed again since they were nearly at the gate and he sensed this was a longer conversation.

  “And Walter’s happy for you to stay for a while longer?” George said, as he turned to face him.

  Theo wasn’t sure if it was a rhetorical question. “Yep, I believe so.”

  “We’re really starting to achieve progress. It’s marvelous, really marvelous. There is just one thing . . .”

  Theo could guess. He knew he was only here for a short time and that his allegiance was to the New York office. But he found it easy to feel at home with the Londoners, who had all been so welcoming. He’d had Tommy’s errant twin boys crawl all over him at supper, and he’d met Emily’s awkward fiancé, Timothy, who worked for a bank but dressed like an artist. And Theo had been embraced by George’s family. He didn’t want to play a part in closing the office down, nor did he believe it would make good business sense at this stage. He’d started to wonder if Walter might have another motivation, because as far as Theo could see, George was right: they were starting to achieve things. But perhaps not soon enough for George’s brother.

  Theo suppressed a sigh. “What is it, George?”

  “It’s Alice.”

  “What about her?” he asked, now trying to hide his surprise.

  “I’ve known her for some time, but I’ve found her behavior recently very . . . well, very unpredictable. She’s really not herself, and I’ve noticed the two of you have been spending quite a bit of time together. I’m wondering if she’s said anything.”

  Theo was caught off guard; he hadn’t known her long enough for her to confide in him or for him to make a clear judgment on her behavior. Except that he found her to be intelligent, thoughtful, surprisingly knowledgeable and charmingly understated.

  “I’m afraid not, George—I can’t say I’ve noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

  It was a half-truth. There were days when she’d been distracted, but he’d taken that to be out of concern for her family or anxiety over her book project. On a couple of occasions she’d disappeared with no explanation, but again he’d put it down to her personal circumstances with her cousin’s baby. In any event, while there were lots of rumors of espionage within the media, now that he knew her, Theo didn’t think her capable of any kind of subterfuge.

  “I know the research she’s doing for Women and Children First is taking her to some unusual places . . . and into contact with some unsavory characters,” he said, thinking about some of the stories she’d shared with him. “You know what? Somebody should go with her, if we can organize that.”

  George crossed his arms and brought one hand up to his mouth, brushing his forefinger back and forth across his bottom lip as he considered Theo’s words. “Hmm, well, we wouldn’t want to put her in any danger, would we, but we don’t really have any spare bodies. It’s just an instinct, Theo, but keep an eye on her, would you?”

  “Sure thing, George. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure nothing happens to her.”

  He thought back to their time in Hertfordshire a few days earlier. They’d talked long after everyone else had left, sitting close to the fire as it crackled down to embers, mostly discussing work until she’d asked about the council. Her mood changed, and she grew thoughtful then as she spoke about her brother, and so did he when he told her about Howie’s death. They had a shared understanding and were quiet for a time as she rested a comforting hand on his arm, and the fire sputtered, and wind whispered through the trees.

  “In Will’s last letter home, he summarized the novel he’d just read,” she told him, her eyes sparkling at the memory. “He was so surprised at the ending that he wanted to dispute it . . . see if I agreed with him.” She turned toward the fire. “I sent him my reply with a new book, one I thought he’d find more satisfying . . . but he never got to read it.”

  Her face had looked so fragile in the subdued light; a delicacy to her features that he hadn’t seen before. Even the loose strands of hair that fell across her face looked like fine threads of gold, and he imagined brushing them away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said with a brief smile.

  “What was the book you sent him?”

  “Oliver Twist. I thought it would give him fond thoughts of home.”

  “That’s a coincidence—it’s one of the books we’re including in the ASEs.”

  “Really?” Her eyes were alight.

  “Yes, I’m sure he’d have liked the ending.”

  Alice gave him the faintest smile, but it was enough to make his heart swell as he thought of Howie, and all the soldiers who were counting on their books.

  “Which other books will your council send?” she asked.

  “Some of the council members lobbied to send lesser-known authors and titles, but we decided to send a mix of fiction and nonfiction, classics and debuts. One title is The Great Gatsby—do you know it?”

  “Yes, it’s Fitzgerald, isn’t it?”

  “Let me think, who else is coming out in September. . . . Ogden Nash and John Steinbeck. Then there’s The Ship by C. S. Forester, and of course your very own Graham Greene.”

  “Oh, which one?” she asked, with an interest so genuine it lit up her entire face.

  “The Ministry of Fear.”

  It was at that point he remembered he still hadn’t told her about Virginia, and the fact that he had kept his engagement hidden worried him. But he couldn’t just tell her out of the blue—he’d have to bring it up at a more appropriate time.

  He focused back on their conversation and said, “Who else? Let’s see . . . Ethel Vance, Joseph Conrad; there are thirty books each month—”

  “Gosh, it sounds as if you’ve done a very good job. No wonder they sent you here to organize us too.”

  “How am I doing so far?” he asked, smiling at her.

  “Not too bad. Although I’m not sure if the titles we’re working on would compare to any of those. They don�
�t exactly inspire the same level of bravery, even if they do count as propaganda!”

  This wasn’t the first time Theo had noticed how she understood concepts and ideas that he had to dissect for Virginia. Alice had an instinct, an acutely tuned emotional intelligence, which was why she’d become indispensable to Partridge.

  “So,” he said, “you see the business sense in the ASEs, even though they’re free?”

  “Yes, of course. You’re building a whole new market for when the war is over.”

  “Yes! Men who’ve never picked up a book before, they’re reading them in their bunks and shelters. We’ve opened up a new world to them. And when they come home . . .”

  “They’ll want to carry on reading.”

  “Exactly. So, you can see why this is so important in the long-term.”

  She frowned, eyes crinkling in a way he’d grown strangely fond of. “Then why doesn’t Walter approve?”

  “He thinks once they’re available for free no one will want to pay for them. Ridiculous, I know, but between you and me, he can be a bit of a snob; he thinks that books should be for academics or entertainment, not for propaganda.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, frowning again. “How strange that he can’t see how well placed Partridge will be to supply books in the United States once the war is over.”

  “And frustrating. But with your new books, we can do something just as special here in Britain.”

  Although they’d gone to their separate rooms shortly afterward, the imprint of her hand still tingled on his skin, and he’d spent most of the night awake, thinking of her.

  “Thanks very much, Theo, I’m glad Alice can rely on you,” George said, pulling him back into the present.

  “Not a problem at all.”

  They reached the top of the steps to the office and were ready to go in when George placed a hand on Theo’s arm. “There is just one other thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Sir Duncan said you went to see him recently—I ran into him yesterday. It’s best if we take those meetings together in the future, united front and all that. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, George. Yes, of course,” he said, returning his warm smile.

  He was moved by the older man’s generosity and glad that it was out in the open, since where his loyalty lay had been weighing heavily on him. Theo decided that the time had come to talk honestly and openly about the conflicts and the real reason he was there, except that a couple of hours later, their offices received a long-distance call. It was his mother, and he would have to head back to New York as soon as possible.

  Twenty-seven

  New York, April 26, 1943

  The decorated billboards and vast brick walls of semi-industrial housing flashed past on the other side of the cab window: storage facilities, fireproof warehouses and car repairs, all there to serve the colossus that New York had become. Theo’s heart swelled and he felt a beat of exhilaration, until he remembered why he was there: amid this vast metropolis, his father lay desperately ill, his mother keeping bedside vigil. When the operator had eventually managed to put the call through and his mother had informed him of his father’s deterioration, George had insisted he leave right away. Through his personal contacts—and against the odds—George had secured him a flight out of Hendon Aerodrome, situated seven miles from the city and mostly used by dignitaries to fly to and from London. But there had been no time for a debrief, no time to say good-bye to Alice and barely a moment to send a telegram telling Walter and Virginia of his homecoming. He’d been warned against making the journey after heavy losses in the Atlantic in recent weeks, and it had been nerve-racking—a freezing draft had stiffened his neck and an overwhelming nausea had been brought on by the jet fuel—but the sickness and discomfort had done little to distract him from worrying about his father or any enemy aircraft that might be circling close by.

  “Ya comin’ home or visitin’?” the taxi driver asked as he caught Theo’s eye in the rearview mirror.

  “Coming home,” Theo replied with a forced smile. “Can’t ya tell?”

  “One of the lucky ones.”

  The driver was right, and Theo instantly thought of Howie, and what an imposter he felt in civilian clothes—and as though he should explain his circumstances.

  Howie’s face was so clear to him, not as a man but as a boy. His energetic, straggly haired younger brother taking swings at a baseball and rarely hitting. Theo smiled at the memory, as he often did, but the hole inside of him always managed to take the shine off. Some people took a piece of the world with them when they left it, and Howie was one of them.

  “Yep, one of the lucky ones,” he echoed.

  He had never before felt his noncombatant status more acutely. During his absence over the past several weeks, the United States had entered the war completely, their troops arriving in the Pacific and North Africa as well as European destinations.

  It wasn’t until the skyscrapers of Manhattan came into view that Theo realized he’d barely considered seeing Virginia, that he’d been too preoccupied with Alice, and that this didn’t bode well for the upcoming wedding. Not only had he not called her before leaving London, but he hadn’t bought her a gift, as he usually did on one of his trips, although these were unusual circumstances. And what would Walter say about this sudden arrival? Would he understand, or would it give him an excuse to rebuke his future son-in-law? For a fleeting moment Theo contemplated his freedom from Walter if he didn’t marry Virginia, but it would also mean he didn’t have a job.

  Hoping to distract himself, Theo caught the taxi driver’s eye in the mirror again; he’d never met a New York driver who didn’t like to chat, particularly now, when there was so much to talk about.

  “So, you got family in the forces?” Theo asked.

  “Younger brother and a couple of cousins. I got myself injured in a farmin’ accident. What’s your story?”

  “I’m in the supply business. The government makes exceptions for some industries.”

  “What sort of supply—food, transport, guns?”

  “Books.”

  “Huh?”

  “Books, I’m in the publishing business.”

  “Right, gotcha, a man of words,” he said, smiling. “Never been a reader myself—wife loves it, though.”

  Theo glanced out at the grid of tarmac and towers, and the bustling eateries, and thought about the moment that he first really knew Alice. It was a few days before the Foyle’s event and they’d stopped for lunch on their way back from a meeting; they’d both been starving, as it had gone on late, and once they were eating her mood had changed. She seemed to relax for the first time, a barrier coming down.

  “Which writers come from New York?” she asked him.

  “How long a list would you like?”

  “I’d start the list with Henry James,” she said.

  “What about Walt Whitman?” he asked.

  “And Dorothy Parker. Who would be next?”

  “Edith Wharton,” they said at the same time and laughed.

  He thought then how much he would like to show her New York, and how, like him, she would be as much at home on the Upper West Side as in the West Village, or the Flatiron District, or the Lower East Side. What would she make of the soirees on rooftop terraces watching the sun set over Manhattan, or the walks in Central Park, or the colossal size of the department stores compared to their London cousins? How could she not be impressed by the skyscrapers and the boldness of New York’s architects? He smiled as he imagined taking her to the Waldorf Astoria, where they would eat off porcelain plates; then they would go up to East Fifty-ninth Street and visit Argosy, browsing the floors of the old bookstore. They would navigate the city together, and then—and then what? What was he thinking?

  His father was in the hospital, and he was soon to be married to
the woman he was planning on spending the rest of his life with. He needed to stop thinking like this; he needed to visit his father and then go to the office, distract himself with work. Then he would see Virginia, everything would return to normal and his life would be the same as it was before.

  The driver was talking so fast that Theo couldn’t follow, his Italian accent growing stronger by the minute, just like Theo’s father with his Alsatian. They were immigrants in the American melting pot like hundreds of thousands of others, and Theo suddenly felt as though the differences between Britain and his homeland were every bit as vast as the ocean that separated them. The driver’s voice droned on, and Theo turned his hands over, tearing at the quick then biting at his fingernails. It troubled him that he was so distracted by another country and a foreign woman. It didn’t make sense—he’d planned his life, it had been following a trajectory, so why was he questioning it all now?

  He wiped his hands across his face, the roughness of two-day stubble pricking at his palms. All he needed was a shave, a shower—something the English didn’t believe in—and sleep, and then he’d be himself again.

  But first he needed to see his parents.

  * * *

  The carved busts of founders and former surgeons guarded the lobby of the Brooklyn Methodist Hospital. As Theo bypassed the reception area and scanned the directory board, shoes squeaking on the gray linoleum, he hoped the bland walls and scratched skirting were a sign the hospital invested in treatments rather than décor. His father’s ward was on the seventh floor, and he would usually take the six flights of stairs—he didn’t want to give the diabetes gene an excuse to rear its ugly head—but today he was in a hurry.

  He shared the elevator with a well-dressed couple, and the man acknowledged him while the woman hid her face in a handkerchief. The doors slid open on a near-deserted floor, disinfectant mingling with the stench of food and bedpans, and he waited a long time at the nurse’s station before one appeared and directed him to his father. He followed impatiently, trying to hide his concern and irritation since he knew that while the war had ended New York’s depression, bringing the docks and businesses back to life, it had also robbed them of their medical staff.