Chapters (57)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- POPULAR BOOKS FROM THE ERA
- When We Meet Again
- A Conversation with Caroline Beecham about When We Meet Again
- Discussion Guide
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
They didn’t notice her at first as she emerged from the shadows of the house: the men with their mugs and cigarettes, the petite blonde with her arm extended, rhythmically rocking the carriage, and the afternoon sun shrouding them in a surreal yellow haze. They were only young, probably not much older than Alice, one man in the khaki serge jacket and trousers of the Home Guard, the other in civilian clothes and a battered trilby.
The wind dropped, and everything seemed to slow to half-speed.
The air was soft and welcoming, whispering for Alice to come and take her baby back. The last time she’d seen Eadie, her daughter had barely opened her eyes; she’d been an armful of pale marbled skin and fine silken hair. She had only slept, as she probably was now, her tiny tongue protruding ever so slightly through lips like a miniature strawberry, her hands laid lightly across her chest. She hadn’t even had the chance to wrinkle her nose like babies did—in fact, the few times she had opened her eyes, she’d stared straight past Alice, unable to focus.
Her heart galloping, Alice walked steadily onto the terrace. The conversation stopped as the three heads turned toward her.
She wondered if her daughter was asleep or awake, and if she still slept noiselessly as she had in her first few hours. That scarce time had been so precious: watching her, bending close to check her breathing and, when she couldn’t, moving even closer to feel the warm breath on her ear. Such a small memory, only hours—a fraction of the life that was to come.
The woman’s eyes widened as she saw Alice and she gasped, lifting her hand off the carriage, and its gentle motion stopped.
“Who are you?” one of the men asked.
Alice would see Eadie any moment, know if she was asleep or awake; she just needed to get her away from them. Except the one in uniform came toward her.
“Stay where you are!” she shouted.
But he kept coming, passing in front of the woman and the baby carriage so that neither of them were visible to Alice. “What do you want?” he asked as he drew nearer.
Alice’s throat tightened, and her mouth wouldn’t form the words: I need to get to the carriage. I need to rescue Eadie.
She’d always felt safe and secure with her father, and she remembered what that kind of love was like—the right kind of love—as she took a deep breath and reached for his gun.
Forty-one
