Bookends (11 page)

“Really.” Emilie felt an odd catch in her throat. “Children, then?”

Beth began straightening notices posted on a bulletin board, a becoming blush stealing across her freckled cheeks. “Yes, we have a little girl. Sara’s four.”

“Wonderful age,” Emilie murmured, having absolutely no idea what she was talking about. It always worked, though; no matter what the child’s age, parents always agreed with her.

Beth did not disappoint. “Yes, you’re so right. Four is really fun.” The blush disappeared, followed by a clear-eyed gaze. “She’s our miracle baby.”

“Oh.” Emilie wasn’t certain what that meant, but murmured in response, “You’re lucky to have her, then.”

Beth nodded, dropping down onto a straight-backed chair. Her smile
returned as quickly as it’d left. “Since Drew travels constantly for his job with Woodstream, God was kind to give me little Sara to keep me company … and busy!” Glancing at her watch, she bolted to her feet. “Good grief, it’s almost noon. My baby-sitter will have my head.” All at once, her striped sweater was set in motion as she hunted for her purse, then darted for the door. “Mornings are for the church, but the rest of the day is all Sara’s. Blessings on you, Dr. Getz.” She winked, already halfway into the hall. “And welcome home.”

“This is my home, too,” Jonas grumbled, ignoring two rock-pushing bulldozers who veered out of his path as he stomped around Carter’s Run, waving his arms at the gray December sky. “That woman shoved me into a doghouse even Trix wouldn’t go near.”

It wasn’t far from the truth. He’d gotten the cold shoulder not only from the women in the church office, but the men on staff had been avoiding him all week, too. As if he had
made
them watch that video. As if it was
his
fault Emilie came stomping in there, all high and mighty.
Yeah, right.

He kicked a clod of dirt, sending it sailing across his future fourteenth hole. A par-five and destined to be a bear, if the designer’s plans were any indication. Jonas punched the chilly air, frustration flowing through his veins like hot water through a radiator.

That woman!

Sure, he’d messed up. Never should have shot the video, never should have found an audience for it. He’d hurt her—the last thing he’d wanted to do—and he was sorry, blast it all. But wasn’t
she
to blame for some of this? She could have refused to play along. Could have laughed at the whole idea. Could have made
him
do the funky chicken—well, heron—while
she
held the camera.
Yeah. What’s her problem?

You, fella. You are her problem.

Emilie Getz brought out a side of him he didn’t know was there.

It wasn’t his good side either.

Right this minute, though, his biggest problem was getting back in the good graces of the 8,280 citizens of Lititz who’d decided his name matched the current status of their golf course: solid dirt.

Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he tromped across the uneven
ground, surveying the land with his eye, imagining the finished product.
Three months and change.
That’s how long the construction team had. And the landscapers. And the turf crew. He groaned at the thought of all the details that covered his calendar like ants, daily reminders scratched in bold, black ink that no one could decipher except him.

His goal was clear: to give Lititz the best municipal golf course their money—and his skill—could buy. Okay, so he’d never developed a course before. Everybody had a first time, didn’t they? He’d consulted the experts, done his homework, put more of his own money in the thing than common sense allowed.

He knew, deep in his gut, that it would pay off. It had to. He’d worked too hard, too long, to let things end any other way.

With one day left in the year and a serious pile of paperwork to crank out, Jonas headed for home, only three blocks west. It’d made sense to live in the same neighborhood. No matter what the weather, he could get from his place to Carter’s Run in minutes.

His brick and stucco house loomed ahead, sitting up on a slight rise. Digging in his pocket for the key, he grinned, remembering the calculated look on Dee Dee’s face when he’d asked her for his house key back. They’d bumped into each other Tuesday night at the Warwick High basketball tourney, where the Warriors had a great night, beating Garden Spot 56-55.

Dee Dee had taken her personal defeat well. Dangling the key from one long, red fingernail, she’d purred something about hoping he’d have a reason to give it back to her one day, then sauntered off in her too-tight jeans, leaving a cloud of heavy perfume trailing behind her.

What was it with him and women? One minute he was pond scum, the next minute, a nice, fat rainbow trout ready to be hooked.

Go figure.

He bounded up the steps, reminding himself that Dee Dee Snyder had gotten one thing right: This house was perfect for him. The large urns out front and the brass lanterns were her idea, along with the Palladian windows. It was big and classy and brand-new—everything he liked, right down to the easy-care polyester curtains. Admittedly, he owned exactly six pieces of furniture, but that’d come later, when he had time. Once he saw men in chinos toting clubs along the Carter’s Run fairways, and grade schoolers filling out their first library cards, then he’d get on with his life.

Pushing open the front door, Jonas heard the answering machine click off.
Blast. Missed it.
He tossed his keys on the desk and punched Play, fully prepared to hear about yet another permit that was required, or an additional demand from the zoning board.

It wasn’t about the golf course, but it was a golfer.

His brother.

Nathan.

The tinny-sounding speaker came to life. “Hey, brother Jonas. Sorry I missed you.”

Jonas glanced at his watch.
Ten. Seven in the morning, Las Vegas time.
If Nate was still in Nevada.

Nathan’s message played on. “I’m headed to Florida. Just thought I’d … touch base. See how you were doin’. I’m … okay.”

Jonas felt his throat clamp shut. The kid was lying through his teeth. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He hadn’t been Nate’s surrogate father for most of his life not to know when his brother was telling the truth and when he wasn’t.

Besides, Nathan never called to shoot the breeze. He only picked up the phone when he needed something.

“Maybe I’ll catch you in person next time, Jonas. I could use some … advice. Hit a hole-in-one for me, okay?”

The machine stopped. So did Jonas’ heart.

Without a doubt, Nathan was in serious trouble—again—and Jonas had no idea where or how to help him.

Nathan Fielding waited, cradling the phone in his hand, one finger hovering over the redial button. Should he call Jonas back? Leave a longer message? Give the man some details?

Nah.
What would he say? “Hi, Jonas. Your brother Nate here. I’m broke, okay? Need some money to tide me over …”

Right.
Like Jonas had fifty thousand dollars sitting around. Like Cy Porter, his bookie, would take a dime less.

Gambling was the only way Nate knew to raise money fast. He had the scam down pat. Play a round of high-stakes golf with some out-of-town greenhorns. Bet heavily on a few side games he was guaranteed to win. Sundays he’d wager on his PGA buddies to come through for him, watching the crucial game on a wide-screen TV as he clutched a bottle of Miller and felt the adrenaline rush that gambling always delivered.

“They don’t call ’em
greens
for nothing,” he’d joke when Cy handed over his winnings.

But that was last year, when Nate thought his luck would last forever.
Forever had finally shown up to collect.

Cy had given him extra time, covered for him, lied for him. The more Nate bet, the more he lost.
Fifty thousand flippin’ dollars.
No getting around it now. He had to call Cy, to check in. No news was worse than bad news, Cy always reminded him. Today’s news was definitely not good.

Leaning against the icy interior of the phone booth, his Chevy running on fumes while it idled outside, Nathan willed his hands not to shake as he punched in the numbers. Asking Jonas for money would be a cinch compared to making this phone call.

The first ring knotted his stomach; the second pulled it tighter still.
C’mon, c’mon!

A male bark cut the third ring short. “Porter.”

“Yeah?” Nate gulped, his bravado fading fast. “It’s Fielding.”

“You got a lotta nerve callin’ here at this hour of the morning, kid. Better be good news.”

Nate glanced at his watch.
Eight. Seven in Vegas.
Almost crash time for Cy and Ginger. They’d sleep until one, then crank the party up all over again.

He forced himself to sound confident. “Just wanted you to be the first to know, Cy. I’ll … I’ll have the money soon.”

The man grunted an obscenity. “Heard that one before, Nate. You shoulda never left town, you know. Not smart.”

“I had to.” Nate heard the desperation in his voice and tried to swallow it whole. “I couldn’t raise that kind of cash there.”

The man’s laugh was ugly, humorless. “No, I guess not. Not the way you’ve been swingin’ that driver lately. Better send somethin’ in the next couple days, just to keep the man happy. Hear me?”

Nate’s forehead dropped onto the heel of the phone. Between driving all night and facing Cy’s demands, his nerves were toast. “I hear you.”

“Good. ’Cause if I don’t see an envelope in my mailbox by the end of the week, I’ll come lookin’ for you, Nate. And what Cy Porter looks for, he finds. Got that, kid?”

Five envelopes—all with the same heavenly spire in the corner, all with the same single-digit address on Church Square—appeared in Emilie’s black mailbox Thursday morning.

The letters were short, to the point, and neatly typed—if not in fact dictated—by all of the secretaries who’d witnessed the catastrophe now referred to as “Red Monday,” the facial shade most often witnessed in the vicinity of Pastor Yeager’s office that fateful morning.

Slipping on her glasses—strictly for ease in reading, she explained whenever asked—Emilie opened the envelopes one by one. Little variety in content, she noticed. “Dear Dr. Getz: Please accept my heartfelt apology for the flagrant disrespect …” and so on. The only letter that wasn’t typed was from Pastor Yeager. His was handwritten in his wildly cursive script. Rumor had it that his secretary, Suzanne, was so peeved about the whole incident that she’d refused to type a single piece of correspondence for him until he’d posted this one himself.

Emilie refolded each letter and stacked the lot in a tidy pile on her desk, then rested her chin in one hand, staring out the small kitchen windows at the drab-colored sky that matched her mood.

Appeasing as those five letters were, it was the missing one that left her with a nagging sense of doubt. Had she been too hard on Jonas Fielding? On all of them? Was she so unwilling to laugh at herself that she’d allowed a foolish prank to derail her, to provoke her into tossing professionalism aside for the sake of her womanly pride?

Those were the questions that’d kept her up late every night that week, pretending she was searching her books for new information about the Gemeinhaus when in truth she was searching her heart for answers.

The morning had dawned with little more to comfort her than a steaming pot of orange pekoe and the assurance that tomorrow would bring a new year.

No sooner had she reached for her tea than the doorbell rang. Her cup clattered back into the saucer.
Who in the world?
Not many people knew yet where she was staying. The staff at the church was aware of her accommodations. For that matter, her mother had the address, and so did Helen.
And so does Jonas.

Hastily putting aside her eyeglasses, Emilie smoothed a few stray hairs off her forehead and hurried toward the front of the house, curiosity and apprehension tying her nerves in a knot. She flung open the door, then laughed at her unnecessary angst.

“Beth! What a nice surprise.” She stepped back, perplexed at the odd
mix of relief and disappointment that welled up inside her. “Please, come in. I’ve just brewed a fresh pot of tea.”

Beth’s eyes crinkled as she displayed a mouthful of even, white teeth. “You’ll have to drink fast, Dr. Getz. I’m here to invite you to join Sara and me for lunch today. At our place.” She nodded toward the street. “I come by here every day on my way home, you know. If you don’t mind walking four blocks, I can promise you a plate load of killer chicken salad waiting at the other end.”

Emilie glanced down at her baggy pants and vintage sweater. “Well … I’m not really dressed for visiting.…”

“Are you serious?” Beth’s musical laugh bubbled up and over. “You look great. As always. In fact,
too
spiffy for Sara’s taste. She’ll have you covered with Play-Doh in no time.”

“She will? My, isn’t that clever.” Emilie tried her best to appear enthusiastic, knowing her hesitant tone gave her away. “Are you sure lunch won’t be too much trouble?”