Bookends (13 page)

Beth obviously caught it, too. “I’m sure Jonas will share everything. When he’s ready.” The younger woman glared back at her husband, even as a telltale grin gave her away. “You know how men are about … personal stuff.”

“I have no idea how men are, about anything.” Emilie reached for a tissue and blew her nose with a dainty sniffle. Whatever private story Jonas had stuffed up his T-shirted sleeve, it had nothing to do with her. Less than nothing.

Other than his obvious physical merits, a quick mind, his purported business acumen, a notable commitment to church and family, and the respect of everyone in Lititz—other than that, she couldn’t think of one quality the man had to recommend him.

An hour later when she left the church with her watchword for the new year in hand, Emilie was still sifting through reasons why Jonas Fielding held no attraction for her whatsoever. He liked dogs and children. And spending endless hours with older ladies, like Mrs. B.
Well, there you are.
Clearly no woman would find such a man appealing.

Emilie strode down the street, grateful to have sent the Landises on their way so she could enjoy the brisk walk home by herself. Using one gloved hand to hold her scarf in place against the gusty night wind, she dug deep in her coat pocket for the front door key as her borrowed cottage came into view, illuminated by the glowing corner streetlamp still decorated for yuletide.

If she was honest—and she was trying very hard to be so—it was that infernal black-crowned night heron incident that put the nail in the coffin of any potential … well, any
friendship
she and Jonas might have shared. Such a prank was simply unforgivable.

Checking for traffic before crossing the intersection, Emilie was unprepared for the sudden, capricious wind that snatched the long scarf out of her hands. Her world went black as the wool wrapped itself around her face.

“Aahh!” Her muffled scream barely penetrated the cloth as her small ring of keys fell to the pavement. Inches away, tires screeched to an ear-splitting halt.

She froze, not knowing where to turn, not daring to move.

A car door slammed and a male voice cut through the wind and the wool. “Emilie, are you okay?”

Jonas.
He
would
find her like that, looking foolish again. She struggled to
unwrap her scarf, then suddenly felt it unfurl with a practiced snap.

“Happened to my little brothers all the time,” he explained with an indifferent shrug, then scooped up her keys from the roadway. “Sure you don’t need a ride home?”

Despite the cold, she felt her cheeks warming. “In case you’ve forgotten, my house is thirty feet away.”

He turned toward her door and mimicked shooting a basketball. “Yup. So it is.” Grinning down at her, he swung around and climbed back in his vehicle, then leaned out as if he’d forgotten something. His expression was pure Cheshire cat. “By the way, you’ve got mail.” With that, he slammed the door, steered around her, and sped south on Cedar Street, his taillights winking at her in the darkness.

Honestly!
She stomped toward the mailbox, trying hard not to quicken her steps, not to notice the way her heart was pounding with anticipation. So he’d written her a letter of apology after all.
The big brute.
Thrusting her key in the lock, she made herself open the door first, take her purse inside, then slip off her wayward scarf, all before she stepped back out, trying to behave as if she always checked her mailbox at nine o’clock on New Year’s Eve.

Reaching inside, she wrapped her hands around a bulky envelope and pulled it out, her curiosity piqued. Carefully opening the flap, she peered inside, then slipped out the contents.

Good heavens.
What kind of an apology was this?

It was her forgotten field guide, period. No note attached, no letter sticking out, nothing else in the envelope except her own book.

Well, I never!

Slamming the door behind her so hard it rattled the windows, Emilie marched over to the nearest bookcase and jammed the slim guide onto the shelf, for once not caring if she tore the cover as the paperback squeezed between hundreds of others on the shelf.

It’d be a mighty cold morning before
that
particular book ever saw the light of day again. And to think she’d considered befriending that buffoon! The notion sent her storming up the narrow staircase in a huff, disappointed that a book—one of her most dependable friends through thick and thin—a traitorous book had ended her year on such a discouraging note.

“Jonas, be a friend and run this by Emilie’s place, okay?” Beth held out a bulging file of papers. “It’s taken me days to find this stuff and I know she really needs it.” She waved it an inch closer. “Please?”

He dipped his chin in the younger woman’s direction and did his best to look put out. “Wouldn’t she rather have
you
deliver it?”

“Don’t be silly.” Beth’s freckled nose wrinkled, reminding him of little Sara. Now
there
was a child he’d be happy to claim—unlike his not-so-little brother Nathan, who was playing hard to find. He hadn’t heard from Nate since the cryptic phone call about heading to Florida.
Big state, bro. Call back, and soon.

Since the first of the year, Jonas had made a few phone calls of his own—to Chris and Jeff in Delaware, to a couple of golf courses in Vegas.
Zip.

That left one option: wait until Nate needed something badly enough to get in touch with him again.

Which reminded him of another person he was waiting to hear from: Emilie. She hadn’t called either.

Maybe his phone wasn’t working.

“Please?” Beth shook the overstuffed folder at him again.

He groaned in mock agony and took it off her hands. “She may thank you for the info, but the choice of courier won’t earn you any gold stars.”

Beth’s eyebrows arched. “Why? Did you and Emilie have it out when I wasn’t looking?”

“Nah, nothing that dramatic.”
So.
Emilie didn’t tell her about his letter. An uncomfortable knot in his chest showed up out of nowhere. “Fact is, I haven’t talked to her in a few days.”
Six.
He strolled toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “Make sure Sara wears her mittens. Weatherman says we’re gettin’ the big one this weekend.”

Swinging out the door and down the church office steps, Jonas glanced at the heavy cloud cover overhead and snorted.
Ha!
Who needed a snowstorm when, minutes from now, Emilie Getz would dump her own version of the big chill right on his freshly sheared head?

But she wasn’t home.

He rang, he knocked, he peered through the front window into her living room until a Main Street passerby shot him a nasty look. “She’s a friend of mine,” Jonas mumbled.

When the stranger disappeared into Benner’s Pharmacy, Jonas couldn’t resist lifting the lid on Emilie’s black mailbox. Maybe she’d never found the bird book to begin with. That would explain why no phone call, no pat on the back from Beth, no reprieve from Helen, who’d put him on sugar cake probation until she got word of a suitable apology being offered and received.

Was the book still in there?

He peered down inside. Suddenly, a woman’s stern voice behind him barked, “That mail receptacle is government property.”

Startled, he flipped the lid down on the empty box. “Really? No kidding.”

“I never kid about postal regulations.” The uniformed carrier, an older woman with Helen’s build but not her sweet disposition, eyed him, patently suspicious. “It’s against the law to remove any items from a customer’s mail receptacle,” she informed him in a clipped, no-nonsense style. “Whether it’s mounted on a post or attached to someone’s house or stationed on a—”

“Right!” he interjected, anxious to wind things up before they drew a
crowd. Already a handful of pedestrians were slowing their steps, obviously willing to be an audience. “I haven’t removed a thing. In fact, it’s empty. See?” He reached for the lid, then thought better of it when her eyes narrowed.

“Truth is—” he assured her confidently, stuffing his hands in his pockets—“not only did I not take anything
out,
I recently put something
in
—you know, just like you do.” He flashed her his most devastating smile. “So, I figured I’d … uh, check on my package. See if Emil … uh, Dr. Getz found it.”

His ploy wasn’t working.

“Guess she already took it out,” he added lamely.

Definitely a crowd gathering now. Ten, maybe.

The woman folded her arms across her uniform. “It’s also illegal to put items
in
a residential mailbox without first attaching the proper postage.” Her tone was decidedly more sharp. “Did you know that?”

Blast, if she didn’t have him blushing! “Uh, no, ma’am. No, I didn’t. Sorry.”

She brushed past him, shoved one lone envelope in the box, and dropped the lid with a perfunctory slap. “I’ll check with Dr. Getz first thing tomorrow and see what she has to say about all this. Your name is …?”

Mud.

“Fielding.” He coughed, trying to keep those within earshot from hearing it. “Jonas Fielding. She’ll … she’ll know me.”

“Were you planning on stuffing that in her mailbox, too?” The woman’s gaze fell to the folder under his arm.

“Of course not!” he snapped, then caught himself. “Because … it’s … too big. Of course.”

“Humph.” She turned on her heel and marched next door to the Alden House Bed and Breakfast.

“Be sure and try their apple pancakes,” he called after her, knowing even those babies, drenched in syrup, wouldn’t put a smile on that woman’s sour face.

“Show’s over,” he informed the few stragglers who’d hung back, hoping for another round. “Postage goes up a penny on Sunday,” he reminded them, reaching for his car keys. “Forget one extra cent, and you’ll have to deal with
her.
”

Driving off toward the work site, his wiseacre grin faded. Emilie had
found her book. But had she read the letter?
Shoulda left it sticking out.
However untidy, at least she’d have seen it. When he ran into her again, he’d ask her. Make sure the woman knew he was sorry. See if they’d be doing tea anytime soon.

Then there was Beth, who wouldn’t be happy with him either. Not only did she not know about his truly repentant letter, she’d also fuss at him for doing such a rotten delivery job today.

He grabbed his cell phone and punched in the number for the church. No matter what happened, he needed Beth on his side. Friends were hard enough to come by without losing two in one week.

Nathan never thought about losing. Only winning, and winning big.

He’d crossed the state line into Florida less than three days earlier, and already he’d made a killing on a trifecta at the Orange Park Kennel Club.
Five thousand and change.
Every dime was forwarded to Vegas. Certified check. No traceable address. Only 10 percent of the total, but it was a start.

“Jonas would consider it a tithe.” He chuckled as he strolled out of the bank into the bright January sunshine. He hadn’t called Pennsylvania again. His older brother wouldn’t have that kind of money, and Nathan didn’t need another lecture about God right now. If God really loved him, he could sure as spit produce the other forty-five grand.
Yeah. Pull it out of a burning bush or something.

He steered his Chevy up the entrance ramp to Interstate 95, watching his rearview mirror out of sheer habit. Living out of his suitcase in one of the discount suite motels southeast of downtown Jacksonville, Nathan focused on keeping to himself, biding his time while he scraped together the necessary funds to get Cy off his back forever.

Unless his luck held and the greyhounds raced him into a Tri-Super, that was gonna take a while.

In the meantime, he would play the circuit around a few of the public golf courses in the area—Windsor Parke, Baymeadows—work on his swing, and polish his act for San Pablo, the snazziest greens in town. Danny, one of the pros at Shadow Hills in North Las Vegas, would back him up with a good reference. Say the right words, grease the right palms, do what it took to get him on board at San Pablo Golf Club.

After all, Danny owed him one.

Not nearly as much as you owe Cy Porter.

Nathan banged the dashboard in frustration, then reached for a smoke, lighting it with a practiced flick of his wrist and taking a deep drag on the filter. The nicotine pushed his worries aside while his fingertips tingled and his heart raced, just like those greyhounds, running for their lives.
Just like you, Nate. Doin’ the same thing.

It wouldn’t always be this way. He’d get back on his feet, get his game back in the 70s where it belonged. Get back in touch with his family—with Jeff and Chris in Delaware, with Jonas.

Jonas.

Nathan’s chest tightened.
Must be the cigarette.
He knew he’d disappointed the twins and his sainted mother. Letting Jonas down had been the worst, though. The guy was a do-gooder of the first magnitude, yet he’d been there for him time and again. Didn’t judge him, didn’t hassle him. Didn’t read him the riot act like Dad would have.