Bookends (25 page)

“Beth, you don’t understand!” Emilie paced the floor, waving her arms in abject frustration. “The man was livid.
Livid!
Foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.”

“Boy, sorry I missed
that.
” Beth’s airy giggle didn’t help things.

Emilie watched, still huffing, as the younger woman bent over Sara’s purple-and-green masterpiece, murmuring motherly encouragement before looking up to meet Emilie’s flint-sharp stare.

“Look, Em.” Beth’s voice, unlike her own, was gentle, soothing. “It’s been five days. Maybe he’s calmed down enough to discuss—”

“There’s nothing to discuss!” Emilie snapped. Emilie never snapped. She was a cool-thinking, level-headed, facts-not-feelings woman.
He
was a snarling, ill-trained German shepherd, guarding his precious putting green as if it mattered, as if seventeen holes of golf weren’t enough for any man.
Honestly!

The preservationists were on her side. She’d spent most of Friday
evening on the phone with a trusted peer from Moravian College in Bethlehem, describing the scenario, ascertaining what procedures were required to stop construction on the golf course and put together an experienced archaeological crew.

All weekend, she’d sketched and planned, borrowing her mother’s car again to drive out to the site and take measurements, make guesstimates. She took the long way around, heading east on Main to Pierson Road, steering clear of a particular house with a black Explorer parked in the driveway.

Things had gone swimmingly until Monday, when she’d spent the better part of the afternoon arguing with a certain short-haired land developer who insisted the steering committee—and soon enough, the whole town—would be on
his
side, eager to see their golf course open on April 9. Fully operational. On schedule. Without—in his words—“any unnecessary dillydallying from a bunch of eggheads.”

This morning—Groundhog Day—when Punxsutawney Phil peeped his head out long enough to see his shadow and offer his prognosis of six more weeks of winter, Emilie pictured Jonas at Carter’s Run, sticking his head out of the eighteenth hole and making his own dire prediction: six more weeks of stubborn resistance.

Talk about a
ground
hog!
The name fit the man to a
T.

The Landis living room could barely contain Emilie’s mounting fury. Her jaw in a gridlock, she nearly shouted the words. “I just wish Jonas Fielding would … would …”

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Beth’s features lost their sparkle and Sara grew quiet for the first time that day.

The silence in the room swelled with the energy of her outburst.
Settle down, Em!
It took a moment to slow her breathing and steady her voice, to gather her scattered emotions and bring them under control.

“Goodness, listen to me carrying on so.” She eased down onto an ottoman, carefully skirting Sara’s open box of watercolors. “What a frightful way for me to behave, ladies. I hope you can forgive grumpy old Dr. Getz.”

Sara’s lower lip poked out and her little blond head shook back and forth in protest. “You
are
a grump, Em-ee-lee. But you are
not
old.”

“Oh, Sara.” Emilie slipped to her knees and hugged the child with her left arm, fistful of crayons and all. “Thank you, little one.” Swallowing the unexpected knot in her throat, she whispered in Sara’s ear, “How did you
know I needed to hear exactly that today?”

From the sidelines Beth chuckled, her sunny disposition back in place. “Kids have an uncanny knack for figuring out adults.”

“Even when we behave like children?” Emilie pursed her lips together, slipping back onto the ottoman and smoothing her straight black wool skirt. “I truly am sorry to be so … so …”

“Unreasonable?” Beth’s teasing tone softened the truth of it.

“Guilty as charged, I suppose.” She lifted her hands then dropped them just as quickly, feeling overwhelmed again. “But isn’t Jonas being difficult, too?”

“Absolutely.” Beth nodded. “Rock-solid ridiculous, if you ask me.” She continued sorting through Sara’s box of markers, tossing out all the orphans without matching caps. “He knows you’ll haul in the big guns of the academic world and bring his bulldozers to a grinding halt if he doesn’t find some way to work things out.”

Emilie groaned and shook her head. “There’s nothing to work out, Beth.” She stood again, fidgeting with her long silver necklace. “As long as there’s a tiny hole with a skinny flag on that corner of his property, I can’t get to my Gemeinhaus.”

“From my viewpoint, Em, you have two choices. One is to fight him tooth and nail, which could take ages and make a lot of folks unhappy with you for interfering with their golf course.”

“Well!” Emilie bristled. “They’ll just have to swing their clubs somewhere else.”

“Now who’s being unfair?”

“Okay, okay.” Emilie blew out a deep breath, trying her best to stay calm and think logically. “I can fight him—which, believe you me, is my strongest inclination—or I can do what? You said I had another choice.”

Beth’s grin was anything but angelic. “Win him over.”

“
What?
Win him—!” Emilie rolled her eyes. “Are you suggesting I try and convince that … that
destroyer
of antiquities that history matters more than golf? Ha! Some chance I’d—”

“No, Em.” Beth rose and planted her hands on her hips, the grin broadening. “I’m suggesting you convince Jonas that
you
matter more than golf.”

A host of odd sensations—cold chills then warm, weak knees then a light-headed feeling—assailed Emilie’s body. “But I don’t matter to Jonas
Fielding one bit! That.… well, that whatever it was … ended before …”

Beth ignored her, turning instead to her daughter. “Sara, it seems Dr. Getz is having a hard time figuring out how she feels about Whale Man. What do
you
think?”

Sara’s mouth scrunched up into a freckle-framed bow as she studied Emilie for a moment before grabbing a bright pink marker. “Em-ee-lee is this color. I think that means she likes him.”

Beth laughed, first squeezing her daughter’s hand, then Emilie’s. “I think so, too, sweetie. Know what else? Whale Man also likes our Em-ee-lee.”

Humph.
Emilie, despite her definite blush, would not allow herself to succumb to such sentimental claptrap. “Our nonexistent feelings for one another are beside the point.”

“And that’s where you’re dead wrong, Emilie Getz.” Beth’s smile faded to a thin, determined line. “Your feelings for one another are the
only
point that matters. Not golf, not history—two people. A man and woman who care deeply about each other, whether they’ll admit it or not.”

Emilie hated the direction this conversation was taking. Her feelings for Jonas—whatever they were—were
her
business.

Beth, it seemed, was not going to drop the subject. Her eyes resumed their pixieish twinkle. “What if
pretending
to like Jonas would earn you a crack at your Gemeinhaus property?”

Emilie’s ears perked up at that one. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that hard-driving Jonas, like most men, probably turns into mush when his heart—or his ego—is involved. Couldn’t you
act
interested in the man? At least long enough for him to agree to let you do some digging for a month or so, find out if there are any legitimate artifacts there?”

Emilie gazed at her friend’s innocent expression, wondering for the first time if Beth knew more than she might admit.

“Are you asking me to flirt? Toss shameless compliments his way?”

Beth grinned. “If you think it’ll get his attention, yes.”

“He’d see right through that.” Those big, puppy-dog peepers of his could peer through steel and melt it in the process. Heaven knows they’d softened her resistance on several occasions—one rainy Monday in particular.

Picturing his soulful brown eyes gazing back at her, even for a second, sent a warm shiver along her spine.

No, Em! No shivers.

She straightened her head, giving her backbone no choice but to join ranks. “We’ll have to think of something else, Beth. Another approach.”

“Okay, okay.” Beth tapped one slim finger on her lips, obviously deep in thought. “Why not give him something he needs but won’t buy for himself? Something impersonal, yet friendly. Something like …”

“Like a houseplant?”
Indeed.
Even Emilie saw merit in that. The man’s home was devoid of living things, unless one counted that pink-tongued monster of a dog. “He could certainly use a nice fittonia,” she murmured.

Beth’s brow wrinkled. “You want the man to have a fit?”

“No, a fittonia. A mosaic plant.” Emilie nodded to herself, warming up to the idea. “Bright green, white-veined, low growing. I have several along the windowsill in my kitchen. Very easy to care for, as long as I provide a mister.”

“Mister who?”

Emilie laughed, realizing only then that she hadn’t done so in days. “A mister.” She mimicked a hand squeezing something. “You know, for spraying water on plants?”

“Ohh.” Beth shrugged. “Sorry. I have ten brown thumbs. You’ll probably need to help Jonas on that score as well. Which is perfect.”

“Maybe.” Doubt attacked Emilie from every corner. Would Jonas think it was foolish? Brazen? Desperate? Conniving?

Was she willing to risk everything to find out?

Emilie smoothed her hand over her hair, as if preparing for a meeting. “So … how would one deliver this plant?”

Beth sighed, reaching for a phone book from the nearby shelf. “One would call a florist. The Hendricks greenhouses are right up the street. I’ll bet they’ve got one of those green fitto-thingies, waiting for you to attach a card and send—”

“A
card?
” Emilie balked. “What would it say?”

“Hmm.” Beth gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “How ’bout, ‘We had a good thing growing.’ Let’s—”

“Goodness! I would never write anything that corny.” Beth’s hurt expression hastened her to add, “Not that it isn’t creative. Perhaps if we made some reference to the soil it’s planted in.”

“Aha!” Beth’s smile was triumphant. “I’ve got it.” She grabbed a brown crayon from Sara’s collection and carefully printed a long message on a clean
piece of sketch paper, then held it up for Emilie’s inspection. “Whaddya think? Sounds like you, doesn’t it?”

Emilie read through the note then slowly shook her head. “Jonas will think I’m crazy.”

“She’s crazy about you, son. Isn’t that obvious?”

“Helen, have you heard a word I said?” Jonas flailed his arms about him in utter futility, grinding his heels in Helen’s well-worn living room carpet as he spun around. “The woman hung up on me yesterday.”

Helen looked up from her needlework and blinked in surprise. “Emilie?”

“Yup.” He nodded with conviction. “Slammed down the phone right in the middle of our conversation.” The fact that seconds earlier he’d called her an “uptight, stiff-necked spinster” probably had something to do with it.

But she’d deserved it, blast it all!

And besides, it’d felt so good when he chewed up and spat out every syllable:
up-tight stiff-necked spin-ster.

She
was
uptight, wasn’t she? Worried about every little thing, but especially her confounded research.
Yeah.

And stiff-necked?
No question.
The way she jutted her chin out and carried her head like she had books stacked on top. Fact is, her whole body was stiff.

Not always.

Not when he’d kissed her that Monday. She’d bent like a graceful willow when he—

Don’t go there, fella.

He exhaled and started pacing again.

Spinster, though,
was
a cruel cut. So what if she was single? So was he. It suddenly struck him that society considered a single guy in his thirties—a bachelor—perfectly acceptable; a never-married, thirty-something woman was an old maid.

Huh.
Not much justice there.

Helen swatted him lightly with her cross-stitch pattern book. “Now who’s not paying attention?”

He turned in her direction and tried to look contrite. “I’m sorry, Helen. What were you saying?”

She slipped her embroidery needle through the cloth, put aside her handwork, then folded her hands in her lap, looking every bit the proper matron. “If you’d stop waging a war of words with the woman and listen to her heart, you’d know what I’m saying is true. Emilie Getz cares for you, Jonas. I’ve known her every one of her thirty-six years, and she’s never scolded anyone as passionately as she has you. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

He leaned against her mahogany mantle, shaking his head. “It tells me that I get under her skin.”

Helen’s eyes narrowed. “What Emilie feels for you is much more than skin deep.”

“Really?” Pretending an inordinate fascination with a Hummel figurine, he avoided her pointed gaze and let the words sink in.
Did
Emilie care? Then why the high drama about a lousy quarter acre of land? Weren’t there dozens of other historic sites she could pursue, right here in Lancaster County?

Why this corner of his nearly finished golf course?

Okay, not
his,
exactly.

As good as his own, though.
Like his own child.

A vision of Sara, her tiny arms wrapped around her daddy’s neck, crossed his mind.
No, not like a child.
Not that valuable, not that irreplaceable, not that eternally significant.

It was just a doggone piece of property. But it was his to manage, his to protect.

Helen invaded his thoughts. “Do you know what Emilie wants most in life?”

Jonas put down the figurine, having hardly noticed it, and gave Helen his full attention. “I should know, but I don’t.”
Love, maybe. Didn’t every woman want that?
He shrugged, not wanting to guess incorrectly. “You tell me.”

Her tsk-tsk reprimanded him. Her probing question embarrassed him. Her words, though, cut him to the quick.