Bookends (26 page)

“Emilie wants to be respected.”

He cleared his throat, not sure why he needed to. “I do respect her.”

Helen shifted in her seat, recrossing her ankles. “I’m not sure that you do. Not if you think she can put aside this quest of hers so easily. She wants—needs—to be respected for her uncommonly sharp mind. For her
carefully orchestrated way of doing things—”

“You mean her picky, perfectionist, drive-a-man crazy way of doing things.”

The older woman’s head tipped sideways, acknowledging him yet not agreeing. “If that’s how you see it, then you truly don’t appreciate what she’s tried to accomplish with her life. What she wants is respect, but what she
needs
is something else again.”

Ah.
“The love of a good man, I suppose.” He swallowed the grin that threatened to sneak across his face.

Helen snorted. At least it
sounded
like a snort. “Emilie doesn’t
need
a man, the way some women convince themselves they do.”

Jonas stared at Helen Bomberger as if he’d never seen her before. Maybe he hadn’t. Not this forthright, world-wise soul. “Oh?” was all he dared say, hoping she’d continue.

“She needs love, all right, but not from you or any other man.” Helen’s voice was soft, but her words were filled with conviction. “It’s love from the One who made her, that’s what she needs most. The one who gave her that fine intellect, who breathed that desire to pursue excellence into her very soul before her lungs filled with a single ounce of air.”

Helen leaned forward, as if making sure he was listening. As if he could do otherwise.

“She needs God’s love, Jonas. Have you shown her that?”

Had he? Or was it only his own affection—of the flesh, not of the Spirit—that he’d shown her? Selfishly. With little respect, if he was honest about it.

Jonas felt his limbs grow leaden and looked for the nearest available seat. “Helen—” he began, dropping onto the sofa—“God has made it clear that I’m to help Emilie understand the fullness of his joy.”

“Good.” She nodded, leaning back, looking relieved. “And have you done that?”

“Sort of.”
What a lame answer, man!
He exhaled noisily. “I’ve tried, but I’m not sure I’ve succeeded.”

Helen’s smile bore no hint of judgment. “It’s a beginning, Jonas.”

That’s what he’d told Emilie, nearly a month ago.
A beginning.
Trouble was, somewhere along the line he’d lost track of his mission in favor of the miss who’d blustered her way into his life, laying claim not only to a corner
of his property, but the better part of his heart as well.

“Now what?”

He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Helen responded with a gentle but firm list of suggestions.

“Show her respect, Jonas. Reveal God’s love in as many ways as your bright mind can devise.” She smiled broadly, her straight white dentures sparkling. “Do that, and I believe your little property dispute will take care of itself.”

When she reached for her needlework again, he felt dismissed.

“So, what you’re saying is—”

“Win her over, Jonas.” In the kind, wrinkled face, her eyes twinkled like those of a young girl. “Win Emilie’s heart by showing her utmost respect, God’s boundless love, and your own gentlemanly attention. No woman could possibly resist all that.”

Resistance was futile, even though the invitation was attached to the ugliest little plant Jonas had ever laid eyes on.

No problem.
Between his luck with houseplants and Trix’s curious chewing, this leafy green whatsit the florist just delivered would be dead in a week.

Jonas tossed his jacket on the kitchen counter, Helen’s words still ringing in his ears.
Respect. Love. Attention.
He’d show Emilie that and more—to please Helen, and definitely to please the Lord.

He’d be pleased in the bargain,
if
Emilie agreed to let him press on with construction at Carter’s Run unhampered by her fellow history fanatics.

Hadn’t his good old Fielding charm unlocked many a stubborn female heart in the past? Jonas grinned and dropped onto a kitchen stool.
Dr. Getz won’t know what hit her.

An uneasiness in his chest told him he was off the mark there.
Okay, Lord. Not charm. Encouragement.
The pressure on his chest lifted as he unfolded the “You Are Invited” note, determined to keep his intentions honorable—and, if possible, his golf course intact.

The message was printed with a brown crayon.
From Sara?

No.
It was signed by Emilie.

Dear Jonas:

Jonas grinned and scratched Trix behind the ears. “Check this out, girl. She’s inviting me to do tea. Gotta be a good sign.”

He hated tea.

Thursday couldn’t get here soon enough.

“Mutual agreement?”
Bingo!
The whole thing would be over in two days, then. She’d consent to his moving forward without interference and forget all about digging around his practically finished eighteenth hole for her patently fictitious Gemeinhaus.

Sure, the structure might have been there a couple of hundred years ago, but it was long gone. The borough owned the land, free and clear. A little tea, a little sympathy, and she’d see the light. After all, he’d come home to an answering machine full of support from the Carter’s Run steering committee, assuring him they would keep it on the q.t. but that they were behind him 100 percent.

If he could convince a dozen men, how hard could it be to persuade one woman?

Jonas continued reading, unable to keep a smile off his face.

It would suit fine. In fact, he’d
wear
a suit, just to demonstrate his regard for her. Earn some extra credits from the professor while he was at it.

First he’d have to buy one. Hess Clothing on Broad Street would have something in his size, right? In black?

She
would
have to mention that “historic” part.

Ha.
“Property Management,” eh?
What a kidder.

The
Ph.D.
wasn’t an accidental choice of verbiage either.

Emilie could toss her credentials around all she liked. They’d buy her his respect, joy, and admiration—but not his eighteenth hole.

A what?
He shook the letter at the slobbery golden retriever panting at his feet. “I’m the only mister this sister will ever need, Trix. Come Thursday afternoon, she’ll find that out.”

Speaking of presents, should he take her one as well?

Possibilities ran through his mind and were quickly discarded. Perfume was too personal, tea was too predictable, jewelry was out of the question.

Wait.
She liked Mavis the goldfish. Maybe another small pet of some sort. To keep her company.
To remind her of me.
It was Groundhog Day, was it not? Naturally, groundhogs weren’t so much bought as they were trapped. No time for that. Still, he was on the right track.

He fingered the leafy plant, amazed when it didn’t wither at his touch. Somehow he had to keep the thing alive and out of Trix’s reach.

Kitchen or bath, Emilie said.

Easy enough.
He’d hang it in the shower.

Emilie missed having a shower.

Her antique claw-foot tub was charming, an antique-lover’s delight, but
from a practical standpoint, it was a pain in the neck—literally. When she slid down into the water till the foamy bubbles tickled her chin, the high sides of the tub caught her neck en route and offered no suitable perch once she was immersed in the suds.

Getting in and out of the tub with a broken collarbone was no easy feat either. She was grateful she lived alone, so no one would hear her splashing and grunting about when she struggled out of the tub each morning.

It wasn’t morning now, not by a long shot. She’d spent the first eight hours of Thursday cleaning and polishing her little abode until it shone like the electric candles that twinkled in every window, year-round. Having located a recipe for genuine British scones, she’d bravely tossed a batch in the oven and marveled that they’d come out looking quite edible fifteen minutes later.

Lemon curd and fresh raspberries—imagine!—perched in a cool spot near the window, while the ingredients for a mock-Devonshire cream waited on the second shelf in the refrigerator. The dining room table was draped with her favorite lace-edged cloth, one of the handful of household items she brought from North Carolina, set with her best Royal Doulton bone china—the Lady Carlyle pattern, gold-rimmed and delicate. Jonas would never fit his sturdy index finger through the tiny handle in the cup, but he’d no doubt manage.

He’d also be sporting his usual T-shirt and black denim, of that she was certain. Wanting to make him feel comfortable, she’d laid out pressed blue jeans—the only pair she owned—and a plain white, oversized sweater. Her only nod to dressing for tea was a favorite navy silk scarf that would serve as her designer sling.

From her vantage point in the steaming tub, she could barely see the clock across the room.
Nearly three.
Plenty of time to finish her bath, dry and dress, and pour the scalding tea water into the waiting pot. No hurry really, not with a full hour. He’d never be early. Not in a—

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three sharp knocks on her back door had her scrambling to a full sitting position in the tub, made slipperier than usual by the extra dollop of rose-scented bubble bath she’d poured in the water.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Not Jonas. It wasn’t possible, not an hour ahead of schedule. She
squinted at the clock again, wishing her reading glasses were nearby, then steered herself through the bubbles toward the faucet to get a better look at the time.

No!
Not three o’clock—
four!

It
was
Jonas, punctual to the minute.

“Emilieeeee!” She could hear his muffled holler through the small, six-paned window just above her. The back door downstairs was unlocked. Might he let himself in? Come looking for her?

Or would he shout her name until the police came to arrest him for disturbing the peace?

“Em-i-leeeeee!”

She eyed the window, two feet above her shoulder—the shoulder with the broken collarbone. If she could get her legs underneath her, get up on her knees, perhaps she could ease up the window and call down a greeting.

Tucking one leg under her proved to be simple enough. Leaning against her good shoulder, she folded the second leg in place, congratulating herself on her dexterity until the very moment she went face-first into the sudsy drink.

Ker-splash!

Feet pointed up, face pointed down, she surfaced seconds later, sputtering with a mouthful of rose-flavored bathwater.
Ick.
Flipping over on her back, she tried the whole silly exercise again, this time managing to raise herself onto her knees.
So far, so good.
Flexing her good arm, she pushed up the window, wincing at the pain then shivering when the wintry cold breeze hit her bare skin, covering her with goosebumps.

Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Em-i-leeee!”

She heard him more clearly now and shouted back. “Jonas!”

The knocking stopped. “Emilie?” She heard his footsteps on the pavement below, coming closer. “That you up there?”

“I’m here.” She waved her fingers out the window and heard him snicker one story below.

“You did say four, right?”

“Yes.” She felt downright ridiculous in the quickly cooling tub, yet loathed the thought of attempting an awkward, noisy exit with him in such close proximity. “Sorry. I misread the clock, Jonas. If you don’t mind letting yourself in—”

“Am I supposed to climb this trellis?” A rustling sound from below launched her heart into her throat.

“No!” Her scream was faint, but sufficient. The rustling ceased. “You’ll find the back door open. I’ll be down shortly, I promise.”

Looking like something Trix dragged in.
Nothing she could do about that now. Thank goodness the homemade scones would impress him, since it was a fair wager her appearance would
not.

Slamming the window closed and flinging herself over the edge of the tub with a graceless lunge, she dressed in record time, choosing nicely flossed teeth over makeup. She heard Jonas moving around downstairs, whistling a tune she didn’t recognize—probably one of those bluegrass ditties he considered music.

All too aware of the hour, she fretted with her frizzy, unruly hair only long enough to sweep it on top of her head in an artless topknot, while curly tendrils escaped in every direction.

So
be it.
It was time to play hostess.

Slipping on a pair of casual leather flats, she hurried down the dark, winding staircase that led directly to her kitchen, where a tea kettle whistled on the stove and a man whistled a tune she finally identified as a Moravian favorite: “Morning Star, O Cheering Sight!”

The music stopped as he turned to face her, wearing a broad smile. “There you are.”

Her mouth went dry—drier than scones—and her eyes grew the size of tea saucers. “J-Jonas?”