Bookends (33 page)

“Pretty girl! Pretty girl!”

Ten minutes of listening to Victor squawk his one and only phrase and Emilie was ready to wring his ugly little parrot neck. Would have, in fact, if a certain bachelor weren’t busy nibbling on her own neck as they sat on the couch, comfortably entwined in each other’s arms while a CD of Moravian chamber music played softly on the stereo.

Only one thing worried her: Jonas was even more attentive than usual. Was it just the snazzy dress and big hair? The dramatic makeup and colorful nails? Those things were fun but they weren’t
her.
What if he
preferred
her this way? Would he still care for plain old Emilie?

No, Em. Don’t go there. Not now, not tonight.

She also didn’t have the heart to bring up the Gemeinhaus property and the progress she’d made that week, putting together a knowledgeable dig team. She could discuss that with Jonas on Monday, couldn’t she? When he wasn’t sitting there in his black suit, looking so utterly appealing? And she wasn’t sitting next to him in her silk dress, feeling the most feminine she had ever felt in her purely academic life?

The hour was late when Jonas sat back and studied her, long enough to make her feel uncomfortable with his frank assessment. “What is it?” She huffed and swatted at his tie—bright red this time, for Valentine’s Eve—wishing he’d say whatever it was he had in mind. “Out with it, please.”

“Will you be offended if I asked to look through your purse?”

“My
purse?
I don’t see why … I mean, it’s not appropriate.”
Really, Em! What would he find in there that matters?
She groaned. “Oh, all right, I suppose.” Emilie handed it over, disapproval intentionally drawn on her features.

He seemed not to notice, intent as he was on digging through her black leather bag and pulling out a handful of assorted items that had little in common except that they belonged to her.

“Ah.” Apparently satisfied, he put the purse aside, reached up with both hands and began smoothing her hair back with a comb, first one side, then the other, jamming in a few hair pins here and there with no finesse whatsoever.

“Jonas, what are—?”

“Shhh.” He tweaked her nose and kept pinning, smiling more broadly with each second that passed.

She could feel her overblown hairstyle growing more tame as he worked, though the way he was poking those pins in there, she feared how it might look when he finished.

“There.” He sat back with a nod of satisfaction. “Much better. Next item.” He took her old navy scarf—a sling from her weeks of recovery, stuffed in her purse just in case—and tucked it around her neckline.

At least
that
made sense. Cover up all that ghastly bare skin.

Then he took a tissue and patted her lips. Gently, as if he were kissing her with his fingertips, carefully blotting the remains of her Wildfire lipstick. His ministrations did odd things to her heart, sending it off to do cartwheels. Was he planning to kiss her but hated lipstick? Was
that
what all this was about?

Finally, he lifted her reading glasses out of their embroidered case and unfolded them, holding them out to her. “Slip these on, will you?”

Bewildered but willing, she slid them over her ears and eased them down onto the bridge of her nose. Jonas’ handsome face came into perfect focus.

“Emilie,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Say something historic.”

“Do
what?
”

“Please?” Jonas engaged his most effective weapons—lowered chin, puppy-dog eyes, a slight pout of that generous bottom lip—and added plaintively, “For me?”

“Jonas, this is—”

“Please, Emilie?”

Honestly!
How could she refuse such a man?

Clearing her throat, she assumed her classroom voice: “Beginning in 1796, reference is made to the Wachovia Wagons, which managed frequent trips between Moravian settlements in North Carolina and those to the north in Bethlehem by way of—”

Then he kissed her. Thoroughly. Passionately.

She would
almost
say he besieged her mouth, so swift and thorough was his attack, if it hadn’t also felt absolutely wonderful.

“Jonas, what—”

A second kiss, more remarkable than the first, left her wide-eyed and speechless. Though not permanently.

“Jonas,
explain
yourself!” She pressed her hands on his lapels, holding him at arm’s length.

His lethal grin subsided only slightly. “Emilie, I must confess, when I first saw you this evening, I was dumbfounded.”

“I noticed.” She tried not to sound smug.

“The women at that salon—”

“And Beth,” she reminded him.

“Right,
and
Beth, are to be commended for turning you into a first-rate fox. I was duly impressed, Emilie. Believe me.”

“
Was?” Hmmm.

“The point is, I would never want you to think that such trappings matter to me.”

Emilie blinked. “You mean they don’t?”

“Nah.” He softly nudged her chin with his knuckle. “That kind of beauty-in-a-bottle stuff wears off. I’ve dated plenty of supposedly pretty women, so trust me, I know what I’m talking about.
This
is the woman I most admire.” He pulled her to her feet and turned her toward the hall mirror. “See? Dr. Emilie Getz, my favorite historian.”

Her eyes almost bugged out of her head. “Aaah!”

Her scream woke Victor and started him shrieking,
“Pretty girl! Pretty girl! Pretty girl!
”

Appalled, she shrank away from her reflection.
“Pretty?
Nothing could be farther from the truth, you idiotic bird!” Her hair was tightly pinned in blobs and clumps all over her head, the plain scarf around her neck looked absurd with her fancy dress, and her glasses were meant to assist her reading, not her looks.

Emilie whirled around to face her Pygmalion, feeling close to tears. “Jonas, have you lost your mind?”

“Yup.” He gathered her up in his arms, slipping off her glasses and tucking them in his suit pocket. “It seems I’ve lost it entirely to a woman who doesn’t understand how beautiful she is to me. All the time. As is. No improvements needed.”

Jonas’ voice grew softer with every word until he uttered the last with the slightest of breaths, hovering over her lips, his only punctuation a cartwheel-spinning kiss.

Nathan Fielding had never been without a car, without cash, and without friends.

Until now.

Looking out the grimy window of his taxi, Nate watched the familiar landmarks of Jacksonville flash past him for the last time.

His thirty days in “rehab” were over. So were his chances for scraping together another eighteen thousand in Jacksonville. He’d sold everything he owned but his body. The designer-label clothes he’d hoped to build a wardrobe around were bartered for a bus ticket. His most prized possession—his Cobra golf clubs—were gone as well, sold for a third of what they were worth. At first, he’d hoped to turn the extra cash into a bonanza at the track. By the end, it was barely enough money to keep his head above water.

This morning—Monday, the twenty-second—he’d left a note and a twenty for Rick, ashamed it was so little, embarrassed just to disappear like that.

He’d make it up to the kid, someday, somehow.

Delivering the Jaguar back to Budget Rent-a-Car had been harder still. The young woman behind the counter handed him his paperwork with a
toothy smile. “Did you enjoy the ride?”

He shrugged, averting his eyes. “Yeah, it was okay.”

It was the nicest car he’d ever driven, but he wasn’t telling her that. Not when he had to sneak around the corner and call a cab to get him to the bus station.
Quite a step down, buddy.
The backseat of the taxi was filthy, the driver’s language more so.
And you think you deserve better, huh?

Nate slumped down against the vinyl upholstery and checked his watch. If this guy stepped on it, they’d get to the Greyhound bus station in time for the 5:15. Ironic that he was leaving town via Greyhound. If the greyhounds at Orange Park had been more cooperative, he could have stayed in Jacksonville, bought himself that high-end condo,
owned
a Jag instead of renting one.

Stop daydreaming, Nate.

The cabbie pulled up to the curb, flipped the meter off and barked out the amount, then reached around with an open palm. Nate slapped one of his last twenties in the man’s hand and let himself out. No luggage. No briefcase. Just the clothes on his back, eighty-two dollars in cash, a Bible he’d stolen out of the hotel, and a one-way bus ticket north.

Not much to show for thirty days of rehab.

His laugh sounded bleak, even to himself, as he followed the signs for his departure gate, checking his ticket, hanging on to it like a lifeline.

Not much to show for thirty years of living.

That was the truth of it. The sad and awful truth.

He was sober—but only because he couldn’t spare enough cash to be otherwise.

He was as lean as he’d been in high school—but only because he was down to one meal a day.

He was safe—but only until Cy caught up with him. He had one week left, and the clock was ticking louder by the minute. Even now he found himself looking over his shoulder, checking for the bozo who’d cleaned him out at the track. He’d said he knew about the Jag. Did he know the lease was up today? Was he watching for him here?

Nate lengthened his stride, keeping his eyes on the Greyhound bus that would take him where he desperately needed to go, a place where maybe—just maybe—he could kill two birds with one stone.

Get the debt to Cy off his shoulders once and for all.

And get his golf game—maybe even his life—back on top.

Handing the gray-haired agent his ticket, Nate fought the urge to scan the crowd around him and simply stared at the open bus door that led to his future.

“You’re all set.” The woman gave him back his punched ticket. “Arrives at noon Tuesday in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Pretty place.”

“That’s what I hear, ma’am.” He relaxed—all the way to his soul—for the first time in a week. “Pretty. That’s it exactly.”

“Pretty girl.”

Emilie closed her eyes, remembering. Even now, ten days after their magical Valentine’s Eve together, she could still sense Jonas in the room, holding her close, whispering in her ear, insisting his admiration for her was more than skin deep.

Telling her that he valued her fine mind more than her fine features.

Convincing her that he treasured her soft heart more than her soft skin.

Assuring her that he applauded her spiritual discoveries more than her historical ones.

Believing him was easy. This was Jonas Fielding, the most honest, caring, straightforward man she had ever known.

And despite all his arguments about her more intellectual attributes, he had also called her—

“Pretty girl!” Victor hollered, flapping his wings.

Emilie’s eyes flew open and she laughed merrily. “The very word, you silly parrot. He called me pretty. And you, mister, should consider yourself lucky you’re not sitting out on my porch this morning.”

Tossing a covering over his cage, she peered out the window at a frosty Tuesday on Main, then turned the heater up another notch. At daybreak the thermometer in her kitchen window had read a startling twelve degrees.
Twelve!
Too cold for anything but staying indoors, working on her research, and sipping gallons of hot tea.

Without a car—and with Jonas busy slaving over his clubhouse—she was content to be home alone in her quiet, cozy cottage with only a ticking clock to penetrate the stillness.

A ticking clock and one muffled but determined parrot.

“Pddy grrl!” Victor squawked through the quilted covering.

“Well, kwawk to you, Victor,” Emilie crowed, laughing as she yanked off his cover. “Kwawk, kwawk, kwawk.”

It was only then that the truth hit her: Jonas had presented her with a
bird
and she hadn’t even flinched at the possible connection to her disastrous heron routine. The simple fact was, she hadn’t thought of it, nor had he implied such a thing. It was just a
bird.
A gift, not a cruel reminder.

The memory of that incident had faded along with the bitterness and every bit of the pain.
Rather incredible, Lord.
Bit by bit, she sensed the less-than-lovely kinks in her personality being carefully smoothed out by a loving hand. Jonas’ attentions were a factor as well, but she knew this was something else again.

Something life-changing. Something eternal.

Emilie settled into her favorite overstuffed chair, grateful to have the full use of both arms and hands again. The area around her collarbone was still tender but—according to her doctor—healing nicely. Despite Jonas’ odd fascination with her scrawny neck, the man kindly steered away from her injury, prayed over it instead, then headed elsewhere to plant a kiss.

Their friendship—or whatever it was these days—had survived the bird count caper. Their next hurdle was the Gemeinhaus property, which was not, she had to confess, an issue of eternal significance. It just felt like one. A milestone in her career to balance out the millstone around her neck called Bethabara.

Trouble was, Carter’s Run was equally important to Jonas. His first municipal golf course. A five-million-dollar budget. A whole town cheering him on to victory.

Did she expect Jonas to put his plans on hold for her?

Was Jonas waiting for her to do the same for him?

Emilie rubbed at her temple, a tension headache popping up out of nowhere. The change in the weather, perhaps.
Or a change of heart.
She looked at her research scattered around her, years of labor with little reward, poised to be published for an academic world that thrived on new discoveries and old digs.

Her peers would applaud. But would the Lord?

All her life she’d considered
compromise
a dirty word, one never used in polite company by a determined, strong-willed woman like her. Now her
notebooks full of facts and figures seemed a coldhearted pursuit compared to the very warmhearted Jonas Fielding and the Lord who loved them both.