Bookends (43 page)

With those words ringing in her heart, she kissed his chin, then slipped into the backseat.
Floated
was a better word for it.

The driver shifted into first gear before she saw the unopened box.

“Wait!” She pushed the button that sent her window whirring down, stopping halfway. “Jonas, wait! Your gift. May I open it now?”

He leaned down and looked in, grinning like a big elf. “Please do.”

She didn’t need a second invitation, tearing off the red ribbon with abandon, then more carefully lifting the lid. It was parchment, rolled up with care, held closed by a wrapper stamped, “Heritage Map Museum.”

“Oh, a map! I love maps.” She whirled in her seat to face him. “How did you know I love maps?”

He shrugged. “A guess.”

With trembling fingers she slid off the paper wrapper and began to unfurl the map in her lap. “Look! In the corner.
Warwick.
Oh, it’s a local map. How wonderful!” She looked up at him long enough to blow him a kiss. “Very old, I’m sure. If I can just smooth out—”

Her mouth went completely dry.

It was the Gemeinhaus survey map. Dated 1747.

“Jonas, how … how did you find this? They sold it the day I saw it!”

“Yes, they did.” His voice was low. “And two weeks ago when I finally tracked the new owner down, he sold it to me.”

“To
you?
” Her mind was reeling. “But why?”

“So I could prove to the committee the Gemeinhaus wasn’t a figment of your overactive imagination.”

She stared at him. “But look what it cost you! Time. Manpower. Money. Most men would have kept that kind of information to themselves.”

The broad shoulders under his pink golf shirt lifted slightly. “Guess I’m not most men.”

Now there’s an understatement.
“So …” She was still trying to put the pieces together. “You’ll hang this in the clubhouse, then?”

He snorted. “At that price? Are you kidding? I bought it for the woman who stole my heart.”

“The woman who stole your eighteenth hole, you mean.”

Jonas shook his head and leaned in closer. “On the contrary, Dr. Getz. You gave it to me, free and clear, remember? Thanks to your map, I found a way to give it back.”

“And then some.” A tear sneaked out before she could smile and pat it away. “Oh, Jonas, you are amazing. Thank you.” She quickly found a tissue and attended to her runny nose, squeezing in another word of thanks between each sniffle.

“And now, before I water this exquisite map instead of your plants, remove yourself, kind sir. Oh, driver.” She tapped his uniformed shoulder. “Carry on.”

She blew Jonas a kiss as the window closed, then carefully rolled up her map and slid it gingerly back in the box, closing the lid tight. Absolutely nothing could spoil this day. This perfect, sunny, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky day.

The Town Car pulled up to Jonas’ house two minutes later. “I’ll be back in no time,” she promised, sliding out, house keys in hand. Letting herself in through the back door—with permission this time, she realized, feeling a guilty twinge—Emilie found a glass pitcher that would serve as her watering can. She filled it up at the kitchen tap, then ventured into the house, not sure where she might find her leafy gifts.

She couldn’t summon plants like she did Olive and Victor, so she’d have to wander from room to room until she found them. None in the kitchen, she quickly deduced. Nor the bedrooms, nor the bath, though rumor had it her first gift met its withered demise there. None in the dining room or living room either, which left only Jonas’ large den and office on the other side of the house.

Bluegrass music was blaring behind the half-closed door.
Nathan, obviously.
Odd he wasn’t at work today. She knocked so she wouldn’t catch him
off guard, then pushed the door fully open.

There he is.
Hadn’t heard her apparently, and no surprise that, with the music so loud. She stepped into the room, then paused, suddenly uneasy. Something didn’t feel right. Nathan was sitting at Jonas’ desk with his back to her, his hands flying over the keyboard. The oversized screen in front of him was a sea of numbers.

“Nathan?” She spoke without meaning to, then gasped when he swung around with a jerk of his chair and jumped to his feet, the screen going blank as he touched a key in passing.

“What are you doing here?” The almost-black Fielding brows were knit together, storm clouds brooding over eyes that flashed like lightning at sea.

“I … I, uh … Jonas gave me the keys.” She held them up in one hand, the pitcher in the other, noticing how the water sloshed from side to side in her shaky grasp. “I stopped by to … um, water the plants.”

“Oh, I see.” Nathan’s expression lightened considerably. “Look, Emilie, I’m sorry I yelled. I just … didn’t expect anyone to be in the house.” He jerked a thumb toward the stereo. “Shouldn’t have had that going at ninety decibels either, huh?” Grabbing a remote control for the CD player off the desk, he stopped the noise with the touch of one button. “Takes care of that problem.”

He turned to her and dipped his chin—just like his brother often did—and fixed his gaze on her. “Emilie, will you forgive me for overreacting?”

“Ah … yes. Of course I will.” She took a step backward. “Suppose I water the plants in here very quickly …” She craned her neck, relieved to see that there were, indeed, leaf-bearing plants in the room. “Then I’ll be gone.”

“Fine.” He leaned back, and a rush of relief washed over her. “To be honest with you, I’m playing hooky from work today and feeling a little guilty about it.” His eyes took on a playful twinkle, and she felt the tension in her muscles begin to relax.

“Emilie, I’d like to cash in a favor, if I could.” His grin was most persuasive. “You owe me one, if you recall.” Clearly his wink was intended to charm and, indeed, it proved hard to resist.

She giggled slightly and pointed her water pitcher at a thirsty begonia on Jonas’ desk. “Owe
you
a favor, you say?”

“From another occasion when you came by our place unannounced. Ring any bells?”

The heat rising to her cheeks answered his question. “Your day off is safe with me. I won’t say a word.”

He looked immensely relieved. “It’ll be our little secret, then. Won’t it, Dr. Getz?”

“Next comes the part where we don’t say a word,” Emilie whispered, as the hymn concluded and the small congregation found their seats.

Sara, dressed in a somber, dark green dress befitting the occasion, nodded her head then leaned up to ask, “Don’t we even sing? Or eat buns?”

“No, sweetie.” Emilie smiled down on her dear face. “That’s Saturday, the Great Sabbath lovefeast. But this is Maundy Thursday, the last night the Lord was with his followers.”

Sara’s small nose wrinkled with concern. “If they were his followers, how come they didn’t follow him?”

“Because Jesus said, ‘Where I am going, you cannot follow me now, but you will follow afterward.’ Remember? That’s what we all read aloud from our book a minute ago.” Emilie gently tweaked the child’s freckled nose, enthralled by its miniature softness. “Were you listening, sweet girl?”

“Most of the time,” Sara insisted, her voice rising. “But wasn’t there a bad guy, who
didn’t
follow?”

Emilie pressed a finger to her lips in a silent
shhh.
“Yes. Judas Iscariot, a
man who shared Jesus’ table that night.”

Sara’s frown was a work of art, painted across every feature, as she repeated in a loud whisper, “Bad old Judas His Chariot!”

Emilie mashed her lips together until she was certain a laugh wouldn’t come bursting out. “Almost, Sara.
Iscariot.
He started out as one of the disciples but lost his way.” Straightening up and smoothing her skirt, Emilie watched the men move forward toward the communion table. “Now, sweetie. Will you promise to sit very still?”

Sara did indeed sit quietly while Emilie let the sacred ceremony calm her heart and spirit and prepare her for the weekend ahead. Months ago—a lifetime ago—it would have been nothing more than a Sunday of special music in church, of trombones and Easter eggs in baskets and baked ham with cloves.

Those elements would be in place again this year, but it was the Lord himself, moving among them, that would make the difference.
Correction, Em. He always was the heart of Easter.
She was the one who would finally join the festivities this year, she realized with a wondrous sense of contentment.

There was another first, too. The Fielding family had decided to make Easter morning a reunion of sorts. Chris and Jeff and their wives and kids were coming up from Delaware on Sunday. The first time in ten years that all four brothers would be together.

Perhaps the three older brothers could help poor Nathan, who seemed to grasp the meaning of grace one minute, then throw it away like so much fodder the next.

This afternoon, though, belonged to her and Sara alone. She’d asked Beth if she might borrow her daughter for the early service at four, to be followed by supper at her house.
Cooking for a four-year-old!
The mere thought of it still undid her. Jonas and Nathan were attending the later service at seven, then stopping by for decaf coffee and Moravian sugar cake. Helen’s recipe, of course, but baked by her own inexperienced hands.

It’d taken all day—cooking and mashing the potatoes, letting the dough rise twice, and all the rest—but the house smelled divine, like Winkler’s Bakery, only better because this house was
home.
A borrowed home, but much loved, nonetheless.

When the service ended, Emilie and her charge stepped out into the cloudy, cooler day, gathering their jackets around them. A whole week of
sunshine had spoiled them for certain. Now it looked more like April usually did, with incessant showers.

Emilie squeezed Sara’s hand as they strolled down the sidewalk. “Have I told you how proud I am of you, winning the Easter coloring contest with your pretty basket? Your picture in the
Record Express
looked mighty impressive.”

The girl beamed up at her, little teeth like a row of fresh white corn. “Daddy framed it.”

“Of course he did. He loves his little artist. And I do, too.”

It was getting easier to say the word out loud—to Sara, to Jonas, to Beth, to Helen, even to her mother.
Imagine that!
She’d always loved her mother, but
saying
so, putting it into words, was a whole different story. “New, improved Emilie,” Jonas called her. The more she understood what he meant, the more she liked it.

They were greeted at the front door by a hungry Olive. Then again, Olive always sounded that way—petulant and scolding. While Sara cheerfully assumed her role as official cat caretaker, Emilie busied herself in the kitchen.

Steering their meat loaf into the oven, she set the timer for a full ninety minutes, then scrubbed two big potatoes to toss on the rack. Green beans went on the back burner to get ready to simmer before she slipped off her apron, satisfied that something approximating dinner would be ready by six-thirty.

You’re a regular Donna Reed, Em.
She smiled as she moved through the house, looking for one naughty cat and one sleepy girl, knowing they’d be together. Why did these simple domestic tasks feel so natural, so
right?
It wasn’t merely hormonal, that nonsense about her loudly ticking biological clock—was it?
Certainly not!
It surely wasn’t something as basic as her growing love for Jonas that had her thinking maternal thoughts—was it?
No. Couldn’t be!

She stepped into the living room and paused, smiling all the way to her toes. In the soft lamplight, Sara and Olive were curled up on the couch, both fast asleep. Sara, with damp, blond ringlets around her forehead and her little black shoes still on. Olive, stretched out alongside her, one furry paw resting on Sara’s soft cheek.

Emilie etched the scene on her heart, drinking it in like her communion
juice, like grace and life itself. Sara was not her own child, but for an hour she could pretend, couldn’t she?

The little black oxfords slid off easily into her hands, then she placed them side by side on the floor, two doll shoes. Borrowing the quilt from the back of the sofa, she draped it across cat and child, making sure both had their pink noses showing so they could breathe.

Crossing the room on tiptoe, Emilie pulled a favorite book off the shelf and sneaked back, folding herself onto the end of the long couch, Sara’s stockinged feet touching hers.

It was a moment she would always remember as one of perfect peace. Outside, the fading light of an early spring evening; inside, the warm glow of dinner in the oven and candles shimmering year-round in the many-paned windows. A quiet innocence.

At six-thirty, when the stove buzzer went off, Emilie sat upright with a jolt.
Goodness!
She’d fallen asleep, just like Sara. “Wake up, sweetie,” she said with a tired yawn, amazed to find her open book beside her on the floor, barely read.