Bookends (5 page)

“Sure were.” Jonas nodded, then looked behind them. “Where’s Sara?”

“Home with a cold and a baby-sitter.” Beth patted her bulging coat pocket. “I sneaked an extra bun for her, though.”

The woman loved kids, no doubt of that. Probably anxious to get home. Flipping on his headlights, he waved at their Nissan and tried to sound gruff. “If you lovebirds don’t mind, I have important business waiting for me.”

“Really?” Beth rolled her eyes. “What’s her name?”

“Bet I know.” Drew’s lazy smile stretched another inch. “It’s that lady of the hour: Carter’s Run.”

“Not the
golf course?
” Beth shook her head, her tawny hair following a
half beat behind her chin. “Jonas, not on Christmas Eve! Even a workaholic like you needs a night off.”

He shrugged, glad they’d come up with an easy excuse for his quick getaway. “The grand opening is April 9, ready or not.”
Ready, Lord willing.
Jonas revved the engine and flashed them a wide grin. “Merry Christmas, you two. Good to have you in town for a few days, Drew.” Drew’s sales territory for Woodstream Corporation—famous for manufacturing Victor mousetraps, among other things—covered three states, meaning the man was on the road more than he wasn’t. Beth handled it well, but judging by the way she was hanging onto his arm, she was glad to have him home for the holidays.

By the time they’d moved their car far enough for him to maneuver out of the tight space and onto Church Avenue, Jonas realized Emilie was long out of sight. He pulled up to the intersection and braked, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Had she turned left or right on Main? Lititz wasn’t that big a place. Maybe eight, nine thousand people, tops. Emilie hadn’t gone far. He’d find her, make sure she wasn’t freezing her skinny neck off, see she got home in one piece.

Left, then.
He turned, steering carefully down the narrow street with cars parked on both sides as he checked one sidewalk, then the other, looking for a tall woman with wavy brown hair. And no scarf.

C’mon, Emilie, I know you’re here somewhere.

Seconds later, sitting at the red light at Cedar, he caught a glimpse of her tan coat slipping past an open front door before it closed behind her.

It was her all right. The car out in front had a bumper sticker that pointed to her like a sharp pencil: “You can take Salem women out of class, but you can’t take the class out of Salem women.”

‘Salem,’ huh? Bet her other car’s a broomstick.

He sighed into the dim interior.
Not nice, Fielding.

A light came on in the house. She was safe, then.
Good.
Didn’t need his help after all.
Fine.

When the traffic light changed, he slowly drove by the white clapboard house with dark green shutters, a candle in each window, and a stone foundation.
Too bad she’s stuck with such an old house.
He almost felt guilty about stepping on the gas and heading for his own brand-spanking-new home with its straight-to-plumb and freshly-painted walls.

Wonder why she picked that place?

As the small house faded from view in his mirror, Jonas sorted through the facts at hand. The property once belonged to Miss Mary Augusta Huebener, the never-married daughter of a Moravian family and the unofficial town historian.
An old maid. Like Emilie, I’ll bet.
He grinned at the comparison. These days the house was owned by a missionary couple in Honduras, scheduled to come home on furlough next summer.

Hold it.
If his minutes from the last missions committee meeting were accurate, the church was paying rent for some out-of-town professor to live there while he prepared—

No.
Not
he—she.

Emilie.
Dr. Emilie Getz. He slowed down at the square while his mind whirled. Why hadn’t he put that together sooner?
Because, Einstein, you assumed the doc was a guy.
So the hoity-toity history professor from Winston-Salem was a
she,
here for the big anniversary.

Well, whaddaya know
 …

That meant the woman wasn’t in town for long—six months, tops.

Just as well, right?

He swung onto Broad Street, surprised to hear his tires squeal.

Right.

No sooner had he straightened the wheel than the cell phone in his pocket chirped. Fumbling with it in the dark, he finally found the right button and punched it.

“Fielding here.”

“Wish you were
here
,” a feminine voice purred.

“Here?” he barked into the phone. “Where? Who is this?”

“You saw me at church tonight, remember?”

At church?
Had he given Emilie Getz his number?
Nah.
Besides, she’d never sound like this coy little kitten.

The breathy voice came on the line again. “Don’t you know who this is?”

Know? No. Oh, no
 …

They said it in unison—one with a purr, the other a groan: “Dee Dee.”

“That’s enough moaning and groaning, dear.”

“Sorry, Mother.” Emilie gripped the phone with one hand while the other gently snipped a dead leaf off her aspidistra. “I hadn’t intended to come for
the whole day, that’s all. I … I need to get back to my research.”

Her mother’s faint tsk-tsk spoke volumes.

Emilie stared out the small kitchen windows at the fresh flakes slowly covering the sleeping garden that would beckon her come the first warm day. The snowfall was steady, but not enough to prevent her impending drive to her parents’ house for Christmas.

“Okay. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll be there about noon.” Emilie sighed, depositing plant debris in the wastebasket next to her desk. “Fine. Eleven, then. But I’ll need to be home by six. Yes, I realize your house
is
home.” She bit her lip to stem her irritation. “I meant where I’m staying now … 
that
home, okay? See you shortly.”

She eased the phone into its cradle, proud of herself for not banging it down in exasperation. Much as she loved her mother—and she did, she truly did—their conversations of late had been reduced to one topic: her unmarried status.

Never mind the bachelor degree with honors from Moravian College, or her master’s. Not even her hard-earned Ph.D. from Wake Forest University merited a brownie point on the home front.

“But I have no grandchildren,” Barbara Getz had grumbled on the phone moments earlier. “Surely you don’t plan to be an old maid.”

“Mother,” she’d countered, pruning the ends of an overly vigorous sweetheart vine. “They don’t even use the phrase
old maid
anymore. Not
career girl,
either. I’m a historian, an academic. Is that so shameful?” She’d swallowed hard, fighting to control her emotions. “Besides, I’m
thirty-six,
not eighty-six. Don’t throw away those shower gifts you’re hiding in the closet quite yet.”

Her mother had tried to keep her stash a secret. Said they were items she’d found on sale here and there. Useful household things, that’s all. Emilie had counted and knew better: one toaster, one iron, one blender, one mixer, one electric knife.

And one baby blanket. Pink.

Emilie paused in front of the mirror and smiled in spite of her sour mood.
Pink, like the sweater you’re wearing this very minute.
She did love pastel colors. Her closet was full of pale yellows, grays, blues, greens, and pinks, all in natural fabrics like cotton, linen, and wool. To her way of thinking, polyester wasn’t even good enough for curtains, let alone for apparel.

She smoothed the creases in her winter white slacks and glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes until she had to climb behind the wheel of her venerable BMW, point it north toward Noble Street, and face her mother. Enough time to finish watering the cherished collection of houseplants she’d transported from North Carolina with great care, their leafy green heads covered with a sheet to ward off the cold.

First, though, she’d unpack the last of her research materials and get things in order for this evening, when she’d begin putting together the pieces of the Gemeinhaus puzzle.

Pulling two heavy volumes from a box at her feet, Emilie lugged them up onto the dining room table with a determined thump and an equally forceful vow: Never again would a failure like Bethabara blemish her resume.

“Never!” She slapped another book on the table, punctuating her resolution with a satisfying bang.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Jonas groaned again.

The pounding in his head was relentless.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
His subconscious was shouting at him, too.
Wake up! Haul it outta bed, Fielding. C’mon, get up!

He pulled an extra pillow over his ears, but the voice in his head only grew louder and more insistent. “Go ’way,” he growled. “Lemme sleep.” When the pillow was snatched out of his hands, he was awake in an instant—eyes wide, heart beating, fists at the ready.

Two men stood in his bedroom doorway and chimed in unison, “Mornin’, big brother.”

“What? You …!” Jonas exhaled in frustration and relief as his eyes adjusted to the sight of his twin brothers, Jeff and Chris, strolling toward his bed—dressed, shaved, and wearing a pair of wicked grins. Plastered by Jeff’s side, with a stolen pillow trailing from her drooling mouth, was Trix, Jonas’ traitor of a dog.

“Figured you could sleep in on Christmas morning, huh?” Chris bent down to rub Trix’s ears. “What will the Lord think, this being his birthday and all?”

Jonas collapsed with a grunt, hand over his heart. “Aren’t you two supposed to be in Milford?” Trix bounded onto the bed, her shaggy blond tail beating the air with a joyful rhythm, her bobbing head begging to be petted. Disoriented, Jonas scratched his own head instead, trying to make sense of it all.

“You didn’t think we’d leave you all by your lonesome self on Christmas, did ya?” Jeff’s grin never budged. “No way, brother.”

“That’s right,” Chris chimed in. “Aren’t you gonna ask us how we got past your fancy security system?”

“Hey!” Jonas grabbed the pillow behind him and swung it at the nearest target. “Good question, turkeys. How
did
you get in here?”

Jeff rubbed his head in mock agony. “Some blond woman was parked in front of your house when we drove up.” He offered a broad wink. “Said you were … good friends.” He ducked when Jonas swatted him again. “Anyway, she could tell we were brothers. Said she’d be happy to let us in since she had a key.” He lifted one dark eyebrow. “Uh … how come she has the key to your house, Mr. Do-Good Christian?”

Jonas let out a noisy sigh. “Because she sold me this place. I guess she kept an extra key handy.” A problem he intended to correct pronto. He’d managed to avoid a visit from her when she’d called last night; now he’d have to face the woman after all, like it or not.

Not.

Jonas nudged Trix off the bed, then reached for a pair of jeans, standing to pull them on, stalling long enough to buy some time and sweep out the cobwebs. “So. I take it you haven’t left hearth and home behind to make my own Christmas merry and bright.” He yawned, stretching a T-shirt over his head. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”

Chris jerked his thumb toward the living room. “They’re out there, waiting for you to get decent.”

“This is as decent as I get.” Tucking the black shirt in his jeans, Jonas followed them toward the front of the house, finally noticing the muffled sounds of activity coming from the living room. It was obvious that his younger brothers—both happily married and settled in their hometown of Milford, Delaware—had gone to a great deal of trouble to transplant their
holiday celebration more than three hours north.

Although the twins were identical—dark haired, swarthy skinned—their wives were polar opposites. Diane—cool, blond, and sophisticated—had given Jeff a carbon-copy daughter, plus two dark, rough-and-tumble sons that carried on the all-boy Fielding tradition admirably. Diane was the first one to spot Jonas and nodded her sleek platinum head in his direction. “My, my, look what Trix dragged in.”

Despite the rude awakening and his scruffy appearance, Jonas threw out his arms in a general embrace. “Mornin’, family.”

Connie, a tall, curly-headed Texan with a toddler balanced on each hip, crowed back, “Will y’all look at that mess? Jonas, when was the last time you shaved that sorry face of yours?”

“Huh.” He squared his shoulders, assumed his most macho pose, and stuck out his tongue. “Some females like a bit of stubble on a man.”

The two women rolled their eyes. “From a distance, maybe,” Connie grumbled. “Di and I make sure there are fresh razors at every sink in the house.” She lowered her two wiggly bundles to the floor. “Children, give your Uncle Jonas a big hug, but mind you, don’t get your tender cheeks anywhere near his chin. It’s worse than Daddy’s.”

In seconds, he was shoved into an overstuffed chair and covered with nephews and nieces, giggling and squealing and ignoring their mothers’ warnings as they rubbed their sticky faces along his scratchy one. “Uncle! Uncle!” Jonas hollered, knowing that would only spur them on.