Bookends (10 page)

When she’d paused long enough to realize he was videotaping, he’d quickly explained that it was for archival purposes only, that the Lancaster Bird Club kept such tapes in their files for training future members. “No one but fellow birders will see this tape,” he’d assured her, chagrined at how glibly it’d rolled off his tongue. “Only those who will truly appreciate what you’ve accomplished here today will have the privilege of seeing your heron-ic self in action.”

No question, this group truly appreciated it. Three of the ministers were practically on the floor. “So—” one of them asked between gasps—“are you showing this at your next bird club meeting?”

Jonas shrugged, another stab of guilt slicing through his windpipe. The birders met once a month at Franklin and Marshall College in Lancaster. Showing them the tape at January’s gathering had never crossed his mind.
Now the idea was tempting as all get-out.

Just kidding, Lord. The minute we’re through here, I’ll erase the thing.
And he would. Absolutely.

On screen, Emilie had just executed her first brave leap through the dried grass along the water’s edge. He’d convinced her that herons had a distinctive leap-and-swoop move, which she’d valiantly tried to demonstrate. In her ultra-serious bid to succeed where he’d assured her others had failed, the woman had managed to successfully put five men of the cloth in serious stitches.

After watching an especially awkward kwawk and dip, the roomful of guys embarked on yet another round of raucous laughter, during which the music director managed to blurt out above the din, “Fess up, Jonas. Are you ever gonna let
her
in on the joke?”

From the doorway a woman’s voice brought their laughter to an abrupt halt.

“I believe he just did.”

Emilie simply watched them, not moving an inch.

Six pairs of eyes turned her direction, then swiftly downward.

Six pairs of feet rooted themselves to the carpet.

Six pairs of hands dove into pants pockets, no doubt lined now with cold sweat.

Like a classroom of slackers on final exam day, the group before her cowered with the awful realization that the jig was up.

The awkward silence was deafening. She wouldn’t let herself even look at Jonas. To think she’d trusted the man.
Trusted him!
When he’d asked her to learn a birdcall, she did it. When he’d instructed her in the finer points of heron behavior, she’d thought it foolish, but she
did
it, hoping to please, trying to go along with his agenda. When he’d pulled out a video camera, she’d feared the worst, but convinced herself his intentions were honorable.

How could she have known the entire episode was designed to embarrass her beyond measure? What kind of a man did such a thing?

Her exasperated sigh broke the stillness. She’d have to sort out her feelings later. What to do now with
this
sorry group? That was her dilemma. The women from the office had already lined up behind her, eyes glaring, teeth grinding. These men would be lucky to get one decent letter typed and out the door before next year.

True, that was only four days hence, but the point would be well made by then:
Don’t tread on me.

Pastor Yeager was the first to speak, in a voice so low it was hard to imagine him ever stepping into a pulpit. “Uh … Miss … uh … Dr. Getz. I do hope you see the hu—” He abruptly caught himself. “I mean, the huge … uh, mistake we’ve made here this morning.”

She pulled herself up taller than she’d ever stood before. “What I see, Pastor, is six naughty little boys who’ve been caught laughing behind the teacher’s back.”

Around the room, the men’s heads nodded and faint smiles broke out on their faces, as though they expected her to laugh the whole thing off.

She dashed their hopes of a swift and painless acquittal with one arched eyebrow.

“The fact is, gentlemen, I do not see the humor in either this video recording or in this situation.” Stepping into the room, she strolled among them like a general on an inspection tour, her gaze traveling the length of them, letting disdain emanate from her every pore.

“This congregation,
my
congregation, my own home church—” for a brief second, her throat tightened but she swallowed and pressed on, determined not to lose her nerve. “This fellowship has hired me—has it not?—for the express purpose of researching and publishing a book honoring two and a half centuries of unity among the brethren.”

“And the sistren!” a volunteer from the hallway added.

“Suppose we begin by honoring our forefathers—” Emilie nodded at the gathering of women behind her—“and our fore
mothers
by respecting one another’s gifts, talents, and personalities. You, Pastor Yeager, have a calling to preach and lead the flock by example. Methinks you can do better than this, don’t you?”

He took the opportunity to step behind his desk and drop into his leather chair in obvious relief. “Yes, Dr. Getz, most certainly. I hope you can … forgive me for.… participating in …” His words disintegrated into a slight shrug and a properly contrite expression.

A curt nod was her only acknowledgment. “There now. That wasn’t too terrible, was it?”

One by one, she went on to point out the relative attributes of the males who stood before her with their egos tucked under their arms like criminals
awaiting execution. Rather than the tongue-lashing they clearly expected—and deserved—Emilie granted them each individual pardons. A clamor of genuine repentance rang through the church offices like bells heralding the New Year.

When the men had returned to their desks and the women to theirs, only Jonas and Emilie remained standing. Pastor Yeager jumped up, mumbling something about needing to use the copy machine, and disappeared.

A weighty silence hung in the room.

Neither spoke. Or moved.

Behind the desk, the VCR softly clicked into rewind, filling the air with the whir of regret.

Emilie eyed Jonas as she had the other men. His gifts and talents weren’t nearly as apparent as his guilt.

The sudden rumble of his voice, low and warm, caught her off guard. “No offer of forgiveness for me then, Emilie?”

Her heart ground to a halt.

Not “Doc,” not “Getz”
 … 
Emilie.

Why, oh why, did he have to say her name like that? If he’d behave in his usual, smart-aleck manner, she could handle that. If he mocked her, she could shoot back a few zingers of her own.

But this.
She swallowed hard. That steady gaze of his. Those enormous, puppy-dog eyes that put silly old Trix to shame. That rough chin that dipped down like a shy boy’s, begging for mercy.

No, this was a stockpile of ammunition for which she had no defenses whatsoever.

Her harrumph, meant to sound superior, came out more like a girlish sigh. “Before I can even consider forgiving you for this … this inexcusable thing you’ve done, I have one question.”

He inclined his head, pretending to look confused when what she sensed about him was an air of surprise. And relief.

Maybe you have a volley or two left after all, Em.

Folding her arms for effect—and to keep her hands from visibly trembling—she angled her chin up toward his. “My question is simple enough: Why?” She pinched off the word before it dissolved to a throaty croak. “Why did you make a fool of me, Jonas?”

My name. She said my name.

Of all the worst times, and for all the worst reasons, the woman had finally said his name. Out loud. Voluntarily.

She was wrong—dead wrong—because there was nothing simple about her question.

Why?
He met her gaze and waited for the right words to come.

How could he tell her the truth? That he’d made a fool of her—and she’d hit the nail on the head there—that he’d done it for no other reason than because he
could.
She was so full of herself, so convinced that she could do anything, so determined to take the thing seriously instead of seeing the humor in it, it’d been easy to knock her down a peg or two. Or four.

You’re the one who needs knocking down, son.

He didn’t need to look up to recognize where that word of truth came from.
You’re right, Lord.
He’d brought it on himself.

Clearly the fool standing in that room wasn’t Emilie Getz.

Look at her, man.
Chin up, arms folded, head held high. The woman was gutsier than any guy he’d ever known. She’d managed to hand those other men their heads in a basket and still leave their egos intact.

Such mercy was not to be his, he feared.

But he would ask, nonetheless.

He cleared his throat, dislodging the foot he’d thoroughly jammed there thirty minutes earlier, and plunged in. “Emilie, I’m sorry. I … well, I didn’t—”

“And
I
didn’t ask for an apology.” Her voice was cool, controlled. “I asked for a reason.”

“Fair enough.” He folded his arms and assumed a pose identical to hers, though he doubted she’d notice. “The reason I taught you to … well, the reason I videotaped you doing …” More throat clearing. “The
reason,
Emilie, that I showed the guys your … uh, funny little heron imitation was … because …”
Get it over with.
“Because I’m a jerk.”

Her tawny brown eyes glowed. “It’s all about you, then. Not about me.”

“Um … you could say that.”
She did say that, turkey.

“Meaning your let’s-amuse-the-fellas act was meant to prove what a macho, in-charge, take-no-prisoners kind of man you are.”

He lifted his shoulders. “You could say that, too.” He waited to see if she
was really listening, or busy loading her next bullet. “But I wish you wouldn’t—”

“What you
wish
is immaterial to me, Mr. Fielding.” She unfolded her arms and gathered up her bulging briefcase and discarded coat. “I have work to do, and none of it involves you.” No longer looking in his direction, she swept toward the door, then turned, no doubt to be certain she had the last word.

“Whatever homecoming efforts you’ve expended to date have been duly noted and dubiously appreciated.” Her eyes narrowed. “Helen may think you’re something special, but this woman considers you nothing more than Middle Creek pond scum.”

Emilie yanked the door shut behind her with a satisfying bang, leaving old what’s-his-stubbly-face to fend for himself.

Only then did she realize she had nowhere to go. Her office was at the Woerner house, not at the church. The last place she wanted to be was standing there in the hall, homeless, when he came crawling out. Or roaring. Whichever.

“This way, Dr. Getz.” Beth Landis, waiting a few feet down the hallway, motioned for her to follow, which Emilie did with brisk steps, looking neither left or right, lest she catch the eye of one of the other men she’d summarily dismantled.

“I figured you’d want somewhere to put your things whenever you stop by the church to do research.” Beth’s sweet, freckled face was the epitome of kindness and innocence. Did Beth even understand what had just transpired in there? For that matter did
she?

“This will do nicely,” Emilie mumbled, trailing behind the younger woman as she directed her to a small empty desk and a sturdy secondhand bookshelf. Studying the room and the girl with equal interest, Emilie decided she was grateful for them both. Though she’d only met Beth Landis briefly when she’d charged into the offices that morning, they’d talked on the phone numerous times while arrangements were made for her sabbatical in Lititz.

Today, though, had been above and beyond duty’s call.

“I can’t thank you enough, Beth, for phoning and letting me know what
that … that …” Emilie tossed her head with a dismissive flip. “What that Fielding fellow was up to. No good, of course. It was kind of you to give me a heads-up.”

Beth shrugged off the compliment. “You would’ve done the same for me.” Her angelic smile was tinged with a devilish twinkle. “The minute all the guys started disappearing into the pastor’s office, I knew something was up. All I needed was who and where, then I jumped on the phone, hoping you could get here in time to put a stop to it.”

“And so I did.” Emilie softened her voice, seeing Beth’s chagrin. “I take it these good men never would dream of doing such a thing unprovoked.”

“Never!” Beth shook her head emphatically. “It was all Jonas’ doing. And it’s really not like him, either. He’s had a … thing about women lately.” Her head wagged back and forth again, more slowly. “Unless I miss my guess, it’s that Dee Dee woman who’s really got his goat.” She adjusted the pulldown window shade, letting in more of the slanting, wintry light. “Too bad he took it out on you, Dr. Getz.”

“Call me Emilie.” She gave Beth’s shoulder a light squeeze, already feeling a kinship with her. Beth reminded her of her older students at Salem—bright, settled, at peace with themselves, their teenage traumas long put aside in favor of maturity and a good deal more patience. “How old are you, Beth? If you don’t mind the question.”

“Twenty-nine.” Her laugh was practically a birdcall in itself, though certainly not a heron. A nuthatch, maybe. “Same age as my husband, Drew. We’ve been married close to ten years.”