Bookends (3 page)

“
More than a few years”? Humph!

An out-of-towner, no doubt. The borough of Lititz, nestled as it was in the heart of Amish country, swelled with visitors over the holidays. Clearly Jonah—or whatever his name was—belonged among their number, which meant he’d be long gone before she turned the calendar page to January.

Calm down, Em. It’s Christmas Eve.

An organ prelude by Pachelbel soon softened the corners of her mouth into a tenuous smile. The sanctuary dated back two centuries; the melody was older still. For historians, a Moravian vigil service approached heaven on earth.

Though at age thirty-six, Emilie herself was anything but historic. Wasn’t that so?

“
More than a few years …
”

The echo of his words tightened her smile.
The nerve.
How old was
he,
then? Reaching for a hymnal, she stole a furtive glance at the stranger on her right. His dark eyes, she was relieved to discover, were focused on the printed sheet in his hands. His expression suggested bemused indifference.
The nerve!

The man was easily her age. Older, judging by the hint of silver in his close-cropped hair. Granted, only two hairs were gray, but they
were
gray. Definitely.

His eyes shifted toward hers before she realized she’d lingered too long. “Counting my gray hairs, Emilie?” At least his voice was lower this time. Very low, actually. “I have two. Find ’em?”

“No! I mean, yes, but that’s not what I was looking for.” She sat up straight and pointed her chin toward the pulpit. “Never mind.”

He leaned closer. “In case you’re wondering—and you apparently are—I was born in the sixties. And another thing: You can skip the hymnal. All the words are in this program.” He waved it under her nose, clearly enjoying himself. “Didn’t you get one?”

“It’s not a program, it’s an ode. And I don’t need one, thank you.” She jutted her chin forward further still, refusing to look at him, and shoved the hymnal back in the pew rack. “I was born Moravian. I know all these hymns by heart, including the German ones.”

Seconds later, when the lights in the sanctuary faded to black, “
Stille Nacht
”—“Silent Night”—floated down from the choir loft behind them. None too subtly, she mouthed the words
auf Deutsch
for all three verses, recalling her years in the soprano section.

“
More than a few years, Emilie …
”

That infernal man and his insinuations! He was at least as old as she was, she’d quickly calculated. Probably the very same age. It was quite obviously the
only
thing they had in common.

She’d seen his type all her life: athletic, popular, big man on campus, strutting around with a pretty airhead on each arm. The sort who wouldn’t give a sober, studious girl such as she the time of day.

He was only talking to her now because he was stuck sitting next to her. Some things in life never changed.

When the congregation stood to sing “All Glory to Immanuel’s Name,” Emilie was amazed to hear a tolerably pleasant bass voice booming from the
broad chest next to her. Not solo quality—not by any stretch—but fairly on pitch. Yes, she’d definitely heard worse. He also seemed to know the tune, even without printed music. Had he been here in years past?

Curiosity overruled her good sense. In the sparse moment of silence before the pastoral prayer, she whispered in his general direction, “Have you attended our Christmas vigil before?”

“Five years in a row. I’m Moravian too.”

Her jaw dropped before she could catch it.

“Not
born
Moravian, like you,” he chided softly, nodding his head toward the front to remind her the pastor’s prayer was already in full swing. “You’ll have to explain that one to me later.”

Later?
As in after the prayer? After the service? Later over tea in her cozy kitchen on Main Street?
Surely he isn’t suggesting such a thing!
Surely not. She hadn’t invited a man under her roof for tea—or any other reason—in a very long time.

Disgusted with the mere notion of brewing a pot of Darjeeling for a Neanderthal, she fixed her gaze on the enormous Moravian star hanging above the pulpit, spinning ever so slightly in the rising heat, and composed her features into an attitude of worship, even if her mind wasn’t cooperating.

The man is not your type. At all.
Another quick glance at the blond hairs on his jacket assured her of that. Still, his comment taunted her. Explain
what
to him later? Explain why she was back in Lititz after all these years? Explain why her whole academic career depended on what she might uncover less than a mile away?

Wrong.
No explanations needed, not when there wouldn’t be anything happening
later
with Jonah something-or-other.

When Pastor Yeager began reading the Christmas story from Luke, Emilie snapped to attention with a guilty start, determined to hear every word, to listen as if she might be tested on the material the next morning. Anytime a grade was involved, her concentration was legendary.

“And it came to pass …” the reverend read.

“
Later
,” her rebel’s heart translated.

Enough!
She pressed her lips together in a firm line and busied her hands smoothing her straight wool dress, determined to cover every inch of her knobby knees. Not because of the man sitting entirely too close to
her—certainly not! She was merely doing it for modesty’s sake. And propriety. And simple good taste, considering her knees were beyond ugly.

Not that such a thing mattered.

What’s the matter with her knees?

Jonas watched the woman next to him fretting over her skirt, tugging the fabric well past her calves as if the hem were in danger of crawling up a scandalous quarter of an inch. He rubbed his jaw to mask a broad smile and realized he hadn’t shaved. This morning, yes. This afternoon, no.

Whatever.

She’d settled back against the pew and was still trying her best not to brush against his jacket. A nervous sort, this one. Prickly as a porcupine.

His eyes were drawn up front as the two dozen youngsters parked on small benches around the pulpit stood to sing the “Children’s Te Deum.” Their cherub faces—framed in short, white robes and big bow ties—jogged an unexpected memory of his three younger brothers, all in their early thirties now. They’d been about this age when the accident happened.

It seemed like eons ago.

Nah.
It seemed like yesterday.

A ripple of anticipation moved through the congregation as proud parents craned their necks to watch the junior choir members in action. Emilie Getz, it appeared, hardly noticed the kids, so intently was she staring up at the Moravian star.

Counting the points, probably.
Should he tell her there were exactly one hundred and ten? The woman was a serious piece of work.
Dr.
Getz? She looked more academic than medical. Conceited and prissy and arrogant as all get-out, which meant she was hiding something—and not just her knees. Women like her—uptight, no-nonsense, nose-in-the-air females—always had some dark secret they kept tucked away for a rainy day. He knew the type: “Look, but don’t touch.”

Then why don’t you stick to that, Jonas?

Good plan.

Even if her pale, creamy skin did remind him of a porcelain angel he’d seen on top of a Christmas tree yesterday.

Jonas scanned the sanctuary looking for familiar faces, and found several.
Only one, though, snagged his gaze and hung on to it, whether he liked it or not.
Dee Dee Snyder.
The real estate agent who’d sold him his new house last year was perched on the end of a pew, her long legs crossed, her foot swinging provocatively, her short skirt hiked up too high for church or anywhere else.

Dee Dee Snyder didn’t care who saw her knees.

She winked at him.
Winked!
What was this woman’s problem? Did she think she could pick up men during a worship service?

He refused to acknowledge her except with a brief nod. Sure, the woman was a looker—short blond hair, bedroom eyes, and curves in all the right places. She was also dangerous with a great big D. As in Dee Dee.

No, thanks.

Besides, where was the challenge in dating the ubiquitous Miss Snyder? The woman had thrown herself at every single guy in Lancaster County before she’d decided to set her sights on him—again—this fall. He’d resisted being conquest #54, #97, and #122. He wasn’t about to be #146.

It was more than that, though. He didn’t have time for a woman who didn’t have time for God. Dee Dee was only in church tonight because it was Christmas Eve.
And because she knew I’d be here.
He hoped that wasn’t the case, but judging by the way she was dangling her red high-heeled shoe in his direction, it looked like the ugly truth of it.

Jonas made up his mind: The minute the organist hit the first note of the postlude, he was out the door. Santa wasn’t gonna catch him kissing Dee Dee Snyder under the mistletoe. Not this year. Not any year.

His attention shifted back up front when the children’s choir dropped onto its benches with obvious relief. The congregation around him settled in, prepared to sing half a dozen Moravian hymns while the traditional lovefeast was served.
Food in church. What a concept!
After five years and two dozen or more lovefeasts, he still looked forward to the simple meal and felt his stomach rumble as the kitchen doors swung open.

On cue,
dieners
—women of the church chosen for such service—arrived bearing baskets brimming with sweet buns. Taking their place at the end of the pews, the women quickly dispensed their fragrant wares. Passing the basket to Emilie, Jonas couldn’t help noticing her hands, graceful as small white doves, and her concentrated effort to keep the powdery bun as far away from her dark dress as possible.

Which meant he was looking straight at her when she suddenly swung her head toward him and asked, “Jonah, is it?”

“Jonas.” He bit his lip, fighting a chuckle. “Jonas. With an
s
.” Few things entertained him more than an intelligent woman caught making a mistake. “Jonas Fielding.”

“Ah … well, then. What … what exactly did you want me to explain to you … later?”

He took in a pair of light brown eyes, not quite focused on his, and rosebud lips, now pinched into a tight line.
She’s already sorry she asked.
Her inquisitive, doctoral-degree mind had obviously taken over and insisted on fishing for an answer.

He grinned and swallowed the bait.

“You said you were ‘born Moravian,’ right?”

You asked for this, Em.
She dipped her head in concession, then forced herself to meet Jonas’ gaze, furious that she hadn’t kept her insipid question to herself. “And …?”

His dark eyes bore down on her. “When a woman tells me she was born in Lititz, that I understand. Were you?”

She nodded, keeping a steady grip on her lovefeast bun.

“Okay. And I know what born-again means.”

She wrinkled her brow.
What kind of statement is that?

He pressed on. “What I’m asking is, how can you be
born
Moravian?”

Is that all?
“Easy. The Getzes have always been Moravians.” Over the opening strains of a Herrnhut hymn from the eighteenth century, Emilie added softly, “I was sleeping in the nursery here before I was a month old.” She inclined her head toward the front. “I sat in the third row of the children’s choir for more Christmases than I can count. Attended vacation Bible school every summer in the Brothers’ House. Studied for confirmation in the
basement of the fellowship hall.” Her gaze fell to the cranberry-colored carpet that circled the raised pulpit. “And that’s where I took my first communion. Now do you see?”

Jonas nodded slowly in agreement, but his eyes told a different story.

What?
Had she said something wrong? He’d only wanted to hear about her Moravian heritage, right?
Fine.

Emilie leaned his direction a fraction of an inch to whisper, “The buns at Home Church in Winston-Salem are quite different.” Surely a good Moravian would be interested in such things. “Their buns aren’t sweet, like these. On the top, they have an
M
for Moravian—or a
W
for Winkler’s Bakery. No one in Old Salem ever can agree on what the letter stands for.”

His dark chin tipped down toward her, sending the oddest shiver through her system, while his low voice idled barely above a rumble. “Maybe it stands for
men
and
women
.”

Oh my.
The possibility had never crossed her mind. Vaguely unsettling, really. Historically, Moravians had always prided themselves on keeping the sexes apart. Their very buildings proved it.

The Single Sisters’ House.