Bookends (31 page)

“Not your concern, my dear.” Beth’s grin didn’t budge. “I took up a collection at the church office this morning. Remember those five male staff members you nabbed, red-handed and red-faced, one noteworthy Monday last December?”

She wouldn’t!
“You didn’t?” Emilie gulped. “You … did.” “Done.” Beth nodded. “Their contributions were most generous, though I imagine they’re hoping this will absolve them completely from any further guilty feelings.” Beth handed her the gift certificate. “You’ll be finished about three. I’ll pick you up and bring you home in time for a long soak in some exotic bath gel. When the doorbell rings, slip into your sleek little black number and voilà—the man’s chin will scrape the floor.” Beth glanced at her watch. “Quite an agenda, eh?”

“
Your
agenda, you mean.” Emilie fell back against her chair, still reeling. “Besides, I don’t own a sleek little number, in any color.”

Beth nodded sympathetically. “Precisely why we need to go shopping. I’ve already asked Mrs. Ressler to baby-sit Sara for an extra two hours. Suppose we grab a quick lunch, then it’s Judie, here we come.”

“Judie who?”

“No, Judie
what.
” Beth stood, sliding her purse over her shoulder. “It’s a store—a very nice women’s clothing store—not half a block from your house. Bet you’ve never darkened the door, have you, Em?”

She shrugged. “I peeped in the window once. Does that count?”

“Oh, brother.” Pulling Emilie to her feet, Beth steered her toward the front door. “The next two hours will be the most fun you’ve had in … in … decades.”

“Well!” Emilie tried to flounce out the door and realized she was simply not the flouncing type. “Please limit any references to my advanced age, Mrs. Twenty-something, or Judie will be forced to dress me in crinoline.”

By two o’clock, Emilie was dressed in something much softer than stiff crinoline—black silk with silvery satin touches around the wrists and the wide, square neckline. The length was a compromise—mid-calf to make her own paranoid-knobby-kneed self happy, yet with a generous slit up the back to please let’s-make-his-jaw-drop Beth.

Emilie slid her credit card across the glass countertop with a shaking hand. “How
did
I let you talk me into this?”

“Talk, nothing, girlfriend. The dress sold itself.” Beth scanned the jewelry display, holding up one pair of earrings, then another, before settling on two long, slender strands of black jet beads.

Emilie grimaced. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in those.”

“Perfect.” Beth added them to her order. “I want you to show Jonas Fielding that you are not a woman to be trifled with when it comes to that property
and
that he doesn’t know you as well as he thinks he does.”

“But he
does
know me. Very well.”
Too well.
Emilie hadn’t sorted through all her sentiments about Jonas Fielding, Ph.D., but of this she was certain: He knew her well enough to hurt her. The last thing she wanted was to have Jonas take one look at her Saturday night and start laughing.

Nate didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he did both.

Twenty thousand dollars and change!

He pounded the middle-aged guy next to him on the shoulder and slapped high fives with two other winners, both as delirious as he was.

But not as lucky.
They’d only placed small bets. He’d bet the farm—all his winnings for the night, some three thousand dollars—on the last race at Orange Park and
won.
Won enough to keep Cy at bay for another couple of weeks. Enough to buy a few more rounds of golf, a few more outfits, a few more decent meals.

Nate’s heart was racing as he headed down to the wagering windows to collect, looking neither left nor right, but making a beeline for the money he knew was waiting for him.
Twenty thousand.
He still couldn’t believe his luck was back.
Back, I’m tellin’ ya!

Out of nowhere, a stranger stepped in front of him. Sharply dressed. Muscle-bound. Intimidating. “You look like a fella who’s headed for the winner’s circle.”

Nate didn’t know his name, but he knew his type. He squared his shoulders and widened his stance. “How’d you find me?”

“You’re smarter than you look.” The guy didn’t budge. If anything, he inched closer. “But not smart enough to stay away from the first place ol’ Cy suggested I try. So. Got the rest of Cy’s money?”

Nate maintained eye contact, wishing he could see if this meathead was alone or traveling with a partner. Only one way to find out and that was start walking. “Why don’t you follow me over to the window and see what I can send home with you? For Cy, of course.”

“ ’Course.” The man stepped aside only long enough to let Nate pass, then fell in next to him, dwarfing him.
Guy must be six-four, two-fifty.
Alone or with company, he was a solid wall of muscle and bad attitude.

There was no point arguing. Nate knew he would give him the check. All of it. Sign it over to Cy on the spot.

So much for groceries.

So much for clothes.

So much for getting ahead for one lousy minute.

The transaction was over before Nate could add in his head the amount he still owed Cy back in Vegas. But the man slipping the check in his pocket knew, to the penny. “That leaves just under eighteen, Mr. Fielding. When should I tell Cy to expect it?”

Nate wasn’t about to admit he’d signed away the last of his cash. Betting required seed money, and his had just fallen on rocky ground.

“Soon,” Nate said, trying to sound confident.

“No dice. I need a date.”

Nate grabbed one out of the smoky air circling around them. “March 1.”

“For all of it, right?”

“Yeah. The balance.” Where it would come from was anybody’s guess.
Eighteen days.
He’d make it.
Somehow.

The man turned, thumping a thick shoulder against Nate, not by accident. “Look. I know all about San Pablo and the college kid and the leased Jag, okay?” He bent over Nate, whose own six-foot frame felt insignificant in comparison. “In case you don’t know how this works, I get a piece of every dollar I collect for Cy. You’re a meal ticket for me, kid. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Nate exhaled as the jerk walked away, not looking back.

He was running out of options. His fictitious rehab program meant it’d be another ten days before he could pick up the phone, call Pennsylvania.

No.
He wouldn’t call Jonas.
No way.
Not this time. He’d—

Wait!
A better plan hit him like lightning on a starless August night.
Of course!
Should have thought of that sooner.

Well, he’d thought of it now.

Relaxed for the first time in weeks, Nate strolled toward the parking lot, jingling his keys in his pocket, laughing like he’d just thought of the funniest one-liner in town.

“Promise you won’t laugh?”

Emilie hesitated in the dressing room of Shear Sensations with a bulky terry cloth towel wrapped around her body, her clothes meekly folded over a chair.

“We never laugh,” the friendly woman in the white smock assured her on the other side of the door. “First time for a massage, is it?”

“Y-yes.” Emilie gulped and stepped into the room decorated in restful cream and peach with a hint of muted purple. “W-where do you want me?”

She would ask that question half a dozen times through the day as the staff shepherded her from room to room, up and down the carpeted staircase. The Swedish massage was so relaxing she fell asleep. The facial was an
hour of bliss, not to mention an ego boost when the aesthetician praised her “flawlessly clear skin.” Emilie knew better, but wasn’t it a nice thing to say?

By day’s end, her fingers and toes were dripping with a drop-dead red they called Wildfire; her eyes, cheeks, and lips shimmered with their own dramatic hues; and her hair was, if not able to reach York County, at least stretching the boundaries of Warwick Township.

Making the most of Emilie’s natural curl, the stylist had worked some sort of magic with hair spray and a circular brush, until Emilie’s hair swept around her shoulders in a voluminous, tea-colored cloud.

“Wow!” Beth breathed when she picked her up at three. “Never mind his jaw hitting the floor. The man’s whole
body
will sink like a stone.” Her gaze narrowed. “Are you prepared to call EMS?”

“Such foolishness.” Emilie fought the urge to flip down the visor mirror in Beth’s car and take another peek. It
was
rather fun seeing herself done up like a siren instead of a scholar. “Imagine what my students at Salem would say if they saw me like this.”

“I’ll tell you what they’d say: ‘Oooh, baby!’ So will Jonas.”

Emilie shrugged, a stab of uncertainty popping her small balloon of confidence. “I hope he doesn’t think he rang the wrong doorbell.”

Beth laughed and turned onto Main Street. “Sure wish I could be a fly on the wall. Or a goldfish in a bowl.”

“Or a guinea pig in a glass cage?”

“Right! Like Clarice.” Beth giggled. “Honestly, where does the man come up with these names?”

“The Lord alone knows. I hate to think of what member of the animal kingdom Jonas might bring me tonight. Considering how enamored he is of Alaska, I’m prepared for something the size of a car. With antlers.”

When they reached the Woerner house minutes later, Beth swerved up to the curb and shifted the gear into Park. “Look, I expect play-by-play coverage tomorrow morning after church. Got that?”

Emilie regarded Beth for a moment, a small lump forming in her throat. “How can I thank you for this … ah, unforgettable experience?”

Beth’s eyes twinkled. “Liked it, huh?”

“Yes, but more than that. It made me feel … oh, this will sound ludicrous. For the first time in a long time, I felt like … like …”

“A woman?”

Emilie stared at her, amazed. “Exactly! I’ve always been so focused on taking care of my mind and its many pursuits. This was utterly different.”

Beth nodded. “Good. Details tomorrow, hear?”

“I promise. Give my thanks to Drew for picking me up, okay?” Emilie pushed open the door then turned back. “Your husband said you weren’t feeling 100 percent this morning. Everything okay?”

“More than okay.” Beth’s words were assuring, though her features grew unusually still. “I’ll be praying about tonight.”

“Thanks.” Emilie slid out onto the sidewalk then leaned back inside the car. “Above all, pray the man recognizes me without my sling.”

“Emilie?”

Jonas stood, slack-jawed, and stared at the beauty poised in the doorway. “Is it really you?”

She laughed, a throaty, musical, un-Emilie sound, though it suited this enchanting creature to a
T.
“Of course it’s me, dear man. Surely a new dress and a little makeup don’t make
that
much of a difference.”

Now that’s where you’re wrong, woman.

Something had happened to Emilie.
His
Emilie went around in simple, tailored clothes.
This
Emilie was wearing a black silk dress that molded itself to her womanly curves—since when did Emilie have curves?—and displayed the longest, most tantalizing neck he’d ever laid eyes on.

Don’t think about her neck. Think about her keen mind. Think about her grasp of history. Think about
 …

He realized the silk-wrapped seductress was tugging at his elbow now, bending toward him, releasing a heady perfume he couldn’t place. Gardenias, maybe.

Her voice was silky, too. “Won’t you come in?”

Just try and stop me.

A pair of sparkling black earrings danced when he brushed past her. Bright red fingernails flashed through the air as she closed the door behind them. Two narrow black straps were all that held her precariously high heels in place as she glided into the living room, then turned back, her features tinged with concern.

“Jonas, are you feeling okay?”

The words came out before he could stop them: “What have you done with Emilie?”

She laughed again, then stepped toward him, running her scarlet fingertips along his lapels. “One trip to a salon, and you don’t even recognize me, Dr. Fielding?”

His mouth was moving; his brain was not. “Did you spend … hours there?”

Her brown eyes, newly accented with a sweep of long, dark lashes, narrowed. “Are you implying that it would take a very long time to make such changes?”

“No, no! I just … wondered.” He grinned. A stupid-looking grin, judging by her reaction. Her hairstyle was the most striking change of all. Fluffy and full around her delicate face, daring him to run his hands through its fragrant mass of curls.

Oh, man. Ohhh, man.

He had to say something, now. Anything. “Whatever the time or investment involved, it was worth it.”

“Thank you.” Her voice dropped. “I think. Suppose I get my purse and we move in the direction of the Sutter.” She turned her back to him, bending to retrieve her purse from the floor, and revealed for a too-brief moment an exceptional pair of shapely legs.

Whoa.

Emilie rose gracefully and turned around to face him. “Our reservations were for …?”

His mind was a blank slate. “Dinner.”

She rolled her eyes, made even more dramatic by the many colors shadowed around them. “Did the restaurant mention a time?”

“Uh … six.” He took his eyes off her only long enough to check his watch. “Soon.”

“Then shall we?” Slipping her hand around his elbow, she smiled up at him with lips as crimson as her nails.

Jonas gulped.
Probably the same color as your face, fool.

He’d get it together any second.
Any minute, maybe.
She was, after all, the same Emilie—the very same woman—transformed by nothing more than a new coat of paint.

Yeah, right. Keep talking, Fielding.