Bookends (4 page)

The Single Brothers’ House.

One hardly thought in terms of men and women.
Oh my.

She was grateful when a welcome distraction presented itself. A battalion of dark-suited servers—male dieners—marched in carrying heavy wooden trays laden with white ceramic mugs full of coffee with cream. Faces solemn, they waited at the end of each row while the worshipers passed the mugs down the pews.

After gingerly passing two steaming mugs to the couple next to her, Emilie reached for a third cup, barely meeting Jonas’ gaze when his hands brushed hers. Why, oh why, had she ever started such a pointless conversation with an utter stranger?

Finally settled with her lovefeast in hand, she eyed the sugary bun and her navy dress, envisioning the worst.
Careful, Em.
Normally, she never touched sweet things, but this was different. She was in church, after all, and these buns were practically a religious experience. Balancing a white paper napkin under her chin, she cautiously nibbled at the edges of the flaky yeast bun made with potatoes, brown sugar, cinnamon—flavors that tasted like Christmas itself.

The tiniest moan of pleasure sneaked out before she could swallow it along with her dainty bite. How embarrassing! Surely this Jonas fellow hadn’t heard her. Had he?

She waited, holding her breath, not eating and certainly not moaning.

Jonas didn’t turn, didn’t look, didn’t move so much as an eyebrow, until he lifted his coffee mug to his lips. That narrow top lip of his—the one she’d vaguely noticed earlier—disappeared again in a grin so wide that when he tried to take a sip, he managed instead to pour scalding hot coffee down the front of his shirt.

“Blast!” Jonas winced, then stabbed at the spill with his napkin—a napkin covered with confectioners’ sugar, which splattered numerous white blobs across the front of his black T-shirt. In seconds, the man resembled an oversized domino with teeth.

“Shhh!” Emilie offered him her pristine napkin and a stern expression. “If you’d worn proper clothing,” she hissed, “you wouldn’t be in this fix.”

“No, I’d have ruined a sixty-dollar tie instead of a six-dollar T-shirt.” He pointed at her lap. “Besides, look who’s talking.”

She glanced down and gasped. A virtual blizzard of white sugar blanketed her navy dress. This time, her moan wasn’t the least bit tiny.

“Ohhh!” She patted, she fussed, she blotted, she brushed—all to no avail. Streaks of sugar mocked her every move. The harder she worked, the farther it spread.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the man in black snickering at her. Determined not to create any more of a scene, she peered at him through narrowed eyes and mouthed the words: “Your fault.”

He mouthed back: “No way.” His poor excuse for an upper lip was gone again, lost to a boorish grin. “
Your
fault.”

Emilie yanked one coat sleeve over her powdered skirt with a muffled “Harrumph!” then sipped her coffee with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances. The man was ruining a perfectly wonderful service. She simply would not allow it. This was her town, her church, and her chance—finally—to earn the respect that was rightfully hers.

Nothing could stop her now, especially not a sugar-covered stranger who was clearly not her type. Nor she his. While the congregation sang, Emilie did her best to ignore the masculine notes resonating an octave below her own, and instead let her imagination spin a banner headline stretched across
the front page of the
Record Express:
“Startling Revelation by Prominent Scholar Rewrites History.”

Thirty minutes later, it was Jonas Fielding who was history.

Emilie didn’t discover his hasty exit until she’d extinguished her beeswax candle and made a discreet canvass of the sanctuary, now brightly lit and filled with chatter.… but not with Jonas.

Just as well, yes?

Most assuredly.

Hiding the last powdery remains on her skirt behind her purse, Emilie stepped into the aisle, her eyes scanning the departing worshipers for a friendly face. Good riddance to Mr. Fielding notwithstanding, the notion of spending the rest of Christmas Eve alone in an empty rental house left her feeling oddly out of sorts.

The vigil service had been everything she remembered and more, right down to the trumpets heralding the entrance of shimmering trays of candles while the choir shouted in harmony
“Mache dich auf, werde Licht!”
When the evening closed with the congregation delivering a fortissimo “Sing Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!” complete with a soprano descant that shook the hallowed rafters, Emilie’s heart had been near to bursting.

Everything else that evening would be an anticlimax, she decided, aiming herself in the direction of the vestibule. Even if she did run into someone from her Warwick High days, visiting with an old acquaintance tonight would inevitably mean listening to countless stories of wedded bliss and cherubic children. Pictures would soon pour out of wallets, enhanced with witticisms allegedly spouted by the favored child and tales of perfect report cards presented at semester’s end.

Wait.

Grade schoolers didn’t call them semesters.
Terms, maybe? Grading periods?
She smiled to herself as she eased past the slow-moving crowd herding toward the door. How was she to know what children called things? An only child and a lifelong academic, she hadn’t spent ten minutes around little tots. Didn’t know the first thing about them.
Don’t want to, either.
A shudder ran through her at the very concept of sticky hands pulling at her tailored clothes and crayon drawings cluttering up her spotless refrigerator door.

Ick.

From behind her, a decidedly adult voice caught her attention. “Emilie
Getz, don’t you dare take another step!”

Pausing outside the front of the church, Emilie turned to find an old neighbor from Noble Street squeezing through the door—a page from her childhood, wrapped in a woolen coat.

“Mrs. B. How lovely to see you again.”

Helen Bomberger was built like one of her apple dumplings: short and round. And sweet, as only four tablespoons of sugar could make a tart wine-sap sweet. Helen had lived two doors up from the Getz house all her married life, in a blue, two-story bungalow she no doubt still called home.

Loved by her neighbors and adored by their offspring, Helen had cooked and hugged and prayed her way into everyone’s hearts over the last seven decades. Her porch light was on at all hours, her lap was always ready for one more teary toddler, and her chicken corn soup stretched for miles when company showed up without phoning ahead.

It was impossible not to like Helen, even if she did make Emilie feel six years old again. Preparing herself for a long winter’s chat about God—Helen’s favorite subject—Emilie concentrated on the cheerful countenance beaming up at her. “Mrs. Bomberger—”

“Helen,” the woman corrected patting her gloved hand. “You’re old enough to address me by my given name, don’t you think?”

“
More than a few years, Emilie
 …” Would the refrain haunt her all evening?

“Helen it is, then.” Her gaze fell on the woman’s too-snug plaid holiday dress and the wreath of wrinkles circling her sagging face. “Well, don’t you look … the same as ever?” Emilie cleared her throat. “I mean … you haven’t changed a bit!” She watched a crease of doubt crawl across the elderly woman’s forehead and added quickly, “How … how are you?”

“Older.” Helen smiled again and the crease disappeared. “As are you, dear. But the Lord has been kind enough to keep us breathing, hasn’t he? What does your mother have to say about her only daughter nearing forty and not a grandchild in sight?”

“F-forty?” Emilie choked on the frozen night air. “I’m only—”

“Yes, I know. Thirty-six. Wasn’t I there the day you were born?” Helen stepped aside as a gaggle of boisterous children hurried past. “Your father drove me to Lancaster General so I could see you in the nursery.” She wrapped her hand around Emilie’s elbow and steered her along the sidewalk toward the center of the square. “How proud he was of his baby girl!” she
added with a twinkle in her eye, as the trombone choir reassembled for their last round of hymns before heading home to warm cider and warmer beds.

“So, dear.” Helen’s voice rose above the brass instruments. “How are you and the Lord getting along these days?”

“Uh … fine. We’re … fine.” Emilie had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to watch the French horn player, feigning interest in every note before her guilty conscience eased her attention back toward the woman by her side.

Helen’s eyes shone in the lamplight. Not a hint of judgment was reflected there. “Stop by my place while you’re in the neighborhood, will you, child?”

The sensation of being six years old returned with a hop, skip, and a jump. “Yes, ma’am. Any particular time?”

“My door’s always open, Em. But then you know that.” Helen patted her hand again, then turned toward the parking lot behind the church. Emilie watched the older woman shuffle away, tottering a bit, her round body swathed in a bright red wool coat that had seen too many Christmases, her curly gray hair exposed to the wind.

Without thinking, Emilie slipped her knit scarf from its cozy roost around her neck and hurried after her. “Mrs. B. That is, Helen … wait. Take this, please.”

Helen had barely turned around before Emilie was tucking the still-warm scarf in place over the woman’s hair, then knotting it neatly below her double chin. “It’s too cold a night …” Emilie shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.

“How thoughtful, dear.” Helen’s wise old eyes blinked at her. “I’ll be sure and return it when you stop by. Tomorrow, I hope.” Her head tipped sideways, making her look more owlish still. “You’re staying at the old Woerner place, aren’t you? Run along now, or you’ll be wishing you’d kept your nice scarf.”

“See you tomorrow,” Emilie called out, surprised to hear a small note of enthusiasm in her voice.
Must be Christmas. Good will to men and fa-la-la.
She shivered, aware all at once of the icy wind on her bare neck, and hurried down the sidewalk toward Main Street and home, certain she heard a hot cup of Darjeeling calling her name.

“Dr. Emilie Getz.”

Jonas said it aloud, shaking his head as he watched her emerge through the church doorway. He squinted, trying to see through the darkly tinted
glass of his Explorer, while his heater ran full blast and his bluegrass CD hummed at low volume for a change.

A walking, talking contradiction, that Getz woman. He wasn’t spying on her on purpose.
No way.
After ducking out early to avoid a certain blond, he’d found his new vehicle blocked against the curb by another car—latecomers, probably—and had to wait for them to show up and move it.

At least here in the driver’s seat, he was safely away from Dee Dee and her high heels on wheels. He’d spotted her as well, hurrying out the side door, obviously on a mission.

To find you, big guy.

It was not a comforting thought.

Emilie had ended up near the trombone choir.
Who’s she talking to?
Unless his eyes deceived him, it was Helen Bomberger, the finest woman on God’s green earth. When he’d moved to town five years ago, Helen had practically adopted him, stuffing him with pot pie and apple strudel until he begged for mercy.

She’d fed him spiritually, too. Prayed for him daily, she insisted. Nudged him onto the missions committee, then south of the border to build churches in Honduras the last two summers. Helen was the grandmother he’d never known, the mother he’d always remembered waiting for him when he got home from school.

That idyllic life had ended in his twelfth year, when out of sheer necessity his mother left their home ten hours a day to work.

Not Mom’s fault, Jonas. Not yours, either.

Now his mother was gone, lost to breast cancer seven years ago. That made a woman like Helen Bomberger a gift from heaven. Even he realized a guy never got too old to be mothered on occasion.

He stared into the night, then nodded when he recognized the red coat. It was Helen, all right. Judging by Emilie’s body language, the younger woman wasn’t too pleased with whatever Helen was saying.

Better be nice to her, Dr. Getz.

Jonas tightened his grip on the steering wheel as the elderly woman turned on her heel and started off rather abruptly. If Miss Attitude Problem had said something unkind to a saint like Helen, she’d answer to him for it. His left hand dropped to the door handle, his right to pull the key from the ignition, as he prepared to step in and remedy the situation.

Wait.

Now
what was Emilie doing? She’d slipped her scarf off and was wrapping it around Helen’s head.
Well, I’ll be.
Jonas sank back against the headrest, his hands relaxing again.
Never would’ve pegged her as the compassionate type.

When the two separated, he noticed Emilie wasn’t moving toward a car; she was heading full stride toward Main. On foot? Alone? At night? In the cold?

Not if he could help it.

He shifted the car into drive, then realized he was still blocked in. “Blast!”

At that instant, a laughing couple strolled up, keys dangling from the young woman’s mittened thumb. She waved them in his direction, a look of freckled chagrin on her face. “Sorry, Jonas!”

Beth.
One of the church secretaries.
So much for biting her head off.
They didn’t come any nicer than Beth Landis. Jonas lowered his window and leaned out, striking a threatening pose. “Thought you could get away with this, didn’t you?”

“Sure!” She wrinkled her nose like a playful pixie. “Drew and I knew it was your Explorer. We figured you’d be hanging around the vestibule fighting off female admirers for at least twenty minutes.”

Her husband came up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Not tonight, Beth.” Drew Landis, the tall, lanky type, towered over his wife. “He made tracks, or didn’t you notice?”

“Nope. I was too busy helping with the children’s choir.” Her dark blue eyes glowed. “Weren’t they wonderful?”