Bookends (41 page)

Emilie jumped back as if stung by a bee. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to … well, anyway—” She tied her hands in a knot wringing them. “Please, Jonas, I’d love to see you. Truly. But I’m … it’s … messy.”

He finally noticed the living room behind her and whistled.
Whoa.
She wasn’t kidding. Cushions were tossed willy-nilly, the lampshades were askew, a chair was turned over, and the dining room table looked like a watercolor war zone. Dirty plates were stacked on an end table, and empty bowls containing what appeared to be the dregs of popcorn were sitting on a bookshelf.

Emilie’s bookshelf? A parking spot for popcorn bowls?

“Wow,” he breathed. “It looks like home.”

Emilie recovered enough to gasp. “Your mother’s house looked like this?”

“Only when she was at work.” He grinned. “Or took a nap. We always had to clean it up though. Which is what I’ll help you do, Em. After we eat. Deal?”

She stepped back, gazing at him in wonder. “You’re not … disgusted? With this mess. With … me?”

He put his boxes down and wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her closer. “Let’s get one thing straight: I would never be disgusted with you. Especially dressed like this. You were playing mother today, and by the look of things, doing a bang-up job.”

She patted at her hair, as though one pat would put two hundred stray wisps in place. “Honestly? May I at least … change?”

“Nope. Perfect outfit for eating Chinese food. I always end up wearing half of it on my clothes anyway, don’t you? In your case …” He bit his lip to
keep from smiling too broadly. “You can just burn them.”

“Jonas!” She swatted him. “These are my painting clothes. I wear them once every two years.”

He leaned over to gaze at her torn jeans. “Are those the same kneecaps you wouldn’t let me see in church on Christmas Eve?”

She tried to cross her legs standing up, to no avail. “You … you noticed my knees?”

“When it comes to Dr. Emilie Getz, I miss nothing.” He kissed the tip of her nose, then let go of her waist and gathered up their dinner. “C’mon, let’s eat. If we can … uh, find a place to sit.”

They landed in the middle of the living room floor, the rest of the
Record Express
spread out to catch the drippings. He was right, of course. She did end up having sweet ’n’ sour sauce land in several strategic places, while his black shirt and jeans kept his wonton soup drippings in the dark.

Emilie broke open her almond-flavored fortune cookie and offered him half while she read her fortune. “It’s meaningless, of course, but just in case it’s interesting …” Her eyebrows shot up. “And is it ever.” She extended the white slip of paper between two slender fingers, which he playfully kissed before taking the paper.

Smoothing it out with his thumbs, he read aloud, “ ‘Ask and you shall know the truth.’ Hmmm. Almost sounds like the Bible verse, ‘Ask, and it will be given to you.’ ”

“I like your verse better.” Emilie put aside her chopsticks and napkin, folding her hands in her lap as if to steel herself. “Jonas, if I asked you, would you give me your eighteenth hole?”

He blanched. “What kind of question is that?”

“I want to know the truth.” Her pale skin grew paler, her features were utterly still and deadly serious. “I have … reason to believe that my Gemeinhaus foundation may be under there after all. Do you know anything about that?”

“I do.” How could he ever lie to her, but especially about this? “I have reason to believe it’s there, too, Emilie.”

Her eyebrows rose, as did her voice. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I wanted to be sure.”
And foolish me, I wanted it to be a surprise.
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up after you so kindly offered me—”

“Right!” Her hands clamped on her knees in a defiant pose. “And you
also didn’t want to dig up your precious golf course if it wasn’t necessary.”

He waited one beat, then two, while she seethed. She looked so pretty when she seethed, like a feisty lioness. Finally, lest she also develop claws, he admitted the truth.

“I may very well
have
to dig it up, Emilie. And I’m willing to. Honest. Can we leave things like that for the moment until I find out a few more details? Will you trust me?”

This was clearly not what she expected to hear. Her V-shaped eyebrows eased back down, her wrists went limp on the floor, and a magical sort of light played around her eyes. “Whatever you say, Jonas. I trust you.” She gulped, looking a bit overcome. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

“Emilie, I will always tell you the truth.”
Maybe not according to your timetable, but the truth, always.
He slid their dinner out of the way and pulled her toward him, rising to his knees and lifting her up as well. “May I depend on you to do the same, Em? Tell me the truth, always?”

She nodded, her eyes misty. “Always.”

“Then tell me this. Are you in love with me?”

Emilie looked as though she might faint. “Am I …?”

“You said you’d tell me the truth.” He pressed a tender kiss on each cheek. “And since I promised to do the same, let me tell you this first. I love you, Emilie Getz.”

She sighed like an angel might. “Me too.”

He couldn’t resist teasing her. “You love you, too?”

“No, you. I love you, Jonas Fielding.” Keeping her eyes wide open, she kissed his lips, one of her butterfly kisses. “Do you even love my knobby knees?”

“Oh, especially those,” he whispered, his voice growing hoarse.

“What about my steel-trap mind, Dr. Fielding?”

“Yes, I love that, too.” He sat back on his feet, needing air, needing space. The woman was like a fine dish of Szechuan and he knew when he’d had enough. “In fact, if you will, bring that exceptional mind—and everything else, of course—to Carter’s Run on Tuesday, March 30. I’m having a press conference you might find of interest. Say you’ll come, Em-ee-lee.”

Both sitting back, only their knees touching now, hands held loosely together, they smiled at one another.

“Jonas,” she said after a heady silence. “Hear me say this: If you want me there, I’ll be there.”

He nodded, never more certain of anything in his life. “I do.”

She grinned and squeezed his hands. “Me too.”

Nathan stepped up to the uninitiated practice tee at Carter’s Run, grateful to be on familiar ground. The place was crawling with construction types putting the finishing touches on the clubhouse. Nobody seemed to notice a lone golfer—a Jonas Fielding look-alike at that—teeing up to hit a few balls.

He squinted up at the bright sky. It was the fourth sunny day in a row with temps in the fifties. On the chilly side for golf, but he was dressed for it. The air was clean and sharp, not too breezy. Even using Jonas’ clubs, even woefully behind in his practice hours, Nate was hitting two-eighty to three hundred yards consistently.

Rolling his shoulders to relieve some tension, he shook out his legs and walked through his swing in slow-motion first:
Address. Backswing. Transition. Downswing. Impact. Finish.
Golf was a head game, but it was a muscle game, too, and he was pathetically out of shape.

Whack!
The ball soared in a classic arc; his adrenaline soared with it. Man, he loved this game. Loved the feeling of power and freedom on the
fairways, the exacting science of the putting greens. Loved the camaraderie of the other players … serious players, pro players.

Players who weren’t a has-been like him.

Ten years ago, when it came to choosing practicing or partying, he chose partying. Five years ago, when it came to choosing between the game or the money, he chose the money.

Now the party was over; the money was gone.

And Nathan was in way over his head.

The Christianity bit, for example. That had started out as a lark, a game, a subterfuge to win Jonas over to his side and fast. He knew how religious Jonas was, how wrapped up in his church he’d become. What easier way could there be to make points the minute he pulled into town?

Problem was, it’d worked too well. Jonas believed his story and expected him to pray all the time—not just before meals. How stupid could that be, talking to God? As if he were listening. As if he cared.

Jonas kept dragging him to church, quoting Bible verses, talking about a new life in Christ. Nate wanted a new life, all right. A new life without Cy,
not
a new life with somebody else.

Unless it was Dee Dee Snyder. Too bad he wouldn’t be around long enough to pursue that angle more fully.

This week was the big one. “Holy Week,” they called it.
Great.
Church seven nights in a row. Not his idea of a good time. Luckily, he had an out: He’d found a job at Hess Clothing. When they’d shopped there earlier, the store manager had commented on his good taste in men’s fashion and his knowledge of the better lines. When the guy heard Nate was a former pro golfer with free time on his hands, he’d called to offer him a sales position. “Any brother of Jonas Fielding is okay by me,” he’d said.

Just don’t do a background check, buddy.

Not that the man would find a criminal record. The two drunk-driving charges from back when he was at Stanford had been dismissed and Nate had judiciously steered clear of the courts since then. He’d also steered clear of a steady job with steady income, choosing instead a life of gambling in the one state that made it legal.

Gripping his club, he went through the motions that had become habit, slowly, then at full speed, turning his frustration and anger into energy for his swing.
Whack!

He almost chuckled.
Must be plenty keyed up. Hit two-ninety on that one, easy.

At least he had a job and a place to practice gratis for a week. He almost hated to admit it, but it felt good to be working again. Took a long time to earn a buck, but they couldn’t take it away from him.

Cy could.
In a New York minute.

And would.
Four days from now, on April 1. No fooling.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. And he was nothing if not desperate.
Forgive me, brother.
He’d said it over and over in his mind, consoled only by the fact that it wasn’t Jonas’ money that’d be missing. It was construction money. Borough money.
What’s twenty grand when you’re talking about a budget of five million?

Nate had quietly worked his plan the last two weeks. While Jonas was up to his ears courting his woman and creating his golf course, Nate was busy selling sportswear and suits by day, and talking business with Dee Dee late into the evening.

She would have called it a date.

He called it information gathering.

Dee Dee knew all about the financing, all about the negotiations and the red tape involved with putting Carter’s Run together. Smart woman—not an intellectual like stuffy old Emilie, but plenty smart about business. He’d explained to Dee Dee that he’d majored in economics and had an interest in how business worked. In fact, he was enjoying his new venture in sales. Might think about pursuing selling real estate someday.

Would she care to share an insider’s view?

She would and did. Dee Dee trusted him. He suspected his earnest kisses helped on that count.

In fact, he’d be seeing her again tonight. They’d agreed to meet at church—since it was Palm Sunday, he’d be expected to show—then they’d slip off to her place for more … sales training. At least, that’s how she probably saw it. He saw it as an opportunity to get the last crucial facts straight before Tuesday.

He knew this much: Jonas balanced his books every Monday evening.

Tuesday afternoon, while Jonas and the rest of the world were at Carter’s Run for the press conference, Nate would make the necessary changes on the spreadsheet. Wednesday, he’d handle the bank transfer and overnight a
check for twenty grand to Vegas.
Thank you, FedEx.

Thursday, he’d be gone.

Gone where, he didn’t know. Or care. Just out.

More than anything, Nate longed to be a free man.

“You are free to go anywhere your two legs can take you, Em,” Jonas had informed her. “
Except
in the vicinity of my golf course.”

The idea!
A full-grown woman being given strict orders not to go anywhere near Carter’s Run—for any reason, even with her eyes closed—until March 30.

When he’d first announced his silly stay-away edict two weeks earlier, she jerked her chin up. “Humph. What could I possibly learn with my eyes closed?”

Standing there in his paneled office, Jonas flashed a devilish grin. “Shut your eyes and let’s find out.”

She folded her arms across her jacket and closed her eyes with a melodramatic snap. “I’m ready, Dr. Fielding.”

“Eyes closed tight?”

“You know they are!”

He lowered his voice. “Hear anything?”

She listened to him whisper sweet words in her ear and fought a smile. “I hear a grown man saying some outrageous things about my lips, that’s what I hear.”