Bookends (42 page)

“Even with your eyes closed? Well, well.”

They were still shut tight, though that was getting more difficult once he started tracing her features with a single, gentle finger.

She sighed loudly. “I get your point, Jonas. Even without seeing, we still have four other perfectly good senses to work with.”

“Yup, and I have two more to engage. What’s this scent, do you know?”

“Mmmm. Roses.” Her eyelids fluttered at their fragrant perfume.

“Wait!” Jonas put his hand over the top half of her face. “Don’t open your eyes. Tell me what color they are.”

“Do
what?
I can’t tell that with my eyes closed.”

“Yes, you can. Try.”

She reached up her hand to touch the silky petals, then sniffed again and smiled. “Ah. Pink. Pale pink.”

He laughed, that rolling rumble of a laugh that made her toes curl. “Precisely. And how did you know that?”

“Because
you
know I like pink.”

“Right. Now, open your mouth, please.”

Well!
“For a kiss?”

“Nope. For a bud. Not a rosebud, either.”

It was her turn to laugh. While her mouth was hanging open as directed, Jonas popped in a swirl of chocolate—a Wilbur Bud—from the Wilbur Chocolate factory on Broad Street. The dark, semisweet candy left her smiling but marble-mouthed. “Mmmm. Yumma! Dat’s realla gud.”

She opened her eyes then and found Jonas bearing an entire box of her favorite confection in one hand and a dozen pink roses in the other.

“Ohhh.” Emilie swallowed the last of her chocolate. “It’s like Valentine’s Day all over again.” She carefully took each generous gift and put it aside on his desk, then wrapped her arms around his neck. “You win. I won’t go anywhere near Carter’s Run until the thirtieth. But when that day gets here, sir, I expect a limo waiting at my doorstep. Understood?”

It was, in fact, a Lincoln Town Car.

Emilie couldn’t believe it when her doorbell rang at quarter to one that sunny Tuesday afternoon. Spring had finally sprung, and everyone in town was oohing and aahing over the daffodils and crocus that were showing their colors.

Her eyes, however, were awestruck by the sleek, solid black automobile at the curb, and the immaculately uniformed young man on her brick porch, holding his hat.

“Are you ready, Dr. Getz? Mr. Fielding insisted you arrive precisely at one o’clock.”

“Let me get my coat.”

“You really won’t need it, ma’am. It hit seventy at noon.”

She stuck her nose out and marveled at the warm breeze. “Very well. Lead the way, please.”

He did so quite literally, offering his arm to escort her down the steps and see her safely planted in the backseat.

Two things waited for her there, resting on the putty-colored leather
upholstery. A stunning corsage—pale pink sweetheart roses—which she carefully pinned on the lapel of her dark navy suit. Jonas had requested that she “dress like a professor.” She hoped this was what he meant.

Such a mysterious man! Carter’s Run was the talk of Lititz these days, with the opening barely over a week away and the fairways and greens looking verdant and inviting. But the most discussed feature was the eighteenth hole. The entire thing was surrounded with a tall, fence-like arrangement made of canvas. Temporary, of course, but it stirred up no end of speculation.

“Do
you
know what’s going on in there, Emilie?”

She told everyone the same thing: “Not only do I not know, I’m not allowed to ask.” At which point they stared at her like she was not as intelligent as her degree suggested.

But that was yesterday.

Today was her day—everyone’s day—to find out. It was a press conference, meaning photographers would be omnipresent. She’d added a teensy bit of color to her eyes, cheeks, and lips, hoping Jonas wouldn’t notice and get out his handkerchief to pat it all off.

She sniffed her corsage and grinned to herself.
If he wants to do so later when we’re alone, that’s something else altogether.

Looking out the window at the most beautiful scenery in the world—
home
—Emilie let her gaze drop to the other package in the backseat. A narrow box, the sort one might use for long-stemmed roses, except this one didn’t show a florist’s name. Only her name on a tag that read in bold print: “To be opened on the ride home. Or else.”

Such a rogue, that man.
Or else.
Honestly!

Still, after all he’d done to please her these last weeks, she could leave one little box alone, couldn’t she?

Emilie stared at it, tapping one finger on the bright red bow tied around it, thinking.

Nothing said she couldn’t
shake
the thing. See if it was heavy or made a telltale noise. She slipped one hand under the box, long enough to realize it weighed next to nothing, then froze when the driver shot her a cautionary look in the rearview mirror.

“That’s for later, ma’am. Sorry.”

Heavens!
Why did she have to get some young upstart for a driver? One
with no sense of adventure whatsoever.

“Very well,” she said with a sniff. “Eyes on the road, please.”

In minutes, they were turning onto Kissel Hill. Emilie pressed her nose against the glass, mouth agape.
It wasn’t possible!
How could they have accomplished so much in so little time? Her regard for the project manager’s talents shot up another ten notches.

And yet, even with something of this magnitude on his shoulders, Jonas had managed to join her for Holy Week readings at church the last two nights.

Amazing!

That’s the word that sang through her heart as they neared the finished clubhouse. The colorful annuals, the fresh sod, the red brick walks, and the creamy tan stucco architecture that matched the library under construction down the street—classic lines that mirrored those of the Moravian church they both loved.

And I love you, Jonas Fielding.
She would tell him so, the minute she laid eyes on him. First thing, no matter what.

“There he is!” She tapped the driver on the shoulder and pointed to the pristine white wooden archway that guided golfers toward the welcoming, stone-fronted entrance. Underneath the graceful arch, shaking hands and smiling for the camera, stood Jonas, wearing a sharply-pressed pair of tan slacks and a new Carter’s Run golf shirt.

Not, though, in his trademark black.

In pale pink.
My pink!
Her heart leaped in her throat as she lunged for the door handle.

Jonas looked up in time to see her climbing out of the Town Car, handed out by the polite, if a tad rule-obsessive, young driver, who soon faded from view as she moved toward the man of the hour.

Remember what you said, Em. You’re going to tell him you love him the minute you lay eyes on him
 …

It was a silly idea. She would put it out of her mind immediately.

Anyway, there was no time. The minute he leaned over and spoke to the media types on either side of him, their camera lenses swerved in her direction, and Jonas began waving her toward him.

His expression was triumphant, his whole face lit as if from the inside. “Dr. Emilie Getz! Come and meet your many admirers.”

There was only one admirer she needed to see.

Emilie walked straight toward him, her navy high heels in dark contrast to the solid white cement beneath them; her tidy knot of hair bouncing a bit as she walked briskly in his direction; her pale pink lips stretched into a smile so wide it made her face ache with joy.

He extended a hand as she approached. “Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Emilie Getz.”

She stopped mere inches from him. “And this,” she announced, “is the man I love, Dr. Jonas Fielding.” After which the only logical thing to do was plant her lips on his and remain there until people started clapping.

Which the entire gathering did—eventually—with gusto.

The woman was completely out of control.

He loved it.

Loved being kissed by her. Loved being loved by her. Even loved being embarrassed by her very public display of affection.

Why not? She was the new, improved Emilie Getz, and he was one very blessed man.

“Why a light pink shirt?” was her first whispered question when the applause around them faded.

He shrugged. “Because a black golf shirt is too hot.”

Quick thinking, Fielding.

Emilie stood proudly by his side while he bragged about her Gemeinhaus research. And about her willingness to forfeit her rights to the land for the good of the community.

“But folks, that sort of sacrifice will not be necessary on the part of Dr. Getz or her peers in historic preservation. If you’ll follow me, please.”

Pressing a hand lightly against the small of her back, he steered Emilie toward the area enclosed by canvas that was gently flapping in the warm, almost-April breeze.

“Jonas, what have you done?”

“You’ll see.”
Boy, would she ever.

He nodded at two smiling clubhouse staff members dressed in matching pink shirts. “Fellas, if you will, kindly tie one of those back for us.”

Yanking one huge piece of canvas aside and knotting it in place, they
stood aside as Jonas and Emilie walked through the wide opening with the media hot on their heels.

Emilie’s eyes grew rounder than a pair of Titleist Pros. “Jonas, you didn’t!”

I did.

He grinned down at her, then waved his arm in an arc, taking in the remarkable scene before them. “You are getting a preview of the most unusual eighteenth hole in the world. When Carter’s Run opens in ten days, golfers will approach the only bunker in golf history that
protects
history.”

Jonas walked the reporters around the putting green, showing them how the designer had cleverly worked around the beginning stages of the archaeological site—a site bordered with a beautiful stone wall to keep golf balls where they belonged. “Which is
not
bouncing off an archaeologist’s head. Isn’t that right, Dr. Getz?”

Her own head shook back and forth, but the woman was otherwise speechless. Jonas grinned.
Nice change, that.
“While Dr. Getz becomes acquainted with her dig, let me show you our course architect’s fine work on the approach to the green.”

Clearly Emilie needed time to take it all in. Leaving her standing at her cherished site, never taking his eyes off her for longer than a minute, Jonas shared the story of the acquisition of the larger clubhouse property that had allowed not only a bigger clubhouse but, ultimately, a Gemeinhaus, too. “It’s the generosity of our Lititz neighbors, working with us to create Carter’s Run, that will make this a golf course of which the entire town can be proud.”

Watch it, Fielding, or they’ll be asking you to run for mayor.

Shuffling the murmuring group back toward Emilie, he gave them a brief synopsis of the events leading up to the restructuring of the eighteenth hole. “As you can see, ladies and gents, we brought in a crack team to do the initial dig. By unearthing the perimeters of the historic foundation, we were able to adjust our golf course accordingly, allowing both to happily coexist, side by side.”

One reporter raised a hand. “If the borough annexed all the land for Carter’s Run, do they own this historic section too?”

Jonas was hoping they wouldn’t ask this. Not here, not now.

But the Lord—and Emilie—expected him to tell the truth at all times, including this one.

Jonas walked toward a stone marker on the street side of the Gemeinhaus dig and rested his hand on the heavy cloth draped over the stone’s engraved front. “The truth is, I bought this property from the borough myself, and—” he could delay the news no longer—“I donated it to the Lititz Moravian Congregation in honor of their 250th anniversary, and in the name of—” he whipped the cloth off with a flourish—“Emilie Getz, Ph.D.”

“Jonas!”

The woman attacked him. There was no other word for it. Jumped into his arms from a full trot, knocking them both against the marble and stone marker.

He loved it.

Which was a good thing since that was the photo that ended up on the front page of the
Lancaster New Era,
the
Reading Eagle,
the
Harrisburg Patriot,
and the
Philadelphia Inquirer.

Above it was the bold headline: “Preservation and Progress Find Common Ground.”

“Jonas, after all you’ve done for me this incredible day, what could I possibly do for you?”

Emilie gazed up at him, knowing there were stars in her eyes simply because she saw them reflected in his darker ones. “The day is young, barely three o’clock. Can you think of something I might do to please you this afternoon?”

Those eyes of his darkened further. “Oh, I certainly can.”

“Humph.” She aimed a playful swat at his chest. “Think of something else.”

“Okay.” A sly grin appeared. “Water my plants.”

“You must be joking.”

He shook his head, leading her toward the patiently waiting limo driver. “It’s no joke, as you’ll agree when you see them.” Digging out his keys, he tucked them in her hand. “Have the driver stop at my place just long enough for you to let yourself in and do your green-thumb duty, then leave the keys on the kitchen counter and head for home. I hate to ask you to do this, Em, but your dozen green friends are wilting under my care. I’ll catch up with you at church at seven. Is it a date?”

“Of course.” She waited as the driver climbed in and started the engine, not wanting the afternoon to end. “Jonas, I don’t know what to say or where to start.” Swallowing a lump that had lodged itself in her throat for the last two hours, she pressed her hands against his warm chest, just to feel his heart beating solidly beneath her palms. “You’ve managed to make not only
me
happy today, but our whole church, our whole
town.
”

“Of the three, beloved, you are definitely at the top of the list.” Pulling her closer, he bent down and kissed her, tenderly at first, then with a fervency, a passion born of a shared faith and a shared future. When their lips finally parted, he smiled, his mouth still only inches away from hers. “Actually, you
are
the list, Emilie Getz. The Lord told me to show you the fullness of his joy. He forgot to mention that I’d be a beneficiary, too.”