Bookends (7 page)

When Emilie merely nodded with a wary gaze, he explained, “I’m on the missions committee, Dr. Getz. We’ve been expecting you.”
Not you, precisely.
Not a woman. Must have missed that meeting.
He turned toward his brothers. “Emilie has been hired by my church to write a book about our 250th anniversary.”

She bristled at that one. “It’s my home congregation, too.”

A voice drifted in from the kitchen. “And she’s the perfect person for the job.” Helen reappeared, a generous serving of Moravian sugar cake in one hand, a fork in the other. “Will you be wanting coffee, Em?”

Emilie nodded, her rosy skin beginning to fade back to ivory again. “I’m sorry to be so out of sorts, today of all days.” Helen poured coffee into a fancy china cup while Emilie took a tentative bite of her sugar cake.

His gaze followed her fork, tasting the dessert all over again. Of all the good food that flowed out of Helen’s kitchen, this stuff took the prize. A shallow pan filled with a rich dough of some sort, covered with thick brown sugar and cinnamon in buttery little puddles. He’d already had three pieces. Would a fourth be too much to ask?

Helen read his mind. “One more square for you, Jonas?”

His grin told her all she needed to know.

While Helen went off to the kitchen, he trained his eyes on Emilie, who’d already put aside her fork, the cake barely touched. Despite the general clamor around the table, he managed to get her attention.

“So, do your folks still live here in Lititz?”

She nodded. “Two doors down.” Silence.

A real chatterbox, this one.
“You spent Christmas at their place, huh?”

Her narrow shoulders lifted and fell.

Next topic.
“Tell me about your research.”

Her eyes widened. “My … uh … which research?”

Why the frightened doe look?
Smiling, meaning to reassure her, he added, “The historical material you’re gathering on the church. For the anniversary book, remember?”

She leaned back in her chair, obviously relieved. “Oh,
that
research.” For the first time since she’d arrived, Emilie appeared to relax, brushing a few stray wisps of brown hair off her forehead. “I’ve studied most of the original Moravian settlements in America—Bethlehem, Nazareth, Christiansbrunn, Hope, Salem, and Bethania. And Lititz, of course.”

Jeff whistled. “The woman does her homework.”

His praise flustered her. “Well … yes. I plan to weave some of their history
through the fabric of ours here in Lititz, so local readers can see how it all fits together.”

As she outlined the events she’d be covering—Count Zinzendorf’s arrival in Pennsylvania and the rest—Jonas listened and observed.
She’s smart. Serious. Pretty, in a pinch-lipped sort of way.

And hurting, unless his radar was way off base.

It was that quality alone that made it hard for him to ignore her—much as he wanted to, much as she wasn’t remotely his type. He liked women who were on fire—for the Lord, for life, for people. Emilie Getz was as cold as they came.

Which is where you come in, son.

Jonas didn’t move a muscle while his entire being made a radical attention shift.
Lemme guess, Lord. You want me to warm things up. Make her feel welcome. Show her—

Fullness of joy, son.

Joy?

Show Emilie who I am.

Jonas swallowed a groan, training his eyes on the anything-but-joyful woman sitting across from him. For an instant, they exchanged glances.
Hmmm.
Maybe her chilly exterior from last night had warmed a bit after all.

Whatever the case, his commission was clear.
Got it, Lord.

The One who made him knew him well: Jonas couldn’t turn his back on someone who was hurting. That’s why he’d always been there for Nathan. Why he spent three hot weeks on a Central American mission field last June. It was also why he’d found Trix at the Humane Society, a golden retriever with the pain of abuse in her eyes and the limp to prove it.

Emilie wasn’t limping, but there was a bruised look about her that made him willing to forget, just for a moment, what a bookish, standoffish snob she was.

Joy, huh?

What the woman needed was a diversion.
Yeah.
Some outdoor activity, full of fresh air and God’s creation and … 
wait
.

It was perfect.

“Dr. Getz.” Jonas tossed his napkin on the table, his fourth dessert a fond memory. “What do you know about birding?”

Her eyebrows formed a distinct
V.
“As in robins and wrens?”

Jonas nodded. “And black-capped chickadees—”

“And yellow-bellied sapsuckers.” Jeff added with a chuckle. “Fielding men are a bird-crazy bunch.”

Emilie’s
V
tightened. “How many are there?”

“Birds?” Jonas shrugged. “Millions, I guess.”

“Not birds.” The corners of her mouth threatened to curl up. “Fielding men. How many are there of those?”

Chris held up his fingers. “Four: Jonas, Chris, Jeff, and Nate. No need to include Nathan, though.” He shot Jonas a sideways smirk. “He’s even uglier than the three of us.”

Emilie started to say something, then pinched her lips tighter still.

Jonas propped his elbows on the table, his hands dwarfing the fragile coffee cup. “The reason I asked is this is the weekend for the Lititz Christmas Bird Count.”

“
Christmas
birds?” Chris groaned. “
Red
-bellied woodpeckers and
green
-winged teals, is that it?”

Jonas rolled his eyes. “He knows better, Emilie. Our dad—” out of nowhere, something lodged in his throat—“that is, our dad was a high school biology teacher.”

“Delaware’s Teacher of the Year.”

“Right, Jeff.” He’d almost forgotten that. Forgotten a lot of things. The lump in his throat eased down. “Anyway, Dad taught us everything he knew, which was plenty. He was a bird man from his days as an Eagle Scout.”

Emilie made a sound that bordered on a delicate snort. “A bird man who’s an eagle? Are you teasing me again, Mr. Fielding?”

“Call me Jonas.” He grinned, warming up to the notion of birding with this particular guinea hen. “I never kid around when it comes to identifying our feathered friends. That’s the whole idea of the bird count. A hundred years ago, a bunch of sharp Audubon enthusiasts decided Christmas should be for counting birds instead of shooting ’em.”

“You still
eat
them, I see.” She nodded toward his empty plate and the plucked-clean turkey centerpiece. Her eyebrows had calmed down, but her eyes themselves twinkled ever so slightly. “Are you suggesting I join you for a
Fielding
day?”

Clever girl.
He shifted in Helen’s direction. “What do you think, Mrs. Bomberger? Can we keep her in line, show her the ropes?”

The elderly woman flapped her hand like a baker chasing insects off a shoofly pie. “Not this year, I’m afraid. The way my arthritis is acting up, I’d be stiffer than a board before daybreak. Planning on counting them at my feeders, though.” She pointed toward the kitchen door. “Got fifty pounds of birdseed and two new feeders out back, all set for action.” Her rheumy eyes crinkled around the corners. “Emilie is welcome to use those fancy binoculars you got me for my birthday.”

“Very generous, Mrs. B.”
Heart of gold, this woman.
“So, Doc, I’ll pick you up at … say, four-thirty?”

Emilie winced. “In the morning?”

He pretended to look surprised. “Of course. When else would you find a barred owl hooty-hooting at the moon?” He slapped his hands together, anticipating a brisk wintry day at the Middle Creek Wildlife Management Area with a thermos of hot coffee in one hand and a field guide in the other. “Be sure you dress for cold weather. You Carolina girls do own warm clothes, don’t you?”

“I’m a Pennsylvania woman.” There was a drop of vinegar in her voice. “And yes, I have plenty of warm clothes. Winston-Salem is hardly Myrtle Beach.” Her haughty expression was back, which meant his rejuvenation efforts were already starting to work.

“Four-thirty it is then,” he reminded her with a wink.

“See that you’re not late, Mr. Fielding.”

“Jonas.”

“Whatever.”

His grin widened.
Welcome back, Dr. Getz.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart!”

Jonas emptied the remains of a dog food bag into the plastic dish until it overflowed, then tossed the bag in the vicinity of the kitchen trash can.

“Eat up, Trix, and then we’re gone. I intend to surprise a certain bird by arriving early.” Jonas pulled on his black parka and a wool stocking cap, then draped a set of binoculars around his neck. Jamming a couple of shabby bird books and a handheld video camera in one roomy pocket, then a handful of dog biscuits in the other, he stuck a glazed doughnut between his teeth and shoved the rest of the box in his backpack.

With so much work piled on his desk, he had no business taking a day to play in the woods with Dr. Stuck-Up. Still, he’d promised the Lord. And Emilie had agreed to come.
Who knows?
Their outing might prove to be more entertaining than he expected.

Grabbing a thermos of hot, black coffee, he headed for the garage with Trix circling his thighs. Like all retrievers, she knew the drill, knew they were heading for a day in the field, and could scarcely contain her excitement.

“In you go, girl.” He opened the back door on the driver’s side and Trix leaped into the Explorer’s roomy backseat, panting and drooling with abandon. Despite the early hour, Jonas let out a noisy whoop. “Won’t prissy Miss Emilie love you? Be sure you rub up against her all day long and shed like a … well, like a golden retriever. Got that?” He scratched her behind the ears, a fresh wave of affection washing over him. “Good dog.”

That’s when the front seat caught his eye. Paraphernalia from Carter’s Run covered the seat, the floor, and most of the dashboard of his two-week-old Explorer.
Not good.
Not when he had a passenger who probably didn’t know a fairway from a freeway.

The municipal golf course had been his baby from the moment of conception. When he moved to town five years ago to oversee the building of the new Lititz Public Library, he’d taken one look at the rolling acreage that stretched behind the proposed library site and visions of perfectly groomed #419 Bermuda grass danced in his head.

He wasn’t the golfer Nate was—few mortals were—but he’d spent enough time on the links to know what an ideal golf course might look like. The thought of developing one, then watching tourists and locals enjoy themselves at a reasonable price, all the while boosting the borough’s bank account, made his developer’s heart pound with anticipation.

It had taken a year to convince the property owner to sell her verdant farmland, especially when she wasn’t willing to give up the 1813 farmhouse that went with it. Perched on a high bluff, its long back windows looked down on an undulating one-hundred-fifty acres and the prosperous town that had grown around it.

Since he didn’t need the woman’s house, his main bargaining point was obvious: the prettiest backyard she could ever hope for. When he pointed out that another developer would be more likely to scatter three hundred ticky-tacky homes across her valley, she’d caught his vision for par-four holes and sparkling man-made lakes and agreed to sign the dotted line.

But that was only the beginning. Then he had to stand before the Borough Council and convince them a municipal golf course was in their best interest. No sweat. His personally financed feasibility study and profit
projections for the borough had them dancing in their seats. The loan managers at Penn Bank were less dramatic, but equally convinced he could make it work and put up millions to prove it.

Once the USGA consultant gave the committee’s plans his nod of approval, a steady stream of surveyors, clearing contractors, and ground-chomping dozers came and went through the construction entrance on Kissel Hill Road. Determined to keep his promise to the good folks of Lititz, who worried about a potential eyesore in their historic community, Jonas made sure the architectural team from New Jersey altered the lay of the land as little as possible. The clubhouse was designed in much the same style as the elegant new library he was building, its classic lines echoing the stucco-and-stone Moravian Church.

The golf course would open in April, the library in June. By the Fourth of July, his life would be back to normal, whatever that was. In the meantime, he needed to be on site today—walking the grounds, checking things out—not standing around in a twenty-degree windchill with an ice princess.

Remember why you’re doing this, man.

Why
was
he doing this? Because she needed cheering up, right?
Great, Fielding. Another project.

Except that wasn’t fair. Emilie Getz was a woman, not a project. Truth was, he could use a day away from Carter’s Run. It wouldn’t kill him. Might even be fun watching
Fraulein Doktor
pretend to know doo-doo about birds.