Bookends (16 page)

Emilie felt their hands on her back, pushing the sled across the snow while Jonas grunted dramatically. “No more Moravian sugar cake for you, woman!”

Humph!
He was the one who consumed it by the pan, not she.

“I pushed
you
a minute ago,” she reminded him. “It wasn’t that harrrr—
aaahh
!” Without warning, the sled took off, tearing down the hillside at breakneck speed.

Snow sprayed around them while little Sara shrieked with joy.

“Wheee-ooohhh!”

Hold it.
That was
her
shrieking with joy.

“Whooo-aaahhh!”
Emilie howled again at the top of her lungs as they plunged downward, while Sara hung on for dear life, her squeal pitched two octaves higher.

Despite her excitement, Emilie remembered to pull the rope left, then right. The little sled jumped to obey her.

It worked. It
worked!

Toboggans and passengers parted like the Red Sea as Emilie and her charge headed for the bottom, their hairlines packed with snow, their eyes squinting against the wind as the world went by in a white blur.

Sara shouted with glee, “Are you scared, Em-ee-lee?”

“Not meee!”

Jonas watched their descent for all of ten seconds before he grabbed Sara’s little silver saucer and threw himself down the hill in cold pursuit.

He could hear Emilie whooping and hollering all across the snowy landscape.
My Emilie? Wailing like a banshee?
This was one miracle he had to see
for himself: Emilie behaving like a kid. Emilie having
fun.

The saucer turned out to be a lousy chase vehicle. He couldn’t steer the thing or speed up, he could only hang on, with his bottom pointing down toward the snow, his legs dangling up in the air, and his hands grasping the flimsy vinyl handles with a death grip.

It was fast, though. Mighty fast, spinning like a carnival ride out of control. “Em-i-lieee!” he shouted when she came into view, mere feet ahead of him.

“Jooo-naaas!” She beamed at him as he shot past, her face bright pink, her features covered with ice crystals, her smile wide as the wintry sky.

That smile was the last thing he remembered before his saucer hit a bump and launched him into orbit, headed for deep space.

Mars
 … 
Jupiter
 …

He landed on his back with a jarring thump, his silver saucer lost in another galaxy far, far away.

Neptune
 … 
Pluto
 …

There had to be an explanation for the stars he was counting, laying there in the snow, with two worried faces hovering over him.

“Jonas, talk to me!” A woman’s voice. Emmy-somebody-or-other.

“Get up, Whale Man! Get up!” A child. Jumping in circles.

Whales? Maybe he went overboard. Near an iceberg.

“Did you break anything?” The woman again, sounding genuinely concerned. He opened one eye and tried to focus on her face. Such a nice face. Kinda red and frozen, but didn’t she have pretty brown eyes? And a nice soft nose, the kind that would squash perfectly if he kissed her.

Had he kissed her? Did he know her? Was she an ice angel, come to rescue him?

The woman was talking again, whispering now. “Jonas, can you hear me? It’s Emilie. Oh, say
something.
Please!”

“Emilie,” he groaned.

That seemed to make her happy.

Things were coming into focus now, though every drop of color was bleached from his surroundings. White, white, only white.
Oh. Snow. Yeah.
He was in the snow. Sledding.

Here came Trix, licking his face, yanking him into a sitting position.
Good dog.

And there was the flying saucer that brought him to this planet.
Good saucer.

He scratched Trix’s head first, then he scratched Emilie’s head. Emilie sure had nice fur. Curly and brown, not blond like Dee Dee.
No!
Not Dee Dee.
Trix.
Blond like Trix.
Yeah, that’s what I meant.

The crowd around him had grown, just like when that mail carrier gave him grief about looking inside Emilie’s mailbox. When was that? Last year? Last week?

He shook his head, which made things worse. Now there were three Emilies, all wide-eyed with worry. Didn’t she have pretty brown eyes, though? And the softest nose. And the sweetest breath, like hot chocolate.

“Kiss me,” he mumbled, which she promptly did. Right on the mouth.

The warmth of her lips, the perfect fit of them, the sugary delicious taste, all revived him substantially. So much so that Jonas found himself kissing her back, squashing her nose for all it was worth.

Such a nice nose. Such a sweet kiss.
What’s her name again?

“Dr. Getz, you need to keep him warm and awake for the rest of the day. Think you can handle it?”

The physician tore off a page from his prescription pad and pressed it in her hand. “For the pain, if he needs it. No napping, though, not after a possible concussion. Any questions, call my office.” He disappeared, white coat flapping, while Emilie stared at her patient.

The two of them were in a state of shock.

But not for the same reason.

Jonas had done a triple-axel through the air and landed on his head. No broken bones, just strained muscles, the X-ray tech assured them. And one gigantic ache from forehead to toes.

Emilie’s heart had done its own flip through the air when Jonas had asked her to kiss him—
kiss him!
—which she’d done. Thoroughly. Publicly. Much longer than necessary for resuscitation purposes, an onlooker had informed her with a conspirator’s wink.

Now they were staring at one another, wary and pensive. What had happened out there in the snow? Emilie remembered every single, joy-filled second. The feeling of flying through the air with Sara, of being in control of
their destiny with a mere tug on a rope, of seeing the world through a child’s eyes, washed white as snow.

Of being soundly kissed and liking it.

Jonas appeared to remember … nothing. Not his crazy, careening trip in the silver saucer, not his travels through time and space, not his crash landing.

And not—it pained Emilie to think of it—not even the high point of the morning: their breath-stealing, heartwarming kiss. It was obvious he didn’t remember it, or he wouldn’t be glaring at her now like she was a boulder in the middle of his building site, an obstacle that needed removing at once.

“You heard the doctor,” she began, perching on a leather chair in his den. They’d propped him upright on the couch with a cooler of sodas and the VCR remote control well within reach. Emilie tried to ignore the dreary setting—a too-new house with no character and even less furniture.
Poor Jonas.
The place had all the personality of a college dorm, right down to the dreadful polyester curtains.

“Yeah, I heard the doc. No napping.” Jonas yawned, no doubt just to bedevil her. “I’ll be fine, Emilie. No need to watch over me.”

What if I want to, Jonas? What if it gives me a strange and inexplicable sense of peace to sit here and keep you company?

Her thoughts were busy, but her words were few. “I see.” She swallowed a persistent lump that had threatened her all afternoon, ever since the accident. Ever since the kiss. “Would you rather I left?”

“I’d rather you stayed.”

Oh.
“Would you like something to … eat?”

He shook his head then, by the look on his face, regretted it. “Nah, I’m not hungry. And anyway, you don’t strike me as the domestic type.”

She shot to her feet. “I’ll have you know I brew a mean pot of tea. Might I interest you in a cup?”

He made a face. “I tried that once today already. These sodas are fine for me. You go ahead, though.” He chuckled, punching on the remote. “If you can find any.”

Jonas watched her turn sharply and head for the kitchen, presenting him with a stiff spine and squared shoulders.
Nice shoulders, though.

What was she unhappy about? Had he said something unkind when he was regaining consciousness? The doc said he’d been out for a full minute or more. Had he done something foolish, like suggest she try using lipstick for a change or stop pulling her hair back in a knot?

Whatever happened, it had not improved things between them.
Sorry, Lord.
After Wednesday’s chat, then reading his letter—and she had read it, hadn’t she?—he’d hoped the ice princess might have melted a tad.

One thing was certain: She loved sledding down that hill. Maybe he’d remind her of it, see if talking about it cheered her up.

When Emilie came back in, tea mug in hand, he did his best to look alert. “So, Emilie, tell me how it felt.”

Her pale skin grew paler. “How … what felt?”

“You know. Today. On that snow-covered hill.” He smiled, in spite of the pain. “Wasn’t it … exhilarating?”

No longer pale, her skin was turning pink. “Yes, Jonas, it was absolutely … thrilling.”

“No kidding. Describe the sensation for me.” He’d gone sledding so many times, he knew what she’d say: “It was like flying without wings.”

“It was …” Her blush had moved from pink to magenta. “It was the most … incredibly … romantic moment of my life.”

Romantic! On a sled? With a kid?
The woman clearly didn’t get out much. “Tell me more.”

Her voice was a tortured whisper. “I’ve never done such a thing before.” Her gaze sank toward the floor.

For some odd reason, she looked embarrassed.
Nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of people didn’t go sledding as kids.
He cleared his throat. “Look, Emilie, there’s always a first time. It gets easier after that.”

Her head shot up. “It does?”

“No question. We can practice anytime you like.”

Her eyes widened. “We can?”

“Not tonight, of course.”

“Oh, of course not!”

“It’s downright dangerous in the dark.”

“So I’ve heard.” Her swallow was audible. “Did you have a … specific day in mind? For this … practice?”

“Your choice, Emilie.”

Her eyebrows formed a startled V. “M-my … choice?”

“Yup.” He clasped his hands behind his head and stretched. “Any day you like, just call me.”

She looked dumbfounded. “So you want me to call
you?
”

“Yeah. Assuming the weather’s right.”

“The
weather
?” Her eyes were saucers. “You mean you can only k—”

“Colder the better, don’t you think?” He focused in on the NBA game flickering across the screen.

“You’re the expert.” She stood and put aside her tea, untouched. “I’ll … call you, then. Sometime. I guess.”

“You do that, Emilie.” He punched the mute button and gave her his full attention. “I’d like your second time to be just as memorable as the first.”

“Me … uh, too.” She offered him a tentative wave, then gathered her coat and bolted for the back door.

“Rebound!” he shouted at the screen before he realized it made his head throb.
Easy does it, buddy.
He settled back to watch the game, even as visions of a blushing, flustered historian spun through his mind.

Fact was, he’d never met a woman like Emilie. Scary-smart, yet clueless. Attractive without knowing it or working at it. Strong, in a quiet sort of way. And stubborn.
Man, is she stubborn, Lord!

This sledding thing was something else again. Obviously, it struck a chord with her.
Good.
She looked positively dewy-eyed the whole time they’d talked about it just now. If she didn’t call him for a sledding lesson soon, he’d call her himself. Anything to hear that wild, joyous laugh of hers again.

Better idea.
He’d
buy
her a sled of her own.
Yeah!

Who’d have imagined the way to Emilie Getz’s heart included a Flexible Flyer?

Emilie was a flexible woman, yes. A modern woman, a twenty-first-century woman. But she was not about to call a man so he could … so he could … practice
kissing
her! The idea was long past ludicrous.

Jonas Fielding was
not
the reason she came to Lititz, she reminded herself hourly, and it was high time she got on with business.

The weather was in complete agreement with her decision. Friday’s snow
dragged on through the weekend, giving her the perfect excuse to stay home and organize her notes for the commemorative book. No one in the church office had asked for progress reports, but Emilie felt obliged to provide solid proof that she was indeed working.

Outside, the icy snow blew, rattling her many-paned windows.

Inside, her fingers flew over the keyboard, creating a highly detailed account of the early years of the Lititz Moravian Congregation. Mary Huebener’s writings were scattered across the table for ready reference, along with various publications by the Moravian Historical Society, dog-eared photocopies from the Salem Library, and her own carefully handwritten notes.

The work was exacting and exhausting.

Emilie reveled in it.

Every page, every footnote, turned over another pebble in the hallowed ground of church history. Piecing together the facts at hand, she discovered new truths about the fellowship that had produced the liturgy, the music, the traditions she cherished.

From her viewpoint, history was the essence of religion, its foundation, its reason for continuing to exist at all.

One phrase kept appearing in the myriad texts that gave her pause:
awakened souls.
Awakened to what? In Herrnhut, in Lancaster, in Warwick Township of old, the people gathered because they were somehow “awakened,” historians noted.

“Must have been a trombone choir there.” She laughed to herself, imagining the early church members being roused out of their beds at dawn by the brassy blare.

But the first trombones from Christiansbrunn didn’t arrive until November 1771. Obviously something else awakened their souls. Surely if she kept reading, an explanation would follow.

Wrapped in her warmest wool slacks and sweaters, Emilie pounded at the keyboard for nearly a week, barely taking a break for a few light meals and visits from Beth, who came bearing news from church along with armfuls of additional files.