Bookends (28 page)

Moments later, after another shuddering sob, Emilie realized her tears were beginning to slow.
Thank goodness, Lord! I’ve made an utter fool of myself here.

His voice—and already she was becoming familiar with the sound of
it—both warmed and challenged her:
Better a fool for One who loves you than a prophet for one who does not.

As if fortified by those few words alone, Emilie straightened, unashamedly wiping away the last of her tears. The air around her seemed at once clearer, brighter.

Jonas was smiling—hugely so.

In the living room, a small cavy scurried about his new glass cage. In her centuries-old dining room, the doors of Emilie’s own cage had been flung wide open.

Nate slammed the door shut with a violent bang, more pleased than he should have been when a hairline crack appeared in one of the pine panels.

Serves ’em right.
The hotel had issued him a sternly-worded notice to vacate his room by morning, threatening to press charges if he didn’t produce either cash or a valid credit card to cover the last three nights’ lodging.

He only had eight hundred dollars left and two long weeks to go before he supposedly got out of rehab. Jonas couldn’t call Nate, nor could Nate call him. That’s the way these recovery places worked—Nate had checked all that out before contacting his brother for cash.

It’d been the perfect cover-up, the ideal excuse to borrow money and then disappear. Problem was, the money had disappeared, too. Not at the track—Nate purposely drove out of his way to miss the place—but rather at San Pablo Golf Club. The greens fees were exorbitant. So were meals and tips and a week’s worth of new golf shirts at seventy dollars apiece.

Nate did his best to blend in, not wanting to draw undue attention, presenting himself as nothing more than an amiable, dark-haired golfer who’d suddenly started hanging around the clubhouse every afternoon. That’s when the CEOs rolled in, ready for a quick round and often looking for a fourth player.

How may I be of service this afternoon, gentlemen? I’m Nathan Fielding, member of the PGA.

Yeah. You and twenty-three thousand other members.

If the men were rank amateurs, he offered tips that made them better. Made them grateful. If they played in the 80s, he complimented their games then made sure he scored a few points lower. Competitive to a man, these
business execs liked spending time with someone who gave them a run for their money.

Ever cooperative, Nate took their money and ran with it. In twenties and fifties and hundreds. On side games and long drives and putts. He lost on occasion—it made him seem legitimate—and tucked his winnings away until he could polish off his debts.

It still wasn’t enough.

At least the Jaguar was covered for two more weeks. He’d managed without booze, could squeeze by on one meal a day and a handful of mixed nuts at the club bar. Cy grumbled about the measly two thousand bucks Nate had sent, demanding more, but Nate knew how to butter up the man, get him laughing. It was the king-size bed he crashed on at night, the cold shower that shocked him awake in the morning, that’s what he’d let slide, figuring he’d pay up by week’s end.

The end was near, only hours away.

He looked at the phone by the bed and the number scribbled on the pad next to it.
Rick.
One of the friendlier types in the pro shop. Young guy, maybe twenty, putting himself through the University of North Florida by making himself useful at the club.

Nate knew Rick had an apartment off-campus. Could he talk him into letting him land there for a couple of weeks? Buy some cereal, kick in a little rent, let him borrow the Jag for a night?

He grabbed the phone off the hook, then banged it against his forehead in a pathetic rhythm, punishing himself.
Why?
Why did it always come to this? Asking for favors? For handouts? For loans he’d probably never be able to pay back?

Exhaling the last of his frustration, Nate punched in the numbers and stretched a big, fake smile across his face. “Hey, Rick! How ya doin’, buddy?”

He listened, nodding as if Rick were sitting right in front of him. “Same here. Looks like it’ll be another two weeks until they finish my condo, though.”

It was a smooth lie, one he’d concocted driving past the place yesterday. Snazzy, upscale, the kind of high-rent building San Pablo members would call home.
Opening February 25,
the sign had said.
Primo timing.
His thirty-day blitz would be over by then and he’d already have kissed Jacksonville good-bye.

But Rick didn’t know that. Nobody did.

“I hate to ask this, sport, but could you spare a couch and a coffeepot for a couple of weeks? Really? That’s great, man. Just great.”

Nate tried not to sound too relieved.
Don’t give yourself away, Fielding. Don’t sound desperate.
“If it’s okay, I’ll stop by late tomorrow morning and get a spare key. Nah, no stuff to store. One suitcase and a cell phone. You’ll hardly notice I’m there.”

At least that much was true. He practically lived at the club and owned nothing but the clothes on his back.

“Excellent. You’ll let me buy some groceries, right? And help you shave a few strokes off your game? Good. I’ll look forward to it. And … thanks, Rick.”

He dropped the phone back in place, puzzled he wasn’t more elated about the whole thing. Maybe it’d been too easy. One call and he’d nailed a roof over his head and saved a bundle of money.

Nate was a survivor. When he dug himself into a pit, he kept shoveling until he could dig himself out.

Not true, man. You look for somebody else’s shoulders to stand on. That’s how you get out.

The truth stuck in his craw, like a tough piece of meat.

Maybe he
had
counted on others to boost him up. His dad’s shoulders had been stronger than anybody’s. Jonas was a poor but dependable second choice.

Not true, Nate. He’s been more than a brother to you.

Too much more. That was the problem. Jonas was his conscience. His mother
and
his father. Always wanting the best for him. Always hoping he would change. Nate could hear it in his brother’s voice.

Jonas doesn’t judge you.

No need. The guy’s squeaky-clean life was judgment enough.

Jonas hasn’t given up on you.

But he should. After all, Nate had given up on himself a long time ago.

Two-hundred-fifty years to the day.

Jonas double-checked his calendar.
Yup.

February 9. The day the Gemeinhaus—the
second
one, Emilie would insist—was dedicated and consecrated by the serving of communion. The
day the Warwick
Landgemeine
Congregation threw open its doors to Moravians far and wide.

Emilie wasn’t the only one who knew her history.

Right this minute, though, Jonas cared only about the woman’s future. Her future with the Lord.
Her future with you, Fielding.
No question, that figured into this property fiasco as well.

He shrugged into his parka, planning on a short walk over to Church Square. Emilie hadn’t answered her phone at home. Surely she’d be at the church office, today of all days. They’d talked all around the land situation since last Thursday. Now it was time to reach some consensus. Every hour brought them closer to the grand opening on April 9.

“Let’s go, Trixie girl.” He snapped a long leash on her collar while the retriever fairly rolled her eyes at the prospect of a long walk. Trix didn’t just wag her tail, she wagged everything she owned, banging against him as they headed out through the garage.

Jonas took off at a good clip, thanks to his spirited partner, and headed toward Cedar. The weather was decent; temperatures in the low fifties. A silvery gray, overcast sky but no threat of rain. Two blocks away, the bells in the Moravian church spire rang twice and he checked his watch, smiling at the vivid memory of another afternoon.
Three-thirty. Almost tea time, Emilie.

There’d never be another tea like the one they’d shared last Thursday, not in his lifetime.
Not ever.
He’d arrived on time, hoping to sweep her off her feet. Instead, the Lord showed up and swept her up in his own sacred embrace.

At first Emilie couldn’t talk about it, just sipped her tea and sniffled in his handkerchief. Good thing he’d bought a new one to go with the suit. Then she started telling him about how she’d always believed—absolutely and positively—in the existence of God, yet had no clue when it came to
knowing
God in a personal way.

“Like
you
do. Like Beth does, and Helen,” she explained, still trying to sort things out in her mind. He nodded, listened, and prayed silently while she talked, wanting so much to say the right thing. To encourage her, as he’d promised Helen he would.

Helen.
She’d cried on the phone when he called Friday to give her a full report. “I had nothing to do with it, and you know it,” he protested when Helen congratulated him.

“Nonsense,” she said, tsk-tsking again. “You were there, you were obedient, and you were used of God. That’s as good as it gets, Jonas.”

It
was
good. Better than good. Any discussion of mundane issues, like eighteenth holes and Gemeinhaus digs, faded to black in the wake of Emilie’s discovery. They’d sat on the couch together
—after
he strategically found a new perch for Clarice the guinea pig—and talked all through the evening, nibbling on cold scones and sliced ham for dinner, then feeding each other spoonfuls of raspberries with cream for dessert.

The evening ended with nothing more than a kiss.

But it lasted twenty minutes.

Standing there in her kitchen, Jonas slipped his arms around her waist, drawing her into a relaxed embrace. His suit coat had come off hours earlier, which meant he felt her fragile warmth through the sleeves of his dress shirt. As if from a great distance, classical music floated in from the living room.

“Johann Friedrich Peter,” she murmured, though he hadn’t asked. “A Moravian composer.”
Of course.
“Eighteenth century.”

“One of your favorites?”

“Mm-hmm.” The shy look had returned. Her head was dipped down, with her forehead almost but not quite resting on his chest.

Brushing one hand over her soft hair, down to the nape of her neck, he splayed his fingers to cradle her head, then tipped it back ever so slightly. He didn’t want her to feel forced in any way, understanding more than ever Emilie’s need for control, yet he longed to see her angelic face.

Even remembering it now, walking down Cedar, Jonas swallowed a lump in his throat. Emilie’s countenance was radiant that night. Shining like a candle. The only word to describe it was joy.
Pure joy.

He hadn’t put that look there—it was totally the Lord’s doing—but he certainly could celebrate it. And Jonas had known precisely how he wanted those festivities to begin.

When he lowered his head, eyes focused on her sweet rosebud of a mouth, she didn’t resist. Leaned up toward him, in fact. Met him halfway, sliding one small, white-dove hand up his arm then around his neck.

In a single heartbeat, everything around them disappeared.

The only sensation was her lips pressed against his, a perfect match.

The only sound was her steady breathing.
Maybe not so steady.

The only scent was her rose-tinged hair and the lingering aromas from their afternoon tea.

The only taste was sweet Emilie.

And the only sight worth seeing was the fullness of joy reflected on her face when she slowly opened her eyes and whispered, “Kiss me again, Jonas.”

Whew.

He’d stumbled out the door minutes later, his heart singing, his mind spinning, and his Explorer forgotten as he walked a full block before he remembered that he drove.

Jonas’ brisk walk with Trix in tow—or was it Trix’s walk with
him
in tow?—brought them charging toward the entrance gate to the Moravian Cemetery. As he expected, the Emilie Getz Honorary Rock Pile still waited for the stonemasons to show up and reassemble it back into a solid pillar.

Jonas grinned, in spite of the stark reminder of that icy Friday afternoon. That was one accident, at least, that led to a very happy ending, especially last Thursday.

He’d done everything Helen suggested.
And a few things she hadn’t, fella.
Jonas chuckled, trotting past the fragmented gate.
Wait until I walk in with Victor!

After Mavis and Clarice, Victor would be his biggest surprise of all. He hoped to present it to Emilie sometime this week, in thanks for her anticipated cooperation about his eighteenth hole. Surely, after a kiss like that, the woman wouldn’t refuse him anything as paltry as a quarter acre of property.

He followed the paved road up into the cemetery, tugging on Trix’s leash to keep her from chomping on the silk and plastic flowers poking from the
dirt around the headstones. Familiar Lititz names caught his eye—Klein, Bender, Stauffer, Erb, Graybill—though not a soul was buried here that he’d known personally. Five years in Lititz made him the new guy in town.