Bookends (30 page)

“Mea culpa.” Beth joined her by the door. “How many people are buried there, do you know?”

“On record, about one hundred-eighty.” Emilie pursed her lips, sorting through her mental file cabinets for accurate details. “The first was a child. Michael, I think.”

“Oh.” Beth stepped back from the door, as if it were hot. “I … had no idea.”

“Yes, it’s unfortunate.” Emilie turned to add, “Many of the early burials were infants and children …” Her voice trailed off as she gazed at Beth’s blanched features and trembling lower lip.

“Beth, are you okay?”

The younger woman sank onto the couch next to Sara, patting her daughter’s sleeping form as if for comfort. “I … just never realized there were little ones buried there.”

“As there were in every colonial cemetery, sad to report.” Emilie perched on a nearby straight-backed chair, at a loss about what to say next. After a few awkward moments of silence, she gave in to the obvious question. “Is something wrong?”

She watched Beth blink a few times in quick succession, then press a hand against her stomach, as if feeling queasy. “I’m … okay. Just caught me off guard, I guess.” Her smile was tentative. “Sorry. You were talking about …?”

“About putting you to bed right along with Sara, if you won’t argue with me.” Emilie surprised herself by sliding her arms under the child and lifting her up, cradling Sara against her, amazed at how light the little girl was.

She moved toward the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder in a soft tone. “Suppose I carry Sara up to her room and you join her for a nap, okay? You look positively wiped out. Hard morning at the church office?”

Beth didn’t object, but simply followed her through the house and up the carpeted steps. “I guess. We’re getting ready for the big anniversary on
Tuesday. By the way, be prepared for some media interviews, Em. You’re our in-house historian, you know.”

“Happy to be of service.”

The thought warmed her heart, then and now.

Beth’s prediction had come true. Emilie had indeed been busy all day today. Bubbling about her Moravian heritage had turned out to be more meaningful than she’d expected. Perhaps because of her work on the commemorative book, which was more than half done. Or because of the last seven weeks in Lititz, living in the heart of the town she loved. Or maybe it was one Moravian in particular—of the male persuasion—who’d put that sparkle in her voice.

No.

She knew better. It was what the Germans had called
Durchbruch.
Her breakthrough. Her awakening. A
change for the better,
her resources translated it.
Indeed.
All that and more.

By any name, it made her more determined than ever to claim the Kissel Hill Road property for the church. Not for her own glory, not anymore. For the glory of the Lord. He’d given her wings and he’d shown her the richness of her roots. Emilie longed now to plant those tender new shoots in the genuine, fertile soil of Moravian history.

Another homely little plant.

Jonas stared at the leafy object in the clay pot and tried to appear elated. “Great! What’s this one called?”

Emilie regarded him with a dubious look. “It’s a
peperomia obtusifolia.
Pepperface, for the uninitiated.”

“That would definitely include me.” He poked at the leaf, surprised when it felt like wax.
Lord, don’t let me kill this one.
Without a doubt, the woman would take it personally. “I don’t suppose you’d consider stopping by once a month and watering this for me?”

She gasped. “Once a
month?
”

“Uh … every week?”

Jonas couldn’t tell if she was perturbed or pleased. With Emilie, the difference wasn’t always obvious.

“If you think it’s necessary, I’m certainly willing.”

He watched Emilie press her lips together, as if trying to look put out. Instead she looked like she’d happily swallowed a canary.
Pleased, then.

Without bothering to hide his own grin, he took her free hand and led her into the living room, settling her on the couch before joining her. Close but not
too
close. The woman was still a tad skittish, like a colt getting used to its legs.

“So are we ready to talk Gemeinhaus vs. golf course? It’s time Emilie. Past time, to tell the truth. I haven’t got a day to spare if I’m going to have everything finished for the grand opening.”

She was picking at some lint on her slacks, clearly buying time. “I thought that after … well, after Thursday, you’d be more open to letting me do some digging.” Her gaze lifted. “You know. Just a
little
digging?”

He groaned. “There is no such thing as a little digging when it comes to a golf course, Em. We’re talking about fully designed and executed greens here. A serious investment. Besides, you don’t know the exact spot you’d need to dig up, do you?”

Though her gaze was steady, her light brown eyes flickered slightly, as if shot through with a ribbon of steel. “Not the exact spot, no. We can make very educated calculations based on terrain, but there would be some … ah, exploratory work, no doubt.”

No longer willing to relax against the sofa’s upholstery, he straightened. “Then the answer is simple. No.”

Emilie’s back also stiffened. “It’s not a question of
you
saying no, Jonas. You don’t own the land.”

“No, the borough of Lititz does. And I have the support of every man on the steering committee—”

“Every
man,
is it?” She was on her feet. “I should have known!”

“Wait a minute!” He shot up like a rocket. “This is
not
a male–female issue.”

“Oh, is that so?” Her eyes were daggers. “What sort of issue is it, pray tell?”

“It’s financial.” He threw his hands in the air and started pacing. “It’s practical. It’s legal. It’s—”

“It’s historical,” she shot back, stalking behind him. “It’s spiritual. It’s ethical.”

He stopped and swung around, startling her. “Emilie, we’ve been over
this before. If you had absolute, concrete proof that these ruins existed underground, I’d be the first one to cheer when the archaeologists showed up. But you’re working on theory and conjecture and a flimsy map from two and a half centuries ago, a map you don’t even
possess.
”

“I’ve seen it.” She sniffed.

“Well, I haven’t, and neither has anyone on my team.” A problem he planned to remedy somehow. “Remember how you had to stand before your mentoring committee to defend your doctoral dissertation?”

She glared at him. “How would you know about such a thing?”

Oops.
“Never mind that now.” He put his hands on his hips, hoping it looked menacing. “The point is, however difficult that day was, it was a walk in the park compared to convincing a dozen businessmen that you need to rip up their five-million-dollar golf course.”

Her eyes widened. “Five … 
million?
”

“You got it, sweetheart. Major moolah.”

Her shoulders drooped noticeably. “I had … no idea.”

Emilie’s look of chagrin almost made him sorry he’d barked at her.
Almost.

“Jonas, I need time to think. Talk to my academic peers.”

“You do that, Em. But time is a luxury I can no longer afford.”
Easy, man. The woman is hurting here.
He consciously softened his voice. “We’re getting on with things at the course.” Reaching out a hand to touch her elbow, he stopped just short of it when she jerked away from him. “Emilie, after all that we’ve shared—”

“Exactly.” Chagrin moved to pure hurt. “I thought you cared about … the same things I did.”

“Many of the same things, I do.” He leaned toward her, so slowly he felt certain she couldn’t detect it. “I care about the Lord and pleasing him. I care about honoring my commitments to this town. I care about the land and how it’s used. And I care about you, Emilie Getz. Quite a lot.”

She pointed her chin away from him, so their gazes no longer met. “I’m not at all sure how I feel about that last one.”

“I’m very sure.” He reached up and gently eased her chin back toward him, tipping it up, lightly rubbing his thumb across her tightly closed lips. “Emilie, you need to know something. I’ve dated plenty of women in my time—”

“Humph!” She started to pull away, but he held her chin firmly.

“Please let me say this. I’ve never known anyone like you. So utterly different from me and yet we … get along. Very well.” He lowered his head ever so slightly. “I’d say exceedingly well.” Lower still. “Don’t you think?”

Emilie had apparently stopped thinking altogether. In fact, she was barely breathing. Her eyes were fixed on his and her lids were beginning to droop.

“Don’t you think?”

She managed a smile. “Think? Not if I can help it.” With that, she kissed him. A butterfly sort of kiss, soft and feminine, landing only for a moment, then flitting away. “Jonas, will you promise me that no matter what happens with the land—”

“Yes. I promise.” Then he kissed
her.
Not at all like a butterfly. More like an eagle that unexpectedly swoops down on its prey and won’t let go as it soars ever upward.

Moments later, when bird and prey made a safe landing, Emilie leaned back to look him in the eye, her daggers long sheathed. “I have a question for you.”

“Me first. Are you busy Saturday night?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Might this be an actual date you’re suggesting, Mr. Fielding?”

“Not ‘might be.’ Yes, a date. A nice Valentine’s Eve dinner at the General Sutter Inn. You game?”

Her smile was a thing of beauty. “Of course, silly man. Will you be … ah, wearing that black suit of yours?”

She
did
like it.
“Could be. Now, what’s your question?”

Stepping back as if to assess him, she pursed her lips. “You mentioned a minute ago about the oral defense of my dissertation. Frankly, that’s not the kind of thing a man who plays with dirt usually knows much about. Where exactly did you get your education?”

“Lehigh. For my bachelor’s.”

“Ohh?”

He grinned, watching her closely. “University of Pennsylvania. For my master’s.”

Her face went ashen. “Your
what?
”

“And Rutgers.” He couldn’t keep the grin from spreading to both ears.
“For my Ph.D. in Community and Regional Planning.”

“Your …? You …!” He watched her knees buckle. “You’re a.… a …” “Yeah, I’m a doc, too.” He steadied her wobbly self with one hand, and nudged her on the chin with the other. “But you can still call me Mr. Fielding. I promise I won’t mind one bit.”

“Emilie, when Jonas walks through your door tomorrow night, I want his stubbly jaw to bounce off the hardwood floors.”

Confused, Emilie stared across her stack of research books. “You mean because they’re freshly polished?”

“No, silly! Because you’re gonna look like a stone-cold fox. Something in basic black, I think, to match that suit of his you told me about. Slinky and elegant and—”

“Beth!” Emilie rolled her eyes. “That’s ridiculous. Jonas already knows what I look like. Why pretend I’m someone I’m not?”

“Not pretend—
enhance.
And I have just the place for you to spend the day tomorrow, Em. Enhancing.” Beth tossed her coat over Emilie’s kitchen chair and dropped down into it with a satisfied grin. “Speaking of things heating up around here, can you believe it’s seventy-four degrees in February? I hardly needed a jacket today.”

“Don’t you dare change the subject on me.” Emilie sighed and closed the lid on her laptop computer. Writing—and everything else, it seemed—would have to wait while she straightened out her well-meaning young
friend. “If you think I’ll let someone smear my face with heavy makeup and tease my hair until it sticks out from here to York County, think again.”

Beth propped her chin on her folded hands and grinned. “Too late. I’ve already made an appointment for you at Shear Sensations for their Grand Spa Escape.”

Emilie felt her eyebrows lift straight up into
V
formation. “Their
what?
”

“You heard me.
Escape.
As in get away from your research for one day and let someone pamper you for a change.” Beth produced a colorful brochure and cleared her throat importantly. “Beginning tomorrow morning at eight—”

“Eight?”

“You’ll be treated to a one-hour Swedish massage—”

Emilie gasped. “Not the kind where you take off all—”

“Then a luxury facial,” Beth interrupted, happily ignoring her. “Followed by a spa manicure—I wanna see some outrageous red paint on those nails, Em—then a spa pedicure. Mmm, my toes are so jealous.” Beth wiggled her feet in vicarious anticipation. “After your healthy spa lunch, you’ll receive a zippy new haircut and style, plus a full makeup application.” She folded up the paper and offered a Cheshire cat grin. “I’m having Drew pick you up at ten of eight, so don’t even think about calling and canceling.”

Emilie gathered what was left of her wits. “But … but who is going to pay for all this? It must be—”