Bookends (37 page)

“Thanks, Ben.” Jonas sank back in his chair while Ben kept talking. When the older man finally ran out of steam, Jonas assured him, “No, Gary’s not in trouble. I shoulda been there, that’s all there is to it. Look, I’ll take things from here. Thanks for giving me a heads-up. Yeah, you too, Ben.”

Jonas hung up the phone with exaggerated care, as if it might electrocute him if he did otherwise. His thoughts were running like shock waves through his system, with the overriding one being this:
Why now, Lord?
Why, after Emilie agreed to let him finish the thing, why did this news have to come today instead of next month, when it would be too late?

For that matter,
now
was too late.

It’s not too late, Jonas, and you know it.

He stood, arguing with himself, pacing the room, flailing his arms around him like a windmill gone haywire. If he ignored the news, he would have to live with the guilt every time he looked down into those light brown eyes and that creamy complexion and that rosebud smile.

Anyway, people would find out soon enough. Ben was a talker and the golf industry loved a chewy bit of gossip. If she found out—no,
when
—she would never forgive him.

And that would make two, because he could never forgive himself.

Okay.
Suppose he let her have the eighteenth hole? Dig it up, trash the thing, turn it into a historic landmark with tourist buses and third-graders tossing candy wrappers on his clubhouse lawn.

Nah.
The whole scenario gave him hives.

But Emilie had made that sacrifice for him. To honor the Lord, she said. Couldn’t he make that sacrifice for her, for the same reason?

Lord, I’m willing.
Easy to say, hard to do. Impossible to do.

With me all things are possible.

“I know, Lord!” Jonas threw his arms heavenward. “So show me another possibility. Please, Father. I’m trusting you to help me find a way that makes sense.”

He ground his fingertips against his temples, willing his brain to work faster, come up with some solution. Whatever the plan, it’d be a lot easier to sell to the committee if he had that blasted antique survey map.

Think, man.
Was there another option, another place to put the eighteenth hole?

Ridiculous.
Stupid to even consider it.

Still, he started pulling out drawings even as he grumbled, spreading out the architectural renderings to see if maybe, just maybe …

Wait. Of course!
The solution jumped off the page. A shot of adrenaline ran through his body at the simplicity of it. One phone call could put it in motion.
No, not one. Two. And a third for good measure.

He punched in the numbers, so elated it took him four tries to get the numbers right.

A voice came on the line, smooth as silk. “Snyder Realty.”

“Good! You’re there.” His grin stretched wider. Already things were looking up. “Dee Dee, it’s Jonas Fielding. Got a minute?”

Emilie made up her mind.

She would call the man immediately.

No!
She would drive over there, this minute, while the whole thing was fresh in her mind and hot under her lace collar.

Did he think he could get away with this? That it didn’t matter to her? That she had no opinion on the subject?

The very idea!
Giving her a cat. A
cat!

Had she asked for a cat? She had not.

Did she even
like
cats? She did—especially when they were owned by other people.

But
this
cat ate more food in a sitting than
she
did. The entire huge bag of smelly cat food was already gone in three short days. Not to mention the multicolored hairs all over her clean upholstery. And then there was this business of changing the litter box …

Well.
Jonas Fielding was not getting away with it. Talk about irresponsible! After all, what had
she
so thoughtfully given
him?
Plants. Quiet, unassuming houseplants that ate nothing, drank only a little water on occasion, didn’t
meow incessantly to be petted, and wouldn’t think of shedding or leaving a disgusting mess for him to remedy.

A green plant simply sat there and looked beautiful.

A cat was … was … a
cat!

In her three days under Emilie’s roof, this Olive creature had managed to swallow the goldfish whole, scare the parrot half numb, and choose as her favorite sleeping spot the top of the guinea pig cage, frightening Clarice and Clyde into a stupefied silence.

Victor had stopped squawking “Pretty girl!” and replaced it with an equally annoying phrase he heard Emilie say ten times a day:
“Naughty cat! Naughty cat!”

And to what did she owe this most generous of gifts? Her heartrending sacrifice of her Gemeinhaus property in favor of a peaceful, God-pleasing resolution with Jonas.

Humph.
A cat did not a Gemeinhaus replace.

Jonas needed to understand. And he would, the minute she got to his place and demanded that he take his menagerie—what was left of it, bless Mavis’s poor departed heart—and care for the noisy flock himself.

Emilie dressed warmly enough to ward off the breezy March winds and stomped out the back door, Olive meowing in the background as she yanked the door shut. It was eight blocks to Jonas’ house. Plenty of time to turn her good head of steam into a full-blown, beginning-of-March roar.

Emilie the lioness.
The image alone carried her two blocks in two minutes.

“Jonas,” purred the voice over the phone. “I’m always happy to hear from a Fielding man, but I rather hoped it would be Nathan calling. Where is that brother of yours?”

Jonas shook his head. Even in the midst of business dealings, Dee Dee Snyder had other things on her mind.

“He was gone when I got home. Left a note saying he was going out for a walk.” To think things through, Nate’s note had said.

Dee Dee didn’t need to know that.

Jonas hadn’t told anyone about Nate’s month in rehab, not even Emilie. Wasn’t his story to tell. Nate would share it with people in his own good time, if ever. The two of them had hit Hess Clothing for a bunch of pants
and shirts yesterday. Poor guy arrived in town with nothing but the clothes on his back, literally.

If Nate wanted to strike something up with Dee Dee, that was his business, but Jonas didn’t intend to aid and abet.

He jammed the phone between his shoulder and ear, smoothing out the wrinkled course design drawing with both hands. “I’m calling because we have a situation at Carter’s Run and I need your input.”

An abrupt knock at the kitchen door interrupted his thoughts.
Nate.
His brother always knocked before he came in. Place must not feel like home to him yet.

After a moment, Jonas heard the back door open and quietly close again. Satisfied Nate was safely in, he spun his chair back around toward the desk and matters at hand.

“Dee Dee, do you remember Ben Haldeman, our clearing contractor from last June? Ben called with some news this morning. Yup. Very bad news, I’d say.”

Hearing footsteps in the hall behind him, Jonas hollered out a welcome, then kept talking.

“Seems a fella on Ben’s crew—some guy named Gary or Greg. You know Ben, he never can keep names straight. Anyway, this guy found what appeared to be a foundation for a ‘very old’ building, as Ben put it. How old, we don’t know, but eighteen-inch-thick walls suggest it wasn’t built ten years ago. Some artifacts too, pottery and such. I’ll tell you what I think it is: Emilie’s Gemeinhaus.”

Jonas paused, detecting an odd noise in the hall. A bump or thud of some sort. It wasn’t Trix—she was outside, enjoying the fresh air. Must be Nate scrounging around the kitchen.
Whatever.

“Guess where this foundation is located? You got it, Dee Dee. Right under my eighteenth hole. Does that beat all? It seems the lady professor was right.” Which, despite the hassle, made him prouder than if he’d come up with that deduction himself.
What a woman!

He nodded at the phone while Dee Dee talked, then interrupted her with a strangled gasp.
“Tell
her? You gotta be kidding. We’re five weeks from the opening, Dee Dee. I don’t intend to tell Emilie Getz or anybody else, not even my brother. You’re the only person who knows this, and that’s how it’s gotta stay. You, me, and in a couple of minutes, the architect, but not
another soul. Got that? I want this thing under wraps.”

He listened to her chatter for a moment as he studied the papers in front of him. No way would he tell Emilie Getz. What, and spoil the fun?
Uh-uh.
He’d quietly get things taken care of, then spring the news on her. And boy, would she be
surprised.

“Listen, there’s another property I wanted to check with you about. Yup, that’s the one. What’s the news there? Huh. Keep me posted and in the meantime, remember—not a word to Emilie.”

Emilie had never eavesdropped in her entire life.

She’d seen Jonas on the phone as she walked past the window. Tapped on the backdoor, then when he didn’t answer, let herself in. She’d convinced herself it was perfectly all right. Hadn’t he invited himself through
her
door a time or two?

Following the sound of his voice, she stepped lightly through the kitchen, reached his open office door, and lifted her hand to knock at the very moment he said those fateful words:
Emilie’s Gemeinhaus.

Her pet disasters quickly forgotten, she froze in place. They’d found it! She was right on this one after all. Right as rain! And it seemed they’d found it in the very spot she’d earmarked.

Surely Jonas would let her dig to her heart’s content, now that they knew beyond a shadow—

Wait.
What was Jonas saying? That … that
what?

No.
She stood there, stunned, looking at his broad-shouldered back, listening to him admonish that real estate—that
hussy
—to keep the news to herself.

Jonas had said it loud and clear:
“Not a word to Emilie.”

Her spirit snapped in two at that.

Jonas Fielding, how
could
you?

Her throat clutched into a tight knot. Everything made sense now. Horrible sense. The pets were to keep her busy, keep her away from her research.

And his kisses, what were they? Designed to melt her heart and her gray matter as well? To keep her so off-kilter she didn’t care about things like a career. Or a future.

Jonas would never do such a thing!

Jonas
did
do such a thing.

Heartsick, barely able to keep her balance, Emilie tiptoed back through the house. She slipped out the kitchen door, being careful not to let it bang behind her, then sought out Trix for a quick head scratch to keep the retriever’s barking to a minimum.

“Good girl,” she managed to choke out, realizing she needn’t have worried about keeping her voice down. The stiff breeze muffled Trix’s joyous barks. Her clandestine visit would remain a secret.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her. Whirling around, she threw her chin up, ready to do battle with Jonas for being such a cad.

The man behind her lifted his hands in surrender. “Dr. Getz?”

“Oh! Nathan.” Despite her misery, she found a laugh somewhere deep inside and tossed it out, hoping it might relieve the tension that stretched around them both.

“Emilie, what’s the matter?”

He said it so tenderly it triggered the tears that had been threatening for two minutes. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured as she dug in her purse for a tissue.

Before she could find one, Nathan graciously extended a handkerchief in her direction. New, by the look of it, and blessedly unused. She pivoted around to mask her unladylike honk, then turned and handed it back to him with a grimace. “Sorry.”

His half-smile was melancholy at best. “ ‘Tears, such as angels weep.’ ”

Her mouth dropped open. “John Milton?”

“
Paradise Lost,
I think.”

“You
know
 … 
Milton?
”

Tucking the handkerchief in his pocket, he offered a cool shrug. “One of the few things I remember from freshman English.”

“Really.” Merely talking about academics calmed her spirit a bit. “Where did you study?”

“Stanford.”

Well.
“A fine school, Nathan.” She blotted the last vestige of tears with the back of her hand. “What is your degree?”

The lines around his mouth tightened. “It would’ve been economics. I made it into my junior year, then … ah, pursued a career in professional golf instead.”

Dry-eyed now, she merely nodded, noticing that though Nathan certainly favored his older brother, he had a hardness about him that Jonas did not. “And has golf been a successful venture for you?”

His eyes darkened. “Not particularly. I’m hoping that … that God will have something for me here in Lititz.”