Bookends (6 page)

When they finally stopped hugging and tickling long enough for him to catch his breath, Jonas eyed his siblings through the maze of arms that circled his neck, feeling his chest tighten and a catch creep into his voice. “Um … thanks for coming.”

Chris shrugged. “Sure. You’re our big brother, right?”

Jonas nodded, not trusting himself to say another word, and squeezed the children that were draped across his lap. At that moment, he was as proud of Jeff and Chris as if they were his own sons instead of his younger brothers.

He couldn’t fill their father’s shoes, not for a second. But he’d tried. The Lord knew he’d tried.

With two of his siblings, those efforts had paid off. But not with Nathan.
Never with Nathan.

Jonas released his squirmy lapful, grunting as they stabbed him with sharp little elbows and knees. Judging by the look on both his brothers’ faces, they were thinking about Nathan, too. “Three out of four of us,” he muttered, standing. “Not bad for the Fielding clan. Got just the place for us to have Christmas dinner, too.”

While the women marched the children out to their vans to bring in presents and sticky buns, the men moved to the kitchen, trying to look busy making coffee and pouring milk. Leaning on the counter, Jeff asked the unspoken but obvious: “Have you heard from Nate?”

The same question came up every time the three of them got together.

Jonas sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I haven’t seen Nate in almost a year. Got a couple of phone calls from Vegas, another one from Palm Springs, but that’s it.”

“At least he calls you.” Chris’s mouth hardened into a tight line. “He doesn’t give us the time of day. Hasn’t for years.”

Jonas said nothing, only nodded as he measured out the coffee in generous scoops. The twins—who, at thirty-three, fell between him and Nate in age—had spent their lives marching along the straight and narrow. They’d earned their degrees, joined the Marines, married wisely, and made their late mother proud at every turn—all of which ticked off young Nathan royally. After big, strong Jonas, then perfect Jeff and Chris, kid brother Nathan hadn’t stood a chance.

Jonas knew that. Maybe that was why he’d been there for Nate, again and again, even when Nate didn’t deserve it, didn’t appreciate it, didn’t want his help. Period.

Somebody had to do it. Jonas was the oldest; he got the job.

Nate had more talents tossed his way than the rest of them put together, and they all knew it. Awarded a full golf scholarship to Stanford University, he majored in economics and minored in drinking. During Nate’s junior year his world came apart at the seams. Kicked off the golf team for a frat party that got out of hand, he dropped out of Stanford and pursued a professional golf career with mixed results. Though he’d passed the PGA’s rigorous playing ability test with flying colors and served as an apprentice to some of the best players in the profession, when it came to qualifying for the PGA tour, he’d missed the final cut.

“Next fall,” Nate had assured anyone who asked, then stopped by the club lounge to drown his sorrows.

Jonas knew Nate was still drinking, still throwing his career away with both fists. But lately, he sensed it was worse than that. There was a desperation in Nate’s voice that no amount of bravado could hide. If Nate didn’t darken his door soon, he’d have to find him, bring him home, shake some sense into him.

Rescue him.

The reality hit Jonas like a blow to the solar plexus.

“Jonas, you okay?” Jeff eyed him, concern creasing the dark features so much like his own.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He jammed the coffeepot in place and pushed the brew button with more force than necessary. “Just thinking about Nate, wondering if he’ll call today.”

They all knew the answer to that one: not a chance.

“What are my chances of holding even one grandbaby in my arms before I die?”

Barbara Getz sniffed—more dramatically than necessary—then offered her daughter a fresh box of candles for the dining room table. Christmas had been, if not disastrous, at least disappointing. The house appeared older, care-worn. Her mother looked more so. Her dress was neatly pressed but familiar, her apron tied in a severe knot around her too-narrow waist. The hollows under her eyes were darker and her cheekbones more pointed.

Almost as pointed as her words. “After all, Helen has eleven grandkids.”

“That’s not fair!” Emilie jammed another candle in place. An entire afternoon spent on the same topic had worn her patience down to the nub. “Helen Bomberger gave birth to
four
children, not one.”

“One daughter is sufficient—assuming she’s married, of course.” Barbara lifted her shoulders slightly. “Grandchildren are a natural expectation for a mother to have, you know.”

“I know it’s natural, Mother.” Emilie jammed her fingers into the wavy strands that framed her face, not caring what damage she did to her carefully gathered knot of shoulder-length hair. “Kids just aren’t me.”

Her mother’s eyebrows arched on the ends, creating a perfect
V
—the same look Emilie saw every morning in the mirror. The older woman’s voice dropped precipitously. “Do you mean to say you’re not normal, dear?”

“Of course I’m normal!” Emilie circled the room, waving her hands through the air as if trying to grasp at some elemental truth that escaped her. “Husbands are fine and children are fine and all that is … fine. For someone else. Not for me.”

Her father’s voice floated in from the hallway. “Give her time, Barbara.”

Donald Getz, the referee. Her calm, rational, feather-smoothing father.

He stepped into the dining room, as unobtrusive as his faded green sweater and beige corduroy pants. “Our Emilie Gayle hasn’t met the right man yet, that’s all.”

“Pa-paa!” Her groan filled the small paneled room. “Not you too.” She was struck with how much shorter he seemed than the tall, imposing man she remembered from her childhood. His hair was solid gray now, his jowls hanging in loose folds around his gaunt face.

He was the same man, yet not the same at all.

His mind, however, ran on the very same track as his wife’s.

“We thought you might bring someone with you today.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders.

Emilie felt her eyebrows tighten into a
V.
“Bring who?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Her mother’s long neck slowly turned cranberry-relish red. “Maybe someone … special.”

“Mo-ther!”

The day went downhill after that.

After dinner, their family gift exchange was blessedly short. The two small items she’d chosen with great care in Winston-Salem were opened and acknowledged with appropriate murmurs. Her own present was mined from her mother’s closet stash: the Sunbeam blender. Emilie pretended to be surprised, even thrilled with the impersonal gift, already finding a hiding spot for it deep in the recesses of her kitchen cupboards back in North Carolina.

Her patience didn’t last until six o’clock after all. By four-thirty she was pacing the kitchen floor, drying her grandmother’s china so vehemently that her mother finally snatched the dish towel out of her hands and ordered her to sit down.

“I have a better idea.” Emilie grabbed her coat from the back of a kitchen chair and buttoned herself inside its cashmere warmth, her fingers flying. “I’m going home. To Main Street. To work. It’s been … Christmas.” She sighed
heavily and stuffed her hands in her pockets. “I’m here for six months, Mother. We’ll try again on a day that doesn’t matter so much, all right?”

She was halfway out the front door before she turned back and pressed a firm kiss on her startled father’s cheek. “Good-bye, Papa. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Emilie Gayle.” He kissed her back, then rested his arthritic hands on her shoulders. “A smart woman like you shouldn’t have to wait for a man to wise up and see what he’s missing. Why don’t you pick out one you like, and ask him?”

“Fine.” She bit her tongue to hold back another groan. “I promise. The next single man I run into, I’ll ask him to marry me. Okay, Daddy?”

“That’s our girl.” Her parents stood side-by-side as she marched down the steps, then closed the door behind her with a parting wave.

Home. A mixed blessing if there ever was one.

Fumbling for her keys, she squinted up the street toward Candi Hoffman’s house. Emilie smiled, despite the day’s frustrations, remembering the summer morning she woke up early and wrapped bathroom tissue around the Hoffman’s spruce trees, then took a picture and sent it to the
Lititz Record Express
—anonymously, of course.

It would’ve been more effective if she’d skipped her return address.

Another familiar front porch caught her eye.
Helen’s.
Her second home all through her childhood. In the frozen darkness, the brightly lit house with its cheerful blue door beckoned. A huge fir tree filled the front window, glistening with tiny white lights and decorated with intricate, handmade ornaments carefully snipped from white paper.
Scherenschnitte,
the Germans called it—“scissors cuttings,” Helen’s favorite craft.

Emilie fingered her keys, considering. She
did
need to pick up that scarf today. Hadn’t Helen specifically asked her to stop by? She wouldn’t stay a second. Just a quick Christmas hug and home to her research she would go.

Buoyed by the prospect of seeing a woman whose sole mission in life was
not
finding her a husband, Emilie walked toward Helen’s place, vaguely noticing a black Ford Explorer and a couple of minivans with Delaware tags parked at the curb. Not likely the older woman had company—not with her four children grown and gone thirty years ago, and her eleven grandchildren married and scattered like grass seed across the plains of the Midwest.

No, Helen would be alone and probably glad for a little company on Christmas.

Besides, Emilie decided with a chuckle, anything was better than running into some horrid-looking man and proposing marriage, just to please her father.

Standing at the gaily-decorated door, she only hesitated for a second before she tapped a never-forgotten rhythm on the wooden panels—
rat-tata-tat
—then pushed the door open. A warm, fragrant aroma greeted her like a long-lost friend. “Merry Christmas, Helen!” She almost sang it. “It’s Emilie.”

“Emilie?”

Jonas’ head snapped up, his attention to Helen’s homemade sage dressing suddenly diverted.
Emilie Getz? That stuck-up, pale-skinned, cold fish
 … that
Emilie?

“Who’s Emilie?” Jeff popped another forkful of buttered acorn squash in his mouth. After a meager breakfast at Jonas’ place, then a morning spent opening gifts and playing board games with the kids, the Fielding family had descended upon Helen’s dining room with no more warning than a phone call and a promise to bring some canned vegetables. Even with their pitiful offerings, the woman had whipped up a mighty respectable version of Christmas dinner.

Now it seemed another visitor had arrived with even less notice.

“Emilie is a nice little girl I used to diaper.” Helen’s wink disappeared among her wrinkles as she stood slowly and called out, “In here, dear,” then wobbled toward the front door.

“Diaper, huh?” Chris reached for another roll. “How old is this nice little girl?” When Emilie appeared in the arched doorway, his hand paused in midreach and a wolfish grin stretched across his face. “Ahh. Old enough.”

Jonas grimaced.
Easy, brother. Don’t jump to conclusions.

Emilie’s wide eyes and slack jaw were his first clue—she was
not
expecting to find him there, let alone toting two look-alike siblings and five kids. Emilie was from Lititz, right? Probably spent the day with family. Whatever the case, she seemed all wrung out—mussy hair, pinched features, drooping shoulders—like she’d suffered through a tough day at the office instead of enjoying Christmas somewhere.

Better tread lightly here, fella.
Jonas waved at an empty chair. “Greetings, Dr. Getz.”

Helen Bomberger’s two chins bobbed up and down with excitement. “Oh, you two already know each other, then?”

Jonas wasn’t certain Emilie knew her own name. Her eyes were unfocused and every inch of her face was covered with a faint pink tinge.

“Oh!” Emilie finally murmured, blushing further. “I … I’m … well, I’m …”

“Late for dinner?” Jonas decided Emilie looked good in pink, especially from the neck up. Clearly he’d have to embarrass her more often. “Have a seat. Helen has fed the ten of us all afternoon. Now it’s your turn.”

“No, no!” Emilie waved her white-dove hands in the air. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” She took a step backward. “Besides, I’ve already had dinner. Couldn’t eat another bite.”

Yeah, but you should.
Several bites, in fact. The woman was so thin, she was almost scrawny. Not his type at all. “Helen doesn’t let people sit at her table unless they eat something.”

“He’s right, Emilie.” The gray-haired woman patted the chair next to her. “You’re not interrupting a thing. Jonas has spent the last five Christmases here. Hardly company anymore. And isn’t it nice his family is in town this year? Join us for sugar cake at least.”

Emilie finally slipped off her coat—reluctantly, it seemed—and joined them at the table, carefully spreading a cloth napkin across her lap.

Jonas chuckled slightly at the gesture.
Not taking any chances with runaway sugar this time, is she?

Stabbing a forkful of broccoli, Chris waved it in Emilie’s direction. “Aren’t you gonna introduce us, bro?”

Jonas worked his way around the table, putting names to faces, while Emilie’s lips moved silently as if she were memorizing them one by one. Finishing the formalities, he cleared his throat and gazed at her downturned countenance. “Just as well you’re married, gentlemen. Emilie’s already spoken for.”

Her head snapped up.
“I’m
 … 
what?”

“Married.” Jonas bit back a smile. “Wedded to your history books for the next six months. Right, Doc?” Wasn’t that how it worked with these academic types? They lived with their noses in their books and their heads in the clouds?