Bookends (9 page)

“Well, yes.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It might have started out
that way, but even then he could see the spiritual significance of it all.”

Jonas couldn’t help himself. “You were there, of course.”

“Very amusing.” She sipped her coffee, then grimaced. “All our research indicates that the lovefeast began August 13, the day the Renewed
Unitas Fratrum
was born.”

“If you say so, Doc.” Maybe he didn’t have all the details down, but he remembered the important stuff. About how the day was compared to Pentecost. About the impassioned, twenty-something Zinzendorf offering a fervent prayer that so moved the assembly that the Holy Spirit filled the place and no one wanted to go home for the noonday meal.

Instead the Count ordered simple foods to be brought and shared.

The first lovefeast.

“Yeah, that was quite a day, Doc.” They drove along in a neutral silence for another fifteen minutes, until he turned left along a winding country road, the nature preserve almost in sight. “So. Ready to go owling?”

She peered through the glass into the morning darkness. “Owling? That’s a word?”

He turned left at the Middle Creek entrance, heading uphill toward the Visitor Center. “It is to a birder. You have all the bait we need in your lap.” He pointed to the tape recorder, then pulled into the parking lot, already filling up with assorted vehicles. “Bring that along, will you? C’mon, Trix, the fun has already begun.”

Released from her backseat prison, Trix let out a bark of enthusiasm and leaped through the open door, wagging and wiggling as Jonas snapped a leash on her collar. With other dogs around, it was a necessity. He led the way as Emilie—tape recorder in one hand, Helen’s binoculars in the other—picked her way across the stiff grass toward the group of people congregated around a large map. Most of the crew had elaborate spotting scopes on tripods, and for a heartbeat, Jonas regretted leaving his at home. Truth was, though, between a frisky golden and a feisty female, his hands were already plenty full.

An amicable guy wearing jeans and a bulky army jacket was pointing in various directions, dispatching the faithful to their assigned positions with maps that showed the boundaries of their count areas. Jonas listened and nodded, then turned to find an owl-like Emilie standing behind him—eyes wide open, lips pursed shut in a fair imitation of a beak.

He swallowed his second guffaw of the morning. “Ready to find a great horned? That’s what you’ve got on your tape there.” He steered her toward the stretch along Willow Point Trail that would be their stakeout.

“I beg your pardon?” She followed along behind him, trying to keep up with his long strides yet maintain a safe distance from the jubilant Trix. “Did you say there’s a great horn on this tape?” She closed the gap, firing questions at him as she did. “What kind of horn? A trombone? A trumpet? Why would an owl respond to a brass instrument?”

He stopped long enough to get her complete attention. “A great horned
owl,
Emilie. A bird, not a trumpet. You’ll hear your share of birdsong today, but none of them will be working from the Moravian hymnal. Got that?”

“Well!” She shoved the tape recorder under her left arm and marched ahead of him. “First of all, I didn’t hear you properly. And second of all, my specialty is history not ornithology. A person has to learn these things.”

“Yes, a person does.” He caught up with her in three strides and nabbed her coat at the elbow, careful to grip only fabric and not flesh. “You
do
have a lot to learn, and I’m just the man for the job. You’ll see. By day’s end, you’ll be more proficient than a mockingbird when it comes to mimicking bird calls.”

Emilie looked doubtful. “I will?”

“Would I steer you wrong, Doc?”

Her only response was that V thing she did with her eyebrows.

With Trix straining at the leash, Jonas waved toward a copse of trees, barely visible in the inky darkness. Separated from the others, he felt rather than heard the subtle sounds of nature awakening around them. Though a great horned was more likely to hoot at dusk, an early morning serenade wasn’t out of the question.

“Here, on this log.” He sat down and patted a smooth spot next to him, then watched Emilie perch on a rougher patch of bark, putting more distance between them. “Wherever you’re comfortable, then.”

Out of habit, he uncapped his binoculars, then remembered they were useless in the low light. “For later,” he explained, hoping she didn’t catch his mistake. “For now, press Play on that recorder, then listen closely. If we’re lucky, a great horned out there will hear our mechanical bird and call back.”

Slipping off one glove to dutifully press the button, she shook her head. “I’ve heard of books on tape, but
birds
on tape? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“When you
hear
it, you mean.”

“Humph.”

The tape whirred in silence, then four low-pitched hoots droned out of the small speaker, each one less than a second long. Silence. Then another series of low hoots.

He nudged her foot with his and whispered, “Turn it up.”

A slight breeze carried the lone recording of a forlorn owl, hooting at who knew what.

Hoot. Hoot. Hoot. Hoot.

Minutes passed with no other sound but Trix’s subdued panting. Finally, in the endless stillness between the taped calls, an answer echoed from the invisible branch of a nearby tree.

Hoot. Hoot. Hoot. Hoot.

Emilie whirled around on the log, almost tipping over in her excitement. “Did you hear that?” She rose and moved in the direction of the sound, her light step barely snapping the twigs underneath her.

He couldn’t resist the urge to swing his binoculars up and rest them on the bridge of his nose, adjusting the focus until he had a certain brown-haired woman captured in his sights. Even in the faint light of predawn, he saw the expectancy on her face, the touch of awe in her expression, the wonder at God’s creation reflected in her upward, oval-eyed gaze.

His chest tightened—with pride, with gratitude, he wasn’t sure what. He knew this much: His father must have felt the same sensation the first time he’d taken Jonas birding thirty years ago in the wooded marshes of the Milford Neck Wildlife Area. Father and son, alone on a quiet summer morning, certain the calendar held many more such days for them.

Jonas’ throat ached along with his chest. Even after two dozen years, the painful memory had a way of sneaking up on him.

Now, instead of birding with his father, he was spending the morning with a woman who treated his dog, his music, and his profession with equal regard: She hated all three.

Most men would give up on a woman like Emilie Getz. Toss her in the backseat with Trix and head for home. Forget where she lived. Lose her phone number. Change churches. Whatever.

But Jonas Fielding was not most men.

He considered humor-impaired women like Emilie to be a challenge,
plain and simple. A stubborn oak that required pruning. A solid wall of resistance that needed dismantling.

A tough assignment that called for tougher measures.

Tough joy.
What a concept.

Unbidden, a mischievous thought crossed his mind. A simple way to unstuff the very stuffy professor.

“Psst! Emilie!”

When she turned and shot him a nasty glance, he lowered his binoculars and felt a roguish grin crease his face. Stretching out his hand, he offered an earnest invitation. “C’mon, let me show you something even more … intriguing.”

She tiptoed closer. “Is it a bird?”

“Definitely. Ever hear of a black-crowned night heron?”

Emilie shook her head. “No. Is it a common species?”

“Yes and no. Don’t see too many around here, usually. Almost never in the winter. It’d be a real coup if we spotted one.”

“So, do you have that birdcall on tape, too?”

“Nope.” He dug out his bird book with one hand and hid his smile with the other. “Unfortunately we don’t have that one on tape.”

“Oh.” She looked genuinely disappointed.

“Not to worry, though. It says right here—” he opened his book to the herons, jabbed at page ninety-eight, then snapped it shut—“they go
kwawk.
”

Her nose wrinkled. “Quack?”

“No, no.
Kwawk.
Try it again.”

He coached her in proper kwawk technique until she got the hang of it. Not that he’d ever seen or heard that particular heron in action. Until now. Sort of.

“You’re really good at this, Dr. Getz. A natural birder if I ever saw one.” He waved her toward the waterside, where a thready morning light glistened along the surface. “They’re fishers, these birds. Go ahead, do the call again.”

She obediently tried her best, but not a kwawk was heard echoing back across the water. Shrugging, she started toward him. “I must be doing something wrong.”

Talk about a perfectionist!
The woman even had to get her birdcalls right to be happy. And she still wasn’t laughing at the thing. Time for more drastic measures.

Shaking his head emphatically, he stood and motioned for her to stay near the water. “No, no, you’re doing great. All we’re missing are the movements.”

“We need movements? Oh, surely not—”

He didn’t give her a chance to argue. “Most definitely. Head, tail, wings, legs, the whole bit.” He bobbed his head up and down to give her confidence. “Your kwawk is flawless. We just need to add the appropriate actions that go with it, and herons will be dropping out of the sky to greet you.”

Her face registered the first inkling of doubt, so he plunged forward. “Herons, as I’m sure you know, are related to the
phoenicopteridae
family.”

“The
what
?”

Jonas grinned.
Four years of Latin finally paid off.
“Flamingos, Doctor. Surely you’ve heard of them.” And surely she’d see where this was going any minute now and start chuckling.

Her expression, however, was anything but amused.

“I suspect I know as much about herons as you do, Mr. Fielding.” She made a sound that resembled a snort and spread her feet apart in a defiant stance, even as dawn was spreading a wintry haze across the skies behind her.

She was a harder nut to crack than he’d imagined, which only made his heavenly assignment more interesting. When his elbow brushed against the video camera stored in his pocket, his cheer-up-the-prof scheme soared to new heights. He and his brothers used to videotape each other doing outrageous bird imitations, laughing their heads off before, during, and after. A bright woman like Emilie would probably get a kick out it, too.

Wouldn’t she?

“As you’re aware,” he began, stalling while he surreptitiously fished out the camera. “Herons, like flamingos, have a particular way of moving.” He adjusted the camera in his hand, feeling for the record button. “Ever been to Florida, Dr. Getz?”

“I still don’t understand how you talked her into this.”

Pastor Yeager adjusted his bifocals and squinted at the small video screen in his office. Around the room Jonas counted a half dozen male church staff members, standing with their mouths agape and their eyes glued to the action on the screen.

He was
there
when it happened and even Jonas couldn’t believe the shenanigans he’d caught on videotape.

Not that he’d intended to show it to another soul—ever—but after spending yesterday afternoon alone in his den with this footage, howling with laughter, it seemed too good to keep to himself. His brothers would’ve loved it, but with the twins in Delaware and Nathan in Nevada—maybe—Jonas was left with a drop-dead funny tape and no audience.

That’s when he decided to show it to Pastor Yeager after the Monday morning missionary committee meeting, never figuring the rest of the guys would wander in to see what the noise was about. It wasn’t any big deal, right? Harmless fun, nothing more.

Oh yeah?
Then how come his conscience was ticking like a noisy alarm clock?

All six men watched in amazement as Emilie Getz, Ph.D.—eminent scholar and noted professor, the She-Coon of Moravian Church history—strutted around Middle Creek with her tail feathers pointed north, her beak pointed south, and her arms akimbo in the singularly best imitation of a black-crowned night heron ever seen at the 93rd Annual Lititz Christmas Bird Count.

Or any other bird count, come to think of it.

Jonas couldn’t resist announcing, “Our historian-in-residence, gentlemen. In living color. With sound effects.”

He eased the volume up so the assembled could hear her well-modulated kwawk, which put Pastor Yeager and his youth director, Kyle Heagey, right over the edge.

“Hawwwww!”

That set off the rest of the group, meaning Emilie’s subsequent efforts were lost amid the chorus of hoots—tenors to basses—that swelled through the small room.

Jonas laughed harder than any of them, remembering the impromptu directions he’d shouted across the frozen marsh. “Higher, Dr. Getz. Step higher, that’s it. Now, can you bend forward while you—? Oh my, that’s perfect. Spot on, as the Brits say. Truly impressive, Doctor. The herons should show any second now.”