Bookends

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  He dipped his chin in the younger woman’s direction and did his best to look put out. “Wouldn’t she rather have you deliver it?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Beth’s freckled nose wrinkled, reminding him of little Sara. Now there was a child he’d be happy to claim—unlike his not-so-little brother Nathan, who was playing hard to find. He hadn’t heard from Nate since the cryptic phone call about heading to Florida. Big state, bro. Call back, and soon.

  Since the first of the year, Jonas had made a few phone calls of his own—to Chris and Jeff in Delaware, to a couple of golf courses in Vegas. Zip.

  That left one option: wait until Nate needed something badly enough to get in touch with him again.

  Which reminded him of another person he was waiting to hear from: Emilie. She hadn’t called either.

  Maybe his phone wasn’t working.

  “Please?” Beth shook the overstuffed folder at him again.

  He groaned in mock agony and took it off her hands. “She may thank you for the info, but the choice of courier won’t earn you any gold stars.”

  Beth’s eyebrows arched. “Why? Did you and Emilie have it out when I wasn’t looking?”

  “Nah, nothing that dramatic.” So. Emilie didn’t tell her about his letter. An uncomfortable knot in his chest showed up out of nowhere. “Fact is, I haven’t talked to her in a few days.” Six. He strolled toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “Make sure Sara wears her mittens. Weatherman says we’re gettin’ the big one this weekend.”

  Swinging out the door and down the church office steps, Jonas glanced at the heavy cloud cover overhead and snorted. Ha! Who needed a snowstorm when, minutes from now, Emilie Getz would dump her own version of the big chill right on his freshly sheared head?

  But she wasn’t home.

  He rang, he knocked, he peered through the front window into her living room until a Main Street passerby shot him a nasty look. “She’s a friend of mine,” Jonas mumbled.

  When the stranger disappeared into Benner’s Pharmacy, Jonas couldn’t resist lifting the lid on Emilie’s black mailbox. Maybe she’d never found the bird book to begin with. That would explain why no phone call, no pat on the back from Beth, no reprieve from Helen, who’d put him on sugar cake probation until she got word of a suitable apology being offered and received.

  Was the book still in there?

  He peered down inside. Suddenly, a woman’s stern voice behind him barked, “That mail receptacle is government property.”

  Startled, he flipped the lid down on the empty box. “Really? No kidding.”

  “I never kid about postal regulations.” The uniformed carrier, an older woman with Helen’s build but not her sweet disposition, eyed him, patently suspicious. “It’s against the law to remove any items from a customer’s mail receptacle,” she informed him in a clipped, no-nonsense style. “Whether it’s mounted on a post or attached to someone’s house or stationed on a—”

  “Right!” he interjected, anxious to wind things up before they drew a crowd. Already a handful of pedestrians were slowing their steps, obviously willing to be an audience. “I haven’t removed a thing. In fact, it’s empty. See?” He reached for the lid, then thought better of it when her eyes narrowed.

  “Truth is—” he assured her confidently, stuffing his hands in his pockets—“not only did I not take anything out, I recently put something in—you know, just like you do.” He flashed her his most devastating smile. “So, I figured I’d … uh, check on my package. See if Emil … uh, Dr. Getz found it.”

  His ploy wasn’t working.

  “Guess she already took it out,” he added lamely.

  Definitely a crowd gathering now. Ten, maybe.

  The woman folded her arms across her uniform. “It’s also illegal to put items in a residential mailbox without first attaching the proper postage.” Her tone was decidedly more sharp. “Did you know that?”

  Blast, if she didn’t have him blushing! “Uh, no, ma’am. No, I didn’t. Sorry.”

  She brushed past him, shoved one lone envelope in the box, and dropped the lid with a perfunctory slap. “I’ll check with Dr. Getz first thing tomorrow and see what she has to say about all this. Your name is …?”

  Mud.

  “Fielding.” He coughed, trying to keep those within earshot from hearing it. “Jonas Fielding. She’ll … she’ll know me.”

  “Were you planning on stuffing that in her mailbox, too?” The woman’s gaze fell to the folder under his arm.

  “Of course not!” he snapped, then caught himself. “Because … it’s … too big. Of course.”

  “Humph.” She turned on her heel and marched next door to the Alden House Bed and Breakfast.

  “Be sure and try their apple pancakes,” he called after her, knowing even those babies, drenched in syrup, wouldn’t put a smile on that woman’s sour face.

  “Show’s over,” he informed the few stragglers who’d hung back, hoping for another round. “Postage goes up a penny on Sunday,” he reminded them, reaching for his car keys. “Forget one extra cent, and you’ll have to deal with her.”

  Driving off toward the work site, his wiseacre grin faded. Emilie had found her book. But had she read the letter? Shoulda left it sticking out. However untidy, at least she’d have seen it. When he ran into her again, he’d ask her. Make sure the woman knew he was sorry. See if they’d be doing tea anytime soon.

  Then there was Beth, who wouldn’t be happy with him either. Not only did she not know about his truly repentant letter, she’d also fuss at him for doing such a rotten delivery job today.

  He grabbed his cell phone and punched in the number for the church. No matter what happened, he needed Beth on his side. Friends were hard enough to come by without losing two in one week.

  Nathan never thought about losing. Only winning, and winning big.

  He’d crossed the state line into Florida less than three days earlier, and already he’d made a killing on a trifecta at the Orange Park Kennel Club. Five thousand and change. Every dime was forwarded to Vegas. Certified check. No traceable address. Only 10 percent of the total, but it was a start.

  “Jonas would consider it a tithe.” He chuckled as he strolled out of the bank into the bright January sunshine. He hadn’t called Pennsylvania again. His older brother wouldn’t have that kind of money, and Nathan didn’t need another lecture about God right now. If God really loved him, he could sure as spit produce the other forty-five grand. Yeah. Pull it out of a burning bush or something.

  He steered his Chevy up the entrance ramp to Interstate 95, watching his rearview mirror out of sheer habit. Living out of his suitcase in one of the discount suite motels southeast of downtown Jacksonville, Nathan focused on keeping to himself, biding his time while he scraped together the necessary funds to get Cy off his back forever.

  Unless his luck held and the greyhounds raced him into a Tri-Super, that was gonna take a while.

  In the meantime, he would play the circuit around a few of the public golf courses in the area—Windsor Parke, Baymeadows—work on his swing, and polish his act for San Pablo, the snazziest greens in town. Danny, one of the pros at Shadow Hills in North Las Vegas, would back him up with a good reference. Say the right words, grease the right palms, do what it took to get him on board at San Pablo Golf Club.

  After all, Danny owed him one.

  Not nearly as much as you owe Cy Porter.

  Nathan banged the dashboard in frustration, then reached for a smoke, lighting it with a practiced flick of his wrist and taking a deep drag on the filter. The nicotine pushed his worries aside while his fingertips tingled and his heart raced, just like those greyhounds, running for their lives. Just like you, Nate. Doin’ the same thing.

  It wouldn’t always be this way. He’d get back on his feet, get his game back in the 70s where it belonged. Get back in touch with his family—with Jeff and Chris in Delaware, with Jonas.

  Jonas.

  Nathan’s chest tightened
. Must be the cigarette. He knew he’d disappointed the twins and his sainted mother. Letting Jonas down had been the worst, though. The guy was a do-gooder of the first magnitude, yet he’d been there for him time and again. Didn’t judge him, didn’t hassle him. Didn’t read him the riot act like Dad would have.

  Now his chest really was tight. He ground his cigarette into the ashtray, vowing for the tenth time that week he would quit, then turned the Chevy west on Baymeadows Road, his eyes scanning the available options for lunch.

  “How ’bout burgers and a movie, Nate?” He said it aloud, just to amuse himself. Just to hear a human voice cut through the silence.

  He pulled into the nearest drive-thru lane. Lunch meant something in a paper bag. The flick? Whatever was showing on HBO. And company? Not likely. Life was too complicated to bring a woman into the picture.

  “What’ll you have, sir?” The sweet voice on the restaurant intercom sounded all of sixteen.

  “You, darlin’.” Nate grinned at the metal box. “I’ll have you.”

  “Excuse me?” Decidedly less sweet now. Older too.

  “Just kiddin’ around.” Even his come-ons didn’t work anymore. He sighed and pulled out his wallet. “A burger, plain. Small ice water.” And a side order of luck. After thirty years, a streak of good fortune was long overdue.

  “Run into any other old friends from high school, Emilie?”

  Teresa Kauffman, the volunteer behind the desk at the Lititz Public Library, waited expectantly, her soft gray eyes and round features hidden behind an oversized pair of bifocals.

  Emilie shrugged and returned to tallying up her armload of research books. “Really, Teresa, I’ve seen only a few folks from Warwick.” She rattled off their names, watching her former classmate’s head nod at each one. They were the sort—like Teresa—who’d settled down after graduation, found nice husbands and good jobs around town, attended nearby Millersville University.

  Women who had no past to escape, nor an aching ambition that demanded satisfaction no matter what the cost.

  The lucky ones.

  Scanning the nearby computer screen, the cheerful librarian did her best to keep their conversation going. “How does Lititz look to you, after all these years?”

  “More than a few years …”

  Emilie groaned at the pesky refrain, then tried to turn the sound into a pitiful excuse for a laugh. “Lititz? It looks … wonderful.” And it did. Better, in fact, than when she’d lived there as a child. Gift shop windows overflowed with enticing local treasures, homes and yards were painted and pruned to charming effect, and the landmarks she’d loved had been preserved with great care.

  Except for Bingy’s Restaurant, torn down to make a parking lot. Bingy’s conjured a fond memory of her first genuine chocolate malt milkshake—icy silver container on the side, whipped cream on top. She’d shared it on her first and only date with Brian Zeller. Brian wasn’t popular either. Was in truth an awkward, tongue-tied, adolescent mess. But she hadn’t known that. He was a boy. Plus, he was intelligent and kind and didn’t make fun of her. Ever.

  Unfortunately, as with the few bright, studious types that came along after Brian, no sparks flew across the milkshake glass. Emilie hadn’t spoken with him since … when? Their last National Honor Society meeting, no doubt. In another decade.

  “More than a few …”

  Enough! It was every bit as annoying as a phrase from some advertising jingle, playing through her head, over and over.

  Teresa busied herself straightening up her countertop. “It’ll be interesting to see what they do with this place, now that we’re moving.”

  Emilie’s attention snapped to the present. “Moving? The library?” She looked around, half expecting to find a Mayflower truck at the curb, and boxes of books by the door. The old house on Broad Street—no longer a library?

  “Haven’t you heard?” The woman proffered a dark green brochure, detailing the new public library under construction. “We’re pleased as punch. The whole town has gotten behind the project, to the tune of a million and a half dollars.” A close-cropped fingernail pointed to the architectural rendering. “The nicest library in the state. Least, that’s what everybody’s saying.”

  Emilie studied the information, nodding absently as Teresa continued to bubble about the unique design, the spaciousness, the convenient new location on Kissel Hill Road.

  “You should swing by, see what’s been done so far.” Her gray eyes shone. “It opens in June. You’ll never miss this old place, believe me.”

  Who was to say what she might miss? Emilie hated change and never apologized for admitting so. “I might do that,” she said, tucking the flyer inside her stack of books. “You’ve been most helpful today, Teresa. Look for your name on the acknowledgments page, won’t you?”

  Minutes later, Emilie found herself in the turning lane for Second Avenue. The temperature had hovered around freezing for days, leaving the streets icy and the sidewalks treacherous. Only a crazy person would head for a stark building site on such an inhospitable morning. Which makes you certifiable, Emilie Getz. She turned east, toward a library that was probably little more than a hole in the frozen ground.

  The lifelong student in her couldn’t resist. Libraries and bookstores made her positively giddy.

  Winding her way through neighborhoods filled with neat-as-a-pin homes built in the forties, she was surprised to find newer houses springing up on streets she didn’t remember even existing. Bearing left on Sixth with a bewildered stare at the construction on both sides of the street, she pointed her car toward the supposed site for the library, fearful of what she might find.

  What she found, parked in the area carved out for a driveway, was a familiar black Explorer.

  With temporary tags.

  But no Jonas. Thank goodness.

  What was his vehicle doing there, anyway? Abandoned in the midst of a building site for a … Oh my. Her eyes took in the bulldozers, the stakes in the ground, and the sign proclaiming, A Great Town Deserves a Great New Library, with the small notation beneath it, Jonas Fielding, Developer and Project Manager.

  He said he played with dirt.

  He never said he built libraries.

  Well! Her regard for the man took a marked turn upward. A library, no less, in a field full of corn that would never be missed. Not a landmark torn down, not a slice of history lost, and he’d annexed township land to do it.

  Jonas Fielding was building a library!

  What else didn’t she know about him? Was he everything Beth claimed he was—trustworthy, loyal, hardworking, respectable? Had she misjudged him terribly? Jumped to conclusions? For a woman who prided herself on thorough research, she’d apparently done a poor job investigating Mr. Fielding—something she intended to remedy immediately.

  Emilie peered through his car window, checking for anything of interest. Building plans, perhaps—the tiny sketch in the brochure had been quite promising—or anything else that might catch her researcher’s eye.

  Squinting through the tinted glass, she soon spotted her first bit of valuable data. In the backseat, where that slobbering yellow dog usually sat, rested an impressive scale model of the building. Very traditional, very classy. The man had taste after all. One point for Mr. Fielding.

  The piles of periodicals and sketches suggested that, however sloppy, the man was thorough. Another point in his favor. Her gaze traveled to the front seat, where she spied a large manila folder on the passenger side, with a name printed in large block letters.

  Wait a minute. That—

  “That vehicle is private property,” a deep voice boomed directly behind her.

  “Oh!” Emilie gasped and jumped back a full foot. It was several seconds before she could breathe properly and turn to face her accuser, now only inches away.

  Jonas. The library builder.

  “It’s against the law to look inside a person’s car,” he growled, circling around her with exaggerated steps. “Did you kn
ow that?”

  “I did not.” She squared her shoulders, narrow though they were, and stuck out her chin. “Inform the authorities of my actions at once.”

  His dark eyes sparked. “My, aren’t we cheeky, for a trespasser?”

  “This is public land, destined to be a public library,” she reminded him, using her classroom voice for effect. Is he getting closer on purpose? “I have every right to be here … Mr. Fielding.”

  “It’s also a construction site, Dr. Getz,” he snapped back, though it was more crackle than snap. “A dangerous place.”

  The only thing that looked dangerous was Jonas.

  “By law, it’s not open to the public. Not yet.” He paused in front of her, inches from the end of her nose. Despite his combative tone, his eyes bore a mischievous twinkle.

  “And how do you propose to remove me from the premises?” She let her eyebrows create an especially engaging capital V.

  Goodness. Were they flirting? Hmmm. It felt like they might be.

  Which meant this charmingly aggravating, bird-watching, scarf-unwinding man was toying with her! And she was teasing him back! The whole thing was ridiculous.

  His eyebrows lowered dramatically. “If necessary, miss, I will remove you from the premises myself. Bodily.”

  Emilie abruptly turned, hoping he hadn’t seen the heat that flew into her cheeks, and pressed a defiant nose against the smoky glass. “I’ll leave the minute I get what belongs to me.”

  “You’ll get what’s coming to you, all right,” he muttered behind her back. “Five mornings in a duck blind—”

  “That—” she interrupted, pointing inside the passenger side window, keenly aware of him hovering over her—“that folder is what I want. The one that has my name printed on it, bold as you please.”

  “Bold as you please?” He chuckled, leaning ever so slightly against her shoulders. “Fine. I can be bold, Emilie.” His voice dropped another note. “If you please.”

  She froze.