Bookends

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “In this weather?” He made a face. “What’s there?”

  “Once upon a time, a Gemeinhaus.”

  “A what house?”

  “Common house. The cellar was dug in November 1746, but the building wasn’t ready for occupancy until May 1748.”

  “Been there,” he muttered. “Those subcontractors will kill ya, every time.”

  “So, Jonas … might you be willing to take me?” She smiled so sweetly he thought for a second she might be flirting. Not my Emilie, no way.

  “Yeah.” He zipped his coat back on. “I’d like to see the old place.” He watched her try to pull on her coat herself, one-handed, before casually offering his assistance. No point making the woman feel less than capable.

  “Actually, the log structure is long gone.” Her schoolmarm side appeared—minus the wooden ruler—as she warmed up to her topic. “When enrollment dwindled—in part because of bear sightings in the nearby woods—they dismantled the school in August 1765 and reassembled it across from Church Square.”

  He followed her through the small house and out the back door, holding back a chuckle. “You’re like one of those museum displays—push the speaker button and out comes a slew of information.”

  She did an about-face, nearly smacking his chin with her forehead. “That’s what I get paid for, Jonas.”

  He threw up both hands in surrender. “And you do it well. I’m impressed, okay?” More than you know, woman. More than you know. “Lead the way, Doc. Go-mine-house, here we come.”

  Emilie squinted up at the lofty sign, wishing she’d brought her glasses. “Can you make it out?”

  Though drenched with rain and surrounded by barren maple branches, the gray-and-gold historical marker staked its claim on the corner of Elm and Main, proudly proclaiming the exact location of the original Moravian Gemeinhaus.

  Or so the history books say. She knew better, knew this wasn’t the very first spot. That elusive bit of property wasn’t much farther east than this one. Tucked in a dusty drawer somewhere in Lititz was a survey map, diary, or letter with the critical bit of information on it, and she intended to find it.

  Jonas shot her a sideways glance, then slipped on his own reading specs for all of five seconds. “ ‘It stood 125 yards to the north on the elevation on this side of Carter’s Run.’ ” The glasses disappeared. “That’s where we got the name for our golf course—Carter’s Run.”

  “On some maps it’s called Lititz Run, but yes, that’s the same creek.” She peered out from under her tiny folding umbrella. “You’re the professional at this sort of thing. Walk us north 125 yards.”

  As they negotiated the slippery combination of snow, slush, mud, and rain, Emilie took in the surrounding scenery with a sigh of discouragement. The basketball goal on the right, though serviceable, hardly shouted out, Historic Site Ahead. Same with the official auto inspection station on the left, where she might have taken her car twice a year.

  If she owned a car. Which she didn’t.

  When Jonas halted at the intersection of Elm and North Lane, Emilie discovered to her horror that the much-touted grassy knoll of her resource books—the hallowed ground of the original log common house of 1748—was now a humble rest home for deceased and dying vehicles.

  “What are those?” Emilie stared, mouth agape.

  “A Camaro Z-28—color, black—and an International Harvester Scout—color, rust—with the remains of a snowblade on the front.” Jonas looked around. “The pine trees are nice, though. So’s the new stone parking lot. And look, a place that sharpens tools. Handy, huh?”

  Emilie groaned and her chin sank to her chest. “I’ll be certain to drop off every tool I own.”

  He inclined his head. “Not what you expected to find here?”

  She shrugged. “One never knows what surprises might turn up.”

  Like you, Jonas.

  Side by side, they started down a gravel incline, going nowhere in particular, while the rain continued to pound the frozen ground, even as Emilie’s heart pounded with strange and unfamiliar emotions.

  Dare she tell him what she was really hoping to find—evidence of the very first Gemeinhaus? Could she trust him? She knew the answer to that. Despite his casual approach to life, his integrity was unmistakable.

  Would he share her enthusiasm? To find the actual spot—to prove herself right this time—was her all-consuming passion. Would Jonas salute her efforts or find them foolish?

  Telling him was risky.

  Not telling him was cowardly.

  Her decision made, she took a deep breath. “Jonas, what do you know about archaeology?”

  He chuckled, kicking at a loose chunk of sod. “I know it involves playing with dirt. Why? Wanna go digging?”

  “I might. Look, I’m not only here to write a book for the church.” She stopped, locking gazes with him, wanting him to see how serious she was. “I’m here to change Moravian history.”

  His expression mirrored more than a little curiosity. “This I gotta hear.”

  Ambling along, oblivious to the inhospitable weather, she told him everything. About Bethabara, about her meticulous research, about her wild theories and conjectures. He listened—really listened—then nodded in all the right places and asked a few hard-hitting questions.

  His final request took her aback: “Do I get to help you with this?”

  “I’ll … let you know.” She sighed and offered the most honest answer she could give him. “I’m pleased to know you’re interested.”

  “ ’Course I’m interested, Emilie. A single-minded woman like you, you’re bound to track down the thing and make a name for yourself doing it. I wanna be there to cheer you on.”

  She stared at the ground, overwhelmed by his support. Even a bit uneasy with it. Had any man—other than her father—ever rooted for her to succeed? As they walked along, she gazed at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to figure out how a man like Jonas Fielding could possibly care about her career.

  Let alone care about her happiness.

  Without hat or umbrella, he had rain dripping off his stubbly chin. He slicked back his short bangs, revealing a widow’s peak—could a man have such a thing?—and a broad forehead, virtually the only part of his face without a constant five o’clock shadow.

  “What is it?” He watched her, watching him, and smiled again. “You hate my short hair, don’t you?”

  “Not at all. You must have a constant battle on your hands, though, holding your hairy nature at bay.”

  “Yup. One of the hazards of being a Fielding man.” His bushy brows wiggled playfully. “Most women like it.”

  “So I’ve heard.” She feigned interest in an overflowing trash can, lest he catch her smiling. “Is your youngest brother—”

  “Nathan.”

  She looked up in time to watch his animated face grow still. “Yes, Nathan. Is he hirsute as well?”

  “Hirsute?” Jonas winked, clearly recovering his form. “Nah, he wouldn’t be caught dead in a suit. Strictly golf shirts.”

  “Don’t be clever,” she scolded. “I’m talking about—”

  “Nate. Yeah, he’s hairy. A good-looking son of a gun. The real ladies’ man of the four of us.”

  “That so?” As if you’re not, you dark-eyed charmer! She still couldn’t believe she’d kissed him—intentionally this time—standing there in her rented living room on a rainy Monday afternoon with her arm in a sling and without brushing her teeth. Heavens!

  The whole thing left her torn in two—hoping it wouldn’t happen again, wondering how many hours she’d have to endure before it did.

  If it did.

  Men! A conundrum if there ever was one. In the past, she hadn’t found the male of the species particularly … necessary. Not in the emotional sense. Helpful, useful, knowledgeable, even enjoyable in small doses, but necessary? Not for her. She had her books, her research, her students, her garden—

  “Emilie? Emilie!”

  She sn
apped to attention. “W-what? Did you say something?”

  “Yes. Your name.” Even soaking wet, his grin was dangerously appealing. “About four times. Whatcha thinkin’ about, Dr. Getz?”

  “If you must know, men.”

  “Oh, men is it? Plural, then. Not one man in particular?”

  She swiped her scarf at him. “Fishing for compliments is most unbecoming.”

  He ducked under her umbrella, putting them nose to nose. “But it’s perfect fishing weather.”

  If Jonas wanted to play Go Fish, she’d provide the bait. “What is it you hoped to hear me say?”

  “That I’m the first man who—”

  “Well!” The nerve! She gasped and backed up, taking her umbrella with her. “Jonas Fielding, you are not the first man to kiss me!”

  He raised a hand in protest. “I’m not suggesting such a thing. You’re thirty-six—my age—and hardly an ingenue, Emilie. Of course you’ve been kissed. Probably better, too.”

  Probably not. She sniffed and tried to look nonchalant. “You’re the first man who did what, then?”

  “Made you laugh.”

  She wasn’t laughing now.

  She was mad. Or hurt. With some women, it was hard to tell the difference.

  Her sorry excuse for an umbrella was tipped back, rain was dripping off that nice, soft nose of hers, and—unless his eyes were deceiving him—steam was coming out her little porcelain ears.

  “How d-dare you s-suggest …!” She was sputtering. He liked sputtering women, liked seeing a gal come unglued once in a while.

  Emilie tried again to make her point. “Why, I’ve … I’ve laughed many times in my life. The very idea!”

  Yup. Mad. “How many times?”

  She didn’t have a wooden ruler, but she shook the umbrella at him with exactly the same vehemence. “Plenty! Dozens. Hundreds.”

  “Hundreds of laughs? With a man you cared about?”

  “Yes! Well, maybe not … well.” She let out an exasperated groan. “The point is, you did not introduce me to my sense of humor.”

  He dipped his forehead toward hers. “When we met on Christmas Eve, I got the idea you and your sense of humor were, shall we say, estranged.” He pretended not to see her eyes become slits, her nostrils flare. “That’s why I’m on a mission to make sure the two of you are on speaking—er, laughing—terms again.”

  Her narrowed eyes popped back open. “A mission?”

  Uh-oh. Shouldn’t have been so up-front about that one.

  “That’s right.” Jonas nodded, rushing to explain himself. “It’s a heavenly calling.” He lifted one metal tip of her umbrella and invited himself underneath it. “Emilie, I have the challen—uh, the privilege of showing you what fullness of joy means.”

  Her anger dissolved into shock. “Are you saying I’m a project of some sort to you?”

  “Nope. I’m saying the Lord has brought you into my life for a reason I don’t fully comprehend.”

  “Ohh.” Her expression softened.

  “Part of that reason is helping you lighten up.”

  When she started to disagree, he barely touched her lips with one finger, amazed at how quickly it silenced her. “Don’t argue with me. You and I both know your shrieking-banshee sled ride down Kissel Hill was the most fun you’ve had in ages.”

  She shrugged and averted her eyes, fighting a smile. After two beats of silence, she said in an even voice, “You win. Was I supposed to laugh at the Christmas Bird Count, too?”

  “In theory.” He lifted her chin, eager to see her hidden smile, longing to find forgiveness in her eyes. “Except I blew it. I’m truly sorry, Emilie.”

  Her smile was in place. So was a glimmer of understanding.

  “I know.” She eyed him, her breath coming out in frosty puffs. “Joy is more than laughter, though. I find joy in lots of things. My work, for starters.”

  “Work is good.” He nodded, wanting to affirm yet press forward. “But fullness of joy is only found in Christ.”

  A shadow fell across her features. “Do you really believe that?”

  “I do.” Sensing her pulling away from him, he quickly added, “Hey, don’t get me wrong, I love my work. But when it all shakes down, only my relationship with the Lord matters.”

  “I see.” She paled visibly. “Then religion is very important to you.”

  “Nope. Not religion. Relationship.”

  She frowned. “You’re talking about semantics.”

  “I’m talking about my best friend.”

  “Ah.” She turned on her heel and aimed her steps toward the Explorer parked on Main. “Jonas, it’s too nasty outside to debate such subjects in the freezing rain.”

  “Agreed.” He caught up with her and slipped his arm around her shoulder before she could protest. If words couldn’t convince her, a piece of his history might. “I’d like to show you one thing on the way home, though. Okay with you?”

  Emilie nodded, not saying another word until they were back in the Explorer, greeted by a dry, wagging golden retriever in the front seat.

  “All the way back, Trix,” he said firmly, starting the engine. He flicked on the heater and headed east on Main, then north on Oak, where their destination—a concrete bridge—waited straight ahead.

  He cleared his throat, surprised at the tightness there, and pointed through the windshield. “That’s your Lititz Run, Emilie. Definitely running.” Steering his vehicle to a spot a safe distance from the creek’s edge, he parked and left the headlights trained on the raging stream overflowing its high banks.

  As he stared at the water spilling over the roadway, long-buried memories washed over him with the same chilling effect. Give me strength here, Lord. You know where I hope to go with this.

  “This is what you wanted to show me?” She peered out the window, clearly confused.

  Gripping the wheel, he willed himself to say what needed to be said, for her sake and his own. “It was a day like this …” He swallowed hard and tossed his head back to stem the threat of tears that rarely came but did so now without warning. “A day like this when I lost my father.”

  Emilie’s head pivoted toward him. “Lost him?”

  He nodded slowly. “I was twelve. Carl Kreider and I were walking home from school in a wintry rainstorm—icy cold, like this stuff—and came to a swollen creek. As usual, we were behaving like fools, stomping in the puddles, dangling over the rail, when Carl lost his balance and fell in the water.”

  “Oh, Jonas, how awful!” Her face was ashen. “What did you do?”

  “The current carried him downstream faster than I could find a way to get to him. That’s when my dad—a teacher, did I tell you that?”

  She nodded. The sympathy in her eyes was almost more than he could bear.

  “Anyway, Dad was driving home from school, looking for us, knowing we should have waited and caught a ride with him. He pulled over, saw the whole scene, and, before I could stop him, jumped into the creek to save Carl.”

  “And … he drowned?” Emilie gasped, pressing back against the seat in horror. “Oh, good Lord!”

  “The Lord is more than good.” Jonas closed his eyes, fighting the old doubts that still surfaced on occasion. Like today, of all days. He pressed on, determined to convince not only Emilie, but himself. “The Lord used my dad to save Carl’s life.”

  For a moment, she seemed to hold her breath. “But what about your father? Couldn’t God have spared his life, too?”

  Jonas’ head dropped toward the steering wheel, his forehead landing on one clenched fist. How could she know that was the question that had haunted him for two dozen years?

  Nathan held his head in his hands and wept.

  It was gone. Gone. All five thousand dollars of his brother’s money, gone in one disastrous afternoon.

  At the hotel front desk Monday morning, he’d sliced open the envelope with trembling hands, almost kissing the check. Thank you, brother! He’d waited impatiently at the bank wind
ow until it opened at 9:30, all set to buy another cashier’s check to send to Cy.

  Then it hit him. He’d double it! He’d hit another trifecta and turn that five grand into ten. Maybe even have some spare dollars to tide him over for another week’s room and board.

  But double or nothing turned into nothing. The greyhounds he’d picked might as well have been running the opposite direction on the track. Modest bets turned to bigger ones, until in desperation he put everything in his wallet on the last race.

  And lost it all.

  It had cost him a whole night’s sleep.

  It would cost him a whole lot more.

  He couldn’t call Cy and tell him there wouldn’t be a check this week. He couldn’t call Jonas and tell him he needed more money. He couldn’t call the twins, nor could he call his mom anymore.

  And he sure couldn’t call his dad.

  Nathan exhaled, frustration and anxiety turning his stomach inside out. Coffee. He needed caffeine, something to jolt him into action, get his brain working. Wiping away the last of his tears, disgusted with his pity party, he fired up the small coffeemaker, splashing water everywhere as he aimed for the slotted opening on top with a shaky hand.

  Not coffee. He needed something stronger.

  His mother’s voice echoed in his addled brain: “Your father never touched liquor, Nathan Fielding. You’d be honoring his memory if you did likewise.”

  Sorry, Dad.

  Nate almost never thought about his father. Not the last few years, baking in the Nevada desert. Not now, basking in the Florida sunshine.

  Ten minutes later, Good Morning America changed all that.

  He was channel surfing—a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee in one hand, the hotel’s remote in the other—when a news story flashed on screen about Monday’s flooding in the Northeast.

  Pennsylvania. Maryland. Delaware.

  In an instant, he was five years old again. A rainy day in February. An overflowing creek near home. His mother’s agonized, tearstained face. The terrible news: “Nathan, your father drowned today.”

  Jim Fielding, the big man with the dark hair and the stern look and the soft voice, gone forever.