Bookends

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Em-i-leeeeee!”

  She eyed the window, two feet above her shoulder—the shoulder with the broken collarbone. If she could get her legs underneath her, get up on her knees, perhaps she could ease up the window and call down a greeting.

  Tucking one leg under her proved to be simple enough. Leaning against her good shoulder, she folded the second leg in place, congratulating herself on her dexterity until the very moment she went face-first into the sudsy drink.

  Ker-splash!

  Feet pointed up, face pointed down, she surfaced seconds later, sputtering with a mouthful of rose-flavored bathwater. Ick. Flipping over on her back, she tried the whole silly exercise again, this time managing to raise herself onto her knees. So far, so good. Flexing her good arm, she pushed up the window, wincing at the pain then shivering when the wintry cold breeze hit her bare skin, covering her with goosebumps.

  Bang! Bang! Bang! “Em-i-leeee!”

  She heard him more clearly now and shouted back. “Jonas!”

  The knocking stopped. “Emilie?” She heard his footsteps on the pavement below, coming closer. “That you up there?”

  “I’m here.” She waved her fingers out the window and heard him snicker one story below.

  “You did say four, right?”

  “Yes.” She felt downright ridiculous in the quickly cooling tub, yet loathed the thought of attempting an awkward, noisy exit with him in such close proximity. “Sorry. I misread the clock, Jonas. If you don’t mind letting yourself in—”

  “Am I supposed to climb this trellis?” A rustling sound from below launched her heart into her throat.

  “No!” Her scream was faint, but sufficient. The rustling ceased. “You’ll find the back door open. I’ll be down shortly, I promise.”

  Looking like something Trix dragged in. Nothing she could do about that now. Thank goodness the homemade scones would impress him, since it was a fair wager her appearance would not.

  Slamming the window closed and flinging herself over the edge of the tub with a graceless lunge, she dressed in record time, choosing nicely flossed teeth over makeup. She heard Jonas moving around downstairs, whistling a tune she didn’t recognize—probably one of those bluegrass ditties he considered music.

  All too aware of the hour, she fretted with her frizzy, unruly hair only long enough to sweep it on top of her head in an artless topknot, while curly tendrils escaped in every direction.

  So be it. It was time to play hostess.

  Slipping on a pair of casual leather flats, she hurried down the dark, winding staircase that led directly to her kitchen, where a tea kettle whistled on the stove and a man whistled a tune she finally identified as a Moravian favorite: “Morning Star, O Cheering Sight!”

  The music stopped as he turned to face her, wearing a broad smile. “There you are.”

  Her mouth went dry—drier than scones—and her eyes grew the size of tea saucers. “J-Jonas?”

  Fourteen

  She who hesitates is won.

  OSCAR WILDE

  A suit. Not a sport coat and slacks. The man was wearing a suit! Black as night, perfectly tailored to his wide shoulders and solid chest, fashioned with lean lines in a subtle, expensive weave that emphasized muscles she didn’t even know Jonas owned.

  Emilie tried to focus her gaze on his, but other distractions kept her eyes busy and her thoughts racing.

  No T-shirt, this. His dress shirt was pure white, crisp against his freshly shaved neck, with a sharply patterned tie the color of ripe eggplant. Even his hair was sleek, as if he’d just come from the barber.

  Emilie’s lips moved before her brain had a chance to intervene. “I had no idea—”

  His eyebrows lifted. “No idea that I was coming for tea? But Emilie, you invited me.”

  “I did?” She gulped. “Yes! I certainly did. Most definitely. Four o’clock, and here you are.” And here I am looking like a church mouse, and you looking like a … a … Another gulp. “Have a seat, won’t you? I’m truly sorry. The time got away from me.”

  He followed her into the dining room, his new black dress shoes silent against the polished hardwood. “Emilie, you’re the most punctual woman I know. Are you sure everything is okay?”

  Not okay. Not remotely okay. She concentrated on breathing, knowing fresh oxygen would be the key to staying both vertical and fully conscious.

  He paused by the nearest chair where a place setting waited. “Does it matter where we sit?”

  She stared at him, mesmerized. “I thought we’d sit here.”

  “Yes, Emilie.” It was his second grin in as many minutes and it matched the suit beautifully, she decided, smiling back.

  He pressed his point. “I meant which chair is mine?”

  “All the chairs.”

  She glided back into the kitchen, suppressing an odd, giggly sensation that threatened to overtake her. Steady, Em! Pouring boiling hot water into the already-warmed pot, she went through the familiar motions of making tea while fighting a strong impulse to grab the phone, call Beth, and like a lovesick adolescent, describe her “date”—the new, improved Jonas Fielding—in complete and breathtaking detail.

  This is not a date, Em. This is tea.

  So it was, tea with scones. She unwrapped them, still warm in their cozy basket, and placed them on a serving plate, carrying them into the dining room without meeting his gaze, then hurrying back for the berries and lemon curd.

  “Anything I can help with?” he called into the kitchen when she deserted him a third time, her body well hidden behind the white enamel door of the GE fridge.

  “Nope,” she said simply, snatching two pint containers—one sour cream, the other heavy whipping cream—from the shelf, adding them to the box of powdered sugar on the countertop. Minutes later, her wrist stiff from beating the mixture into frothy peaks, she hurried back into the dining room with a china serving bowl brimming with her own heavenly version of English clotted cream.

  “All we need is the Earl Grey itself, properly steeped by now, I’m quite certain. Then we’ll be ready to enjoy our tea.”

  Tea with a purpose, she reminded herself, feeling her shoulders straighten with a resolute snap. The whole point was to win back her land, if only long enough to thoroughly examine it.

  The words ran through her mind like a bit of verse memorized for an exam. Woo the man and win the land. Woo the man and win the land. She was on her third mental go-round when she gingerly carried her heavy teapot into the dining room and placed it on the padded trivet with a slight grimace.

  Jonas was seated, but seeing her wince, he quickly stood to assist her. “Emilie, you should have let me carry this in for you. Where was my head?”

  On top of the broadest pair of shoulders I’ve ever seen.

  She offered a slight smile and slipped into the chair opposite his. “No problem. I’m getting along fine, see?” Tipping the blue sling up for his inspection, she reached for the plate of scones with the other hand. “I made these fresh this afternoon. See what you think of them.”

  Sliding one on the floral plate before him, his big hand dwarfing the small, triangular biscuit, Jonas eyed her carefully as she sliced it in two, then he did likewise.

  Suit or no, the man is still Jonas. The realization calmed her, slowed her too-rapidly beating heart. A man who played with dirt, not with tea sets. A man whose attire today was atypical to say the least.

  She, therefore, still held sway in this setting. The linen napkins she’d pressed, the scones she’d baked, the luscious cream she’d prepared … they were quintessentially Emilie.

  This was her home, her tea, and her Gemeinhaus they were going to discuss at length. Just as soon as she could get her eyes off his generous Adam’s apple disappearing underneath that perfectly knotted silk tie.

  “Did you … do all this?” He looked genuinely surprised.

  “I did.” Don’t blush. Do not blush! The heat ignored her wishes, sneaking up her neck like a wave of warmth from a
n opened oven. “Everything except the berries.”

  Jonas nodded in agreement. “The Lord made those. Did a nice job, too.”

  She merely smiled and aimed a slice of scone piled with lemon and cream between her parted lips. Some conversationalist you are, Em.

  Music. Yes. They needed music. Right away.

  Depositing her napkin next to her fork, she rose with a shaky start, then headed for the living room stereo.

  Jonas shot out of his chair. “Uh, Emilie, I meant to tell you, there’s—”

  “Eek!” Horrified, Emilie pointed at the couch and screamed, sending Lady Carlyle’s teacups rattling in their dainty china saucers.

  That shrieking-banshee sound again. He’d know it anywhere.

  Jonas hustled around the corner into the adjoining room and found Emilie exactly as he’d expected, gasping and pointing at the glass box on her sofa.

  “There’s a … a … rat in there!”

  “Not a rat,” he corrected, gently taking her elbow. “A guinea pig. It was the closest thing the pet store in Lancaster had to a groundhog.” He guided her one step closer and bent toward the cage, hoping she’d join him. “Nice little fella, don’t you think? They call it a cavy.”

  “Good,” she said emphatically. “Send it back to the cave from whence it came, please.”

  “C’mon, Emilie.” He straightened and turned her toward him, hoping to get her eyes—and her thoughts—back where they belonged. “Don’t you think Clarence—uh, Clarice—is rather cute?”

  “You thought the fish was cute.” She peered around his black-suited arm, eyebrows in a tight V, as she assessed the furry, brown creature.

  Jonas, meanwhile, assessed her, noticing how every loose hair spilling from the top of her head went its own wispy way. He had a barely controllable urge to curl a lock around his finger and feel its silky texture. “Yeah,” he murmured, trying hard to keep his wits about him. “Where is old Mavis?”

  “On the piano in the study, making no noise whatsoever.” She leaned back and caught his eye. “This cavy squeaks.”

  “Not much. Mostly he—uh, she—eats leafy vegetables and sits there, looking adorable.” Like you, Emilie. The woman didn’t have a dab of makeup on her face, wore dull, frumpy clothes and a ferocious scowl, but blast if she wasn’t the prettiest thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

  Smelled good, too. Like raspberries and cream.

  She was frowning at the cavy again, so he took advantage of the moment and closed his eyes, silently inhaling her scent. Roses. All around her hair. He tipped his head down for a deeper whiff in time to bump noses with her, looking up.

  When his eyes flew open, hers narrowed.

  “What precisely did you have in mind, Mister?”

  “A mister.” His wide grin covered a multitude of unspoken possibilities. “That’s what you said I needed. For my fittonia argyroneura, remember?”

  She made a sharp sound with her mouth—a younger version of Helen’s tsk-tsk—and pulled away from him, returning to the room a moment later with a plastic spray bottle in hand. “Your mister, as promised.”

  “Now, suppose we return to tea? As promised?” He crooked an elbow out for her to take, which she did with some misgivings, it seemed. She hadn’t said a word about his suit. Hated it, no doubt. So much for the old Fielding charm.

  Having escorted her to her seat, he poured their tea, careful not to spill a drop, then joined her at the table, capturing her hand before she had a chance to hide it in her lap.

  “How ’bout a prayer, Emilie?” Sorry I didn’t think of this earlier, Lord.

  She looked bewildered. “It’s only tea.”

  “Not a prayer for the food so much.” His eyes sought hers, finding in those light brown depths a host of unanswered questions. “I wanted to pray about our time together. For our … discussion.”

  “Ahh.” Her eyes widened at that. “Pray away, then.”

  Emilie bowed her head, expecting to hear him offer a traditional Moravian blessing: “Be present at our table, Lord” or “Come, Lord Jesus, our guest to be.”

  As usual, Jonas did the unexpected.

  “Heavenly Father, thank you for this … lovefeast, and for the kind, generous hands that prepared it.” His voice had never sounded so sincere. It tied a strange and unfamiliar knot in her throat.

  A lovefeast, he’d said? Well, there was a hot drink. A simple, sweet scone. Perhaps.

  Jonas squeezed her hand, lightly but surely, and pressed on. “Lord Jesus, we love you so much.”

  We? The lump tightened. She did love the Lord. Didn’t she? Wasn’t that why she went to church religiously, Sunday after Sunday, without fail? Still … we. It sounded odd and felt even more so.

  Jonas’ words grew softer, and Emilie strained to catch each one, as if somehow her life depended on it. “Lord, more than anything, I want my relationship with you to be right, and my relationship with Emilie to be … right.”

  Oh. Where was he going with this? She felt her entire nervous system go on alert, as if she’d just heard a train whistle in the distance.

  “She’s very special to me, Lord. Help us work through our … differences and work on building a right relationship with you.”

  This time when he squeezed her hand, she squeezed it back. Tentatively at first, then tighter as an unforeseen tear sneaked across her cheek. What sort of “right relationship” is he talking about? She swallowed hard, but still the lump persisted.

  First Beth, then Jonas—both talking about loving God. It was all so confusing. She sang hymns, she prayed prayers, she’d known the church calendar and its sacred seasons for as long as she could remember.

  What relationship? Desperate, with more tears threatening, she gathered up her courage and asked him herself.

  What is Jonas saying, Lord?

  She was not prepared for an immediate response.

  Know me, Emilie.

  Know you? She did know God, knew all about God.

  Know me, Emilie. Know me as you would a husband. I love you, Emilie. Completely. Do you love me?

  Tears sprang up from a well hidden in the deepest corner of her heart. With one hand in Jonas’ grip and the other in a sling, she couldn’t stem the flow trickling along her cheeks, dropping onto the bone china plate with tiny pings.

  Emilie stared down at the growing pool, mortified, then lifted her gaze to Jonas’ bowed head. Had he heard? Did he realize what was happening? For that matter, did she?

  As if beckoned, Jonas looked up. A moist sheen darkened his own eyes.

  He knows! Somehow, Jonas understood what she was going through, what she was feeling. Understood and didn’t judge her.

  A fresh stream of tears, tasting like warm saltwater, ran across her trembling lips.

  She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe, fearing a single intake of air would turn into sobs that would wrack her body if not her soul. But she had to breathe. Had to, or she would faint.

  Help me, Lord!

  The dam broke with a great gasp of air and a crushing sense of release. Heat rushed to her face, her neck, as the tears flowed one after another. Unaware of anything but the emotions that were clamoring to the surface—sorrow and gratitude and longing and shame—Emilie simply wept.

  Jonas let go of her hand, which she immediately used to shield her face, too humiliated to look him in the eye again. He didn’t force her to meet his gaze, nor did he pull back. Instead, he lightly stroked her hair, murmuring words too tender to be heard.

  Her heart recognized the cadence of them, though.

  The Lord loves you, Emilie. Exactly as you are.

  It couldn’t be true. Not like this, Lord! So plain in looks. So prideful in spirit. So certain she didn’t need anyone in her life. Not even you, Lord. Not even you! How can you overlook that?

  Jonas rested his hands on her head, barely touching her. She felt more than heard the compassion in his whispered words of prayer. Clearly this man knew God. Did she? Could she?

&
nbsp; Like a grieving person, Emilie caught herself groaning under her breath. It was the sound of despair, of a heart broken in two. How could God forgive her for not reaching out to him long before this?

  She waited, dreading the answer.

  I love you, Emilie. Even unto death. All is forgiven.

  Everything?

  Everything.

  Oh! All at once, her heavy spirit had wings. Wings!

  She found her heart could speak, even when her lips could not.

  I love you too, Lord. I do. Truly.

  A solemn silence roared in her ears, blocking out anything but the absolute awareness of his holy presence. He was real. And he loved her. It was all she needed to know.

  Moments later, after another shuddering sob, Emilie realized her tears were beginning to slow. Thank goodness, Lord! I’ve made an utter fool of myself here.

  His voice—and already she was becoming familiar with the sound of it—both warmed and challenged her: Better a fool for One who loves you than a prophet for one who does not.

  As if fortified by those few words alone, Emilie straightened, unashamedly wiping away the last of her tears. The air around her seemed at once clearer, brighter.

  Jonas was smiling—hugely so.

  In the living room, a small cavy scurried about his new glass cage. In her centuries-old dining room, the doors of Emilie’s own cage had been flung wide open.

  Nate slammed the door shut with a violent bang, more pleased than he should have been when a hairline crack appeared in one of the pine panels.

  Serves ’em right. The hotel had issued him a sternly-worded notice to vacate his room by morning, threatening to press charges if he didn’t produce either cash or a valid credit card to cover the last three nights’ lodging.

  He only had eight hundred dollars left and two long weeks to go before he supposedly got out of rehab. Jonas couldn’t call Nate, nor could Nate call him. That’s the way these recovery places worked—Nate had checked all that out before contacting his brother for cash.

  It’d been the perfect cover-up, the ideal excuse to borrow money and then disappear. Problem was, the money had disappeared, too. Not at the track—Nate purposely drove out of his way to miss the place—but rather at San Pablo Golf Club. The greens fees were exorbitant. So were meals and tips and a week’s worth of new golf shirts at seventy dollars apiece.