Bookends

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  This morning—Monday, the twenty-second—he’d left a note and a twenty for Rick, ashamed it was so little, embarrassed just to disappear like that.

  He’d make it up to the kid, someday, somehow.

  Delivering the Jaguar back to Budget Rent-a-Car had been harder still. The young woman behind the counter handed him his paperwork with a toothy smile. “Did you enjoy the ride?”

  He shrugged, averting his eyes. “Yeah, it was okay.”

  It was the nicest car he’d ever driven, but he wasn’t telling her that. Not when he had to sneak around the corner and call a cab to get him to the bus station. Quite a step down, buddy. The backseat of the taxi was filthy, the driver’s language more so. And you think you deserve better, huh?

  Nate slumped down against the vinyl upholstery and checked his watch. If this guy stepped on it, they’d get to the Greyhound bus station in time for the 5:15. Ironic that he was leaving town via Greyhound. If the greyhounds at Orange Park had been more cooperative, he could have stayed in Jacksonville, bought himself that high-end condo, owned a Jag instead of renting one.

  Stop daydreaming, Nate.

  The cabbie pulled up to the curb, flipped the meter off and barked out the amount, then reached around with an open palm. Nate slapped one of his last twenties in the man’s hand and let himself out. No luggage. No briefcase. Just the clothes on his back, eighty-two dollars in cash, a Bible he’d stolen out of the hotel, and a one-way bus ticket north.

  Not much to show for thirty days of rehab.

  His laugh sounded bleak, even to himself, as he followed the signs for his departure gate, checking his ticket, hanging on to it like a lifeline.

  Not much to show for thirty years of living.

  That was the truth of it. The sad and awful truth.

  He was sober—but only because he couldn’t spare enough cash to be otherwise.

  He was as lean as he’d been in high school—but only because he was down to one meal a day.

  He was safe—but only until Cy caught up with him. He had one week left, and the clock was ticking louder by the minute. Even now he found himself looking over his shoulder, checking for the bozo who’d cleaned him out at the track. He’d said he knew about the Jag. Did he know the lease was up today? Was he watching for him here?

  Nate lengthened his stride, keeping his eyes on the Greyhound bus that would take him where he desperately needed to go, a place where maybe—just maybe—he could kill two birds with one stone.

  Get the debt to Cy off his shoulders once and for all.

  And get his golf game—maybe even his life—back on top.

  Handing the gray-haired agent his ticket, Nate fought the urge to scan the crowd around him and simply stared at the open bus door that led to his future.

  “You’re all set.” The woman gave him back his punched ticket. “Arrives at noon Tuesday in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Pretty place.”

  “That’s what I hear, ma’am.” He relaxed—all the way to his soul—for the first time in a week. “Pretty. That’s it exactly.”

  “Pretty girl.”

  Emilie closed her eyes, remembering. Even now, ten days after their magical Valentine’s Eve together, she could still sense Jonas in the room, holding her close, whispering in her ear, insisting his admiration for her was more than skin deep.

  Telling her that he valued her fine mind more than her fine features.

  Convincing her that he treasured her soft heart more than her soft skin.

  Assuring her that he applauded her spiritual discoveries more than her historical ones.

  Believing him was easy. This was Jonas Fielding, the most honest, caring, straightforward man she had ever known.

  And despite all his arguments about her more intellectual attributes, he had also called her—

  “Pretty girl!” Victor hollered, flapping his wings.

  Emilie’s eyes flew open and she laughed merrily. “The very word, you silly parrot. He called me pretty. And you, mister, should consider yourself lucky you’re not sitting out on my porch this morning.”

  Tossing a covering over his cage, she peered out the window at a frosty Tuesday on Main, then turned the heater up another notch. At daybreak the thermometer in her kitchen window had read a startling twelve degrees. Twelve! Too cold for anything but staying indoors, working on her research, and sipping gallons of hot tea.

  Without a car—and with Jonas busy slaving over his clubhouse—she was content to be home alone in her quiet, cozy cottage with only a ticking clock to penetrate the stillness.

  A ticking clock and one muffled but determined parrot.

  “Pddy grrl!” Victor squawked through the quilted covering.

  “Well, kwawk to you, Victor,” Emilie crowed, laughing as she yanked off his cover. “Kwawk, kwawk, kwawk.”

  It was only then that the truth hit her: Jonas had presented her with a bird and she hadn’t even flinched at the possible connection to her disastrous heron routine. The simple fact was, she hadn’t thought of it, nor had he implied such a thing. It was just a bird. A gift, not a cruel reminder.

  The memory of that incident had faded along with the bitterness and every bit of the pain. Rather incredible, Lord. Bit by bit, she sensed the less-than-lovely kinks in her personality being carefully smoothed out by a loving hand. Jonas’ attentions were a factor as well, but she knew this was something else again.

  Something life-changing. Something eternal.

  Emilie settled into her favorite overstuffed chair, grateful to have the full use of both arms and hands again. The area around her collarbone was still tender but—according to her doctor—healing nicely. Despite Jonas’ odd fascination with her scrawny neck, the man kindly steered away from her injury, prayed over it instead, then headed elsewhere to plant a kiss.

  Their friendship—or whatever it was these days—had survived the bird count caper. Their next hurdle was the Gemeinhaus property, which was not, she had to confess, an issue of eternal significance. It just felt like one. A milestone in her career to balance out the millstone around her neck called Bethabara.

  Trouble was, Carter’s Run was equally important to Jonas. His first municipal golf course. A five-million-dollar budget. A whole town cheering him on to victory.

  Did she expect Jonas to put his plans on hold for her?

  Was Jonas waiting for her to do the same for him?

  Emilie rubbed at her temple, a tension headache popping up out of nowhere. The change in the weather, perhaps. Or a change of heart. She looked at her research scattered around her, years of labor with little reward, poised to be published for an academic world that thrived on new discoveries and old digs.

  Her peers would applaud. But would the Lord?

  All her life she’d considered compromise a dirty word, one never used in polite company by a determined, strong-willed woman like her. Now her notebooks full of facts and figures seemed a coldhearted pursuit compared to the very warmhearted Jonas Fielding and the Lord who loved them both.

  Her morning reading in the Daily Texts came to mind: “Guide us in meeting our deepest needs.” Well, then. This definitely fell under the deep need category. She could ask, yes?

  Emilie looked up and exhaled, as if preparing herself for a daunting task. “Lord, if you’re listening—and I know you are—might you offer a bit of guidance here?”

  Jonas shoved his calculator aside and ran a hand through his hair. “These figures don’t make any sense.”

  Dee Dee Snyder, dressed in a snug-fitting, jade green sweater dress, perched on the edge of his desk and leaned back at a saucy angle. “Maybe you’re looking at the wrong figure.”

  Oh, brother. He kept his head down, ignoring her blatant pitch. “Dee Dee, you know better.”

  With an exaggerated groan, she straightened and hopped to her feet. “Okay, okay. A girl can try, can’t she? Anyway, rumor has it you prefer plain-faced professors.”

  “Not all of them,” he countered, then grinned. “Just one.�
� Who is anything but plain to me. He didn’t know which had changed more—Emilie Getz’s face or his taste—but she had blossomed into the most breathtaking beauty he’d ever known.

  The blond bombshell in front of him might be most men’s idea of heaven. For him, she was a business associate in a dress. Period. Emilie, on the other hand, was an incredible intellect wrapped inside an angelic face and form.

  Thinking about her this morning made it hard to concentrate on the spreadsheets in front of him. She’d be home writing, naturally, keeping warm on this bitterly cold Tuesday, while he was getting hot under the collar about weather-related construction delays on the site. Finish the library by June? No problem. Finish the clubhouse by April? Big problem.

  Dee Dee gathered her papers and stuffed them in her bulging briefcase. “You haven’t told me yet. What are you doing with the original clubhouse site that’s still sitting there, undeveloped?”

  Jonas leaned back in his chair. “To be honest, I haven’t given it much thought. It’s right next to the new construction. Could give us room for more parking.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Waste of land. You have plenty of parking. What about a free-standing pro shop?”

  He’d thought of that one himself, then ruled it out due to cost. “I’ll run the numbers again, Dee Dee. Kinda like to finish the clubhouse first.”

  “Sure.” She reached for his desk phone, then paused with her hand over the receiver. “Sorry … uh, mind if I make a call or two?”

  “You’re welcome to use the phone in the front room.” He smiled, but only with his lips. Dee Dee was one to watch. Too chummy, too catty, too unpredictable. In her business dealings, she was above reproach, but in all other areas of her life, the woman was serious trouble.

  She sashayed out of the room, swinging everything she owned, while Jonas just shook his head and turned his attention to the Carter’s Run master construction schedule. It was filled with scribbled notations, new time lines, and urgent phone numbers—land planners, architects, course builders, his construction superintendent, the borough’s attorney—the list went on and on.

  The course itself was coming together on time and on budget. Lord willing, they’d be planting pine trees next week—big ones, up to eight inches in diameter—using a tree spade. Jonas couldn’t wait to see the giant yellow machines with their hydraulically powered scoops strategically dropping trees all over Carter’s Run. Unlike courses that wrapped themselves around prime real estate lots, this was a core course, compact and contiguous, which meant the trees were a key element to keeping it from looking like one big, hilly meadow.

  Grass was next on the agenda—#419, one of the fastest-growing, most aggressive of the hybrid Bermudas. For the tees, it’d be #328, a finer-bladed grass. He’d done his homework and was therefore steeling himself for how pitiful the fairways would look at first. Spotty, weedy, nothing like a real golf course. Three weeks after the first sprigging, the mowers would arrive, and with them, the hope of greens to come.

  And, of course, there was the clubhouse going up on the recently purchased acreage, thanks to Dee Dee’s sharp negotiating abilities. They had the property cleared, the foundation poured, the driveways carved out. It was the wildly changing weather that was doing them in. Seventy-four degrees ten days ago, and now this. Twelve degrees did not create ideal conditions for framing a building. There were cracks in the concrete because of expansion and contraction, and the environmental expert kept making ominous noises about potential drainage hassles.

  Then there was the biggest challenge of all: his eighteenth hole. His fully designed, nothing-left-but-the-turf eighteenth hole. The one with a hint of history below the surface.

  Maybe.

  That’s what was doing him in. Maybe. If he knew, absolutely, that Emilie’s Gemeinhaus had once stood there, he would dig the blasted greens up himself. But he didn’t know. It wasn’t a matter of faith, but of proof. Emilie had plenty of the former and hardly any of the latter. Her womanly intuition about the thing wouldn’t cut it with the committee. What she needed was that map. He’d considered tracking the thing down himself, if only to get some answers, then realized they might be answers he didn’t like.

  Which left him in a quandary almost as big as his pounding headache.

  If he ignored Emilie’s wishes and pressed on with construction, would it hurt her—and their relationship—beyond repair?

  Oh, yeah. Dumb question.

  If he granted her permission to tear up the course, unquestionably delaying the grand opening, meaning lost revenue and lost momentum for the project, would he have the town—or at least his committee—at his throat?

  Count on it.

  He needed a serious dose of wisdom on this one. Godly wisdom, not man-made. Today’s Daily Texts had talked about seeking the Lord’s guidance. Good plan. A stray memory verse surfaced: “Guide me in your truth and teach me.” That’s it, Lord. Exactly what’s needed here.

  The dull ache spreading across his forehead ceased at the exact moment a certain pain in the neck sauntered back into his office.

  Dee Dee paused inches from his desk, her hands parked provocatively on her hips. “Appreciate you letting me use your phone.”

  He nodded, feeling the ache building again. “And I appreciate you stopping by with this paperwork.”

  She seemed hesitant to leave, putting her briefcase back down and regarding him with a bemused look. “I’m always happy to see you, Jonas. In fact …” She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost one. Wanna grab a quick lunch somewhere?”

  “I’ll be honest, I’m not very hungry, Dee—”

  A familiar voice from the hallway called out, “Well, you may not be hungry, brother, but I’m starving.”

  Jonas bolted to his feet, his headache forgotten. “Nate?”

  Before he could blink, his brother was standing in the doorway, ragged around the edges but grinning from ear to ear.

  “Nathan!” He covered the half dozen steps between them in less time than it took to offer up a prayer of thanksgiving, then wrapped his younger brother in a bear hug.

  Nate. A prodigal and then some. What he was doing in Lititz was anybody’s guess. Doesn’t matter. He’s here. And sober, best Jonas could tell. And smiling.

  Jonas stepped back, leaving a hand on each shoulder as he gave his brother a once-over. “On the scrawny side, aren’t you?”

  “Scrawny!” Dee Dee’s voice rose into a question mark.

  He’d completely forgotten she was there.

  “If that’s scrawny, I’d hate to see the man after he pumped some iron.” Her approving tone sounded more like a purr.

  “So,” Nate said, checking her out over Jonas’ shoulder. “Are you the woman I heard suggesting lunch? ’Cause if my much older brother is too busy, I’ve got all the time in the world for you, darlin’.”

  Jonas spun around and gave Dee Dee his don’t-even-think-about-it look. Smart woman that she was, she picked right up on it.

  “You know, handsome boy, I’d love to take you to lunch, but I’ll bet you and your brother have lots of catching up to do. Will you take a rain check?”

  “I’m more of a Nevada/Florida kinda guy.” He flashed her his version of the Fielding grin. “So I’d rather take a sun check from you, Blondie.”

  Dee Dee laughed and gathered her things, shaking her head as she walked out the door. “I’m not sure this town is big enough for two gorgeous Fielding men.” Turning at the door, she volleyed her parting shot. “Since it seems you’re already spoken for, Jonas, I hope you’ll give your brother here my phone number. Nathan, is it? I’ll be expecting your call.”

  Seconds later, the front door closed behind her, leaving the two of them in a quiet office, grinning at one another.

  “Sure wish you’d warned me you were coming, Nate. The minute my heart stops hammering, you are a dead man.”

  “Correction.” Nathan dropped into an empty seat in front of the desk, obviously pleased with himself
about something. “I was a dead man. Deader than dead. Lost, blind, the whole bit. But now I’m alive. I’m not lost, I’m found.” He leaned across the desk, his tone urgent, pleading. “I see, man. I see. Do you get what I’m saying?”

  Jonas fought the hope that was building in his chest, not wanting to make assumptions or put words in Nate’s mouth. “Nathan, the question is, do you know what you’re saying?” He slowly sank into the leather chair behind his desk, his senses on full alert. Trix, who’d been watching from the sidelines, wagged her way over, her shaggy blond tail beating the air with a joyful rhythm, her bobbing head begging to be petted.

  Dutifully reaching over to scratch her, he looked at Nate—really looked at him. His brother’s dark eyes, so much like his own, were clear and in focus for the first time in what, ten years? fifteen? Jonas ran his hand over his face, buying time, afraid of being disappointed, yet hoping, praying, he was right.

  “Okay, brother, something’s happened here. What gives?”

  Nathan fell back in his chair, chuckling. “You mean you wanna hear what happened to your bad-boy brother?”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Jonas nodded. “Shoot. And start at the beginning.”

  “How far back do you want me to go?” Nate leaned forward again, his tanned arms resting on his muscular thighs. “You know most of the story. I screwed up, man. Big time. Sixteen ways to Wichita.” He shrugged. “I’m … I’m not there anymore, that’s all. I … I’m …”

  “You’re what?” Nathan had made a mess of his life, despite every chance for success thrown his way—usually by Jonas. He felt the cords in his neck tighten. “Why are you here, little brother? Hoping for another check?”

  Nate looked like he’d been struck.

  Sorry, Lord. Shouldn’t have been so blunt.

  After taking a moment to recover, Nate’s wide grin returned. “Don’t trust me, huh? Can’t blame you for that, bro. I’ve not exactly been a model sibling the last decade or so. Not like the twins.”

  Jonas kept his arms folded but gentled his voice. No matter what the guy did, he was his brother. “Like I said, what’s up?”