Bookends

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Nate gulped and blurted out, “I … I found God.”

  “You what?” Something like joy washed over Jonas. “Are you … are you serious?”

  “Serious as a birdie on the ninth, brother Jonas.” Nate stood to face him, his suntanned skin uncommonly pink. “I figured you oughtta be the first to know.”

  For the second time that afternoon, they were locked in a bear hug, pounding each other on the back, laughing and choking back tears at the same time.

  Nate’s voice was muffled against his chest. “I hoped you’d be happy about it.”

  “Happy? You gotta be kidding.” Jonas shook his head as he pushed himself away, one hand still gripping his brother’s neck. “I’ve prayed for this for so long I … well, all I can say is, it’s about time. Looks like that rehab place poured some sense into you. Worth every penny, bro.” He squeezed Nate’s shoulder then dropped his hand, smiling so hard it hurt. “I’d almost given up on you, man. I’m glad the Lord didn’t.”

  “Me too, Jonas.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the rest of the house. “Mind if I sleep on the couch for a few days?”

  Jonas snorted. “What, are you kidding? My house is yours. Throw your gear in the guest room at the end of the hall.” He stretched a kink out of his back muscles, then dropped back into his chair. “Look, I wanna hear all the details on how you and the Lord got your life together, understood? Meanwhile, how ’bout some lunch?”

  Nate’s eyes brightened. “You buyin’?”

  Jonas laughed. “Who else?”

  Eighteen

  However small it is on the surface, it is four thousand miles deep; and that is a very handsome property.

  CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER

  The resemblance was striking.

  Emilie watched Jonas and Nathan Fielding stroll into church seconds before the prelude. They had the same height and build, the same shadow of a beard on their chins, the same broad smiles. Nathan favored brighter colors than his older brother’s basic black, but the men were clearly cut out of the same bolt of cloth.

  While the organist launched into a favorite by Johann Schneider, Emilie tried not to stare, though heaven knows everyone else was. Nathan wasn’t a surprise to her like he was to most of the others in the congregation. She’d heard about his sudden appearance four days ago when Jonas stopped by with Clyde, a male guinea pig.

  Lifting the screened top on Clarice’s glass cage last Wednesday, Jonas had lowered a brown-and-white, long-haired partner for the girl cavy to meet, then dropped the top in place with a wink in Emilie’s direction. “I read that females don’t thrive when they’re left alone too long.”

  “You read that, did you?” Emilie folded her arms over her sweater. “Where?”

  He dipped his chin to meet her gaze. “I didn’t know I’d have to cite the reference.”

  Shaking her head, she feigned disdain. “Such sloppy scholarship will cost you, Dr. Fielding.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He bent closer. “What’s the fine?”

  “Two kisses for the first offense.” She bit back a smile. “Four if it happens again.”

  “In that case.” He pulled her against him, folded arms and all. “I neglected to tell you where I read about the best kind of pellets for parrots last week. Wanna get all four kisses over with at once?”

  And so they had, with Clarice and Clyde paying no attention whatsoever.

  Emilie smiled at the memory. With any luck, he’d be quoting more unsubstantiated material this morning.

  Across the sanctuary, Jonas caught her in the act of pretending not to see him and wiggled his eyebrows. With eyebrows like his, it was not a subtle move. Everyone in her pew—Beth, Drew, and Sara included—started giggling.

  “Shhh!” Biting her lip, Emilie aimed her attention upstairs to the organ, the choir, the stained-glass windows, anything to avoid watching the entire church ogle the two brothers walking toward the front. Toward her.

  Jonas’ stage whisper belonged on Broadway. “Mind if we join you?”

  She had no choice but to slide over and make room for them. Not that she minded—not hardly—but her hour of worship would soon turn into a struggle between flesh and spirit. Her spirit longed to have a quiet time of rest in the Lord’s house. Her flesh wanted nothing more than to play footsie with Jonas Fielding.

  Ah! Nathan filed in first. Good. Problem solved.

  After Nathan sat down next to her with a friendly nod, his older brother leaned forward and shot her an intense, sidelong glance that made her heart do a quick handspring. That man! It was several minutes before she could get her mind fully back on worship. Lord, this hour is for you. Help me enter into your presence.

  The opening hymn helped, the liturgy even more so. How the familiar words spoke to her now!

  “Your love compels us to live not for ourselves but for you.”

  Emilie let them sink in, even as her lips formed the syllables. The words had not changed; it was her heart that was different. She knew the One for whom she sang. She knew the One whom the liturgy described and celebrated. Knew him! Lately, she’d found herself nodding in agreement as she recited the liturgy aloud and reading with more conviction. With—dare she say it?—more passion.

  “You fill our hearts with the love of God.”

  Jesus loved her—loved Emilie! And she loved him back. It was getting harder to be solemn about the whole thing when she wanted to shout it from the steeple: “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine!”

  That Jonas cared for her was delightful.

  That Jesus cared for her was everything.

  Aglow with her thoughts, she beamed at Pastor Yeager while he thoroughly expounded page two of his Lenten sermon. He was nearing a key point when Emilie felt a distinct nudge in her ribs. From Nathan? She shot him a surreptitious glance, and saw nothing but eyelids at half mast and a slightly slack mouth. Obviously the young man was having a hard time staying awake.

  The mysterious prodding couldn’t have been from Beth, whose attention was riveted toward the pulpit. And Jonas certainly didn’t reach around his brother to poke her.

  That left one option … Lord? Is that you?

  Emilie dropped her gaze to the rack of hymnals, feeling an odd chill run over her. No one else heard their heartfelt conversation, right? This was just between her and the Lord, yes?

  The silent inner nudging became more pronounced.

  Her stomach tightened. You want me to do what, Lord? Let go of my land? My Gemeinhaus land? Oh, Father! Surely not.

  His answer was swift and certain: Not your land, Emilie. My land.

  She swallowed hard when the truth stuck in her throat. Every inch of the earth belonged to the Lord. It was not hers to claim.

  To make matters worse, her motives weren’t pure and Emilie knew it. She wasn’t planning on digging up that ground to please her Creator; she wanted to please herself. To satisfy her pride, to gain recognition among her peers, to get the bitter taste of Bethabara out of her mouth.

  Could she let it go? Let it be a sacrifice, an offering to God? Like incense on the altar, like a fragrant aroma?

  She could. She would. Today, now, right after the service.

  One line from the closing hymn—written nearly three centuries earlier, she couldn’t help noting—gave her the courage she needed. “Before the hills in order stood, or earth received its frame,” she sang, tears springing to her eyes, “from everlasting, you are God, to endless years the same.”

  After the benediction, with her tears quickly blinked into submission, Emilie took a deep breath and turned to the men on her left, offering her hand and a smile. “You must be Nathan.”

  Jonas jumped in first. “Brother Nathan, meet Dr. Emilie Getz. The woman I … uh, told you about, remember?”

  “So you did.” Nate took her hand in his. “I’m Nathan. The other single Fielding. So it’s Dr. Getz, huh? I’m impressed.” His dark-eyed gaze, so much like his brother’s, lingered on hers for a moment. “Very impressed,”
he added, squeezing her hand two beats longer than necessary.

  Goodness! What had Jonas called him once? “The real ladies’ man of the four.” Well! If Nathan was serious about turning over a new leaf with the Lord, such obvious flirtation was one habit that needed curbing and soon. Otherwise, he’d be breaking women’s hearts all over Lititz.

  Jonas led them toward the back of the sanctuary, then waited for her outside. The minute she was within reach, he captured both her hands in his, at once wrapping the two of them in their own private world, despite the fact that they were standing at the center of busy Church Square with Nathan and the Landises hovering nearby.

  Though Jonas held her at a proper distance, his gaze engulfed her. “You look like a woman with a secret.”

  “Not for long.” She hadn’t realized it was possible to grin so broadly that it hurt her cheeks. Here we go, Lord. “You and I haven’t chatted since Wednesday about that particular piece of property on Kissel Hill Road.”

  His features lost some of their sparkle. “That’s not a secret, Em. That’s a conflict. One I keep hoping we’ll resolve.”

  “And so we shall, this very instant.”

  His bushy eyebrows shot north. “Now?”

  “Now.” Her joy spilled over into laughter. “Jonas Fielding, consider yourself the proud manager of a quarter acre of land with no historical encumbrance on your construction site whatsoever. In other words, it’s all yours, handsome.”

  His astonished expression froze in place. “Are you sure?”

  “I am.” The peace stealing over her soul confirmed it. “Very sure.”

  With a loud “Whoopee!,” Jonas wrapped his arms around her in broad daylight with a hundred spectators gawking away, and squeezed her so hard she gasped for air.

  “Jonas—stop! I—can’t—breathe!”

  “Oops.” He abruptly released her to a chorus of chuckles. “Sorry,” he murmured, steering her farther down the sidewalk while Nathan and Drew hung back and got acquainted. “Does this mean your research took you in another direction?”

  “You could say that.” Try as she might, Emilie knew the silly grin on her face was not going to yield. “I had a little talk with God about that property this morning—”

  “In church?”

  “Seemed like a logical place to me.” Her shrug was nonchalant, but her heart was beating like a kettle drum. “Anyway, this is what the Lord wants me to do: Release my interest in the land and let you press on. There you have it, Jonas. Happy?”

  His gaze narrowed. “I’m only happy if you are, Em. I don’t cotton to the idea of having you remind me for years to come, ‘Look at all I gave up for you, Fielding.’ ”

  Emilie felt her neck grow warm. “Years to come,” is it?

  She lifted her chin, as though to cool herself, then raised her hand in a pledge. “Will you take my word that I’ll never bring up the subject again?”

  He offered her a mock bow. “Emilie Getz, you are the utter definition of trustworthy. Of course I’ll take your word. After all, you took my parrot.”

  A guffaw exploded from her lips, a ghastly, unfeminine sound, which seemed to please Jonas no end. “Not only your parrot,” she reminded him. “Two guinea pigs and a fish.”

  “And bless you for it.” Cupping her elbow, he guided her back toward the church. “Your sacrifice today will not go unnoticed either, pretty girl. On that you can take my word.”

  My word.

  Jonas had never seen so many cats. The place was a cornucopia of cats, from tiny six-week-old kittens to old toms with long whiskers and sallow eyes. He hung on to his completed adoption paperwork and moved past the cages, nodding absently as the cheerful volunteer steered him along, chatting about the merits of each feline.

  He’d arrived at the Humane League of Lancaster County at ten sharp when the doors opened Monday, ready to bring home the perfect companion for his generous Emilie. A thank-you gift she could actually pet. One that would greet her at the door when she came home. Curl up in her lap while she read. Sleep at her feet at night.

  It’ll be the best pet yet, Em. He grinned at the thought, then realized the volunteer assisting him was ten steps ahead.

  “Uh, sorry.” Tightening the gap with long strides, he caught up with her, then followed the woman’s hand as she pointed to a slender cat with short brown hair and darker stripes.

  “This one is part Abyssinian.”

  “Boy, that’s too bad.” He shook his head, sympathetically. “Are there shots for that?”

  The young woman’s eyes flew open, as if she’d just swallowed a bag of cat litter by mistake. “That’s a breed, sir.”

  Oops. He recovered by flashing his gets-’em-every-time smile. “You’ll have to forgive me, ma’am. I’m not up on pets of the feline persuasion. More of a dog man myself.”

  Emilie seemed the kittenish type, though. He swung around, surveying the area. “Got any more little fur balls?”

  She walked him past the kittens again—all adorable, but frankly, smaller than the guinea pigs. How could something that puny greet you at the door?

  He picked one up, marveling at its soft, downy fur, then noticed in a painful instant that hiding underneath the fur was a whole army of sharp little claws. Putting the kitten down in a hurry and nursing his hand, Jonas imagined the furry bundle clawing its way up Emilie’s lacey tablecloth. Not a pretty picture.

  Maybe it was an anomaly. “Do they all have claws like that?”

  The volunteer’s eyes narrowed into slits. “May I see your paperwork please?” She studied it carefully, making disapproving noises under her breath.

  Surely he was qualified to adopt a cat, wasn’t he? He loved animals, was a model pet owner. Made regular donations to the ASPCA. He tried his best to look responsible when she handed him back his forms with a huff.

  “Very well. A veteran pet owner, just new to cats?”

  He nodded emphatically. “That’s the ticket. Truth is, I think I need something bigger. Older. Not a kitten at all, but a mature cat.”

  Her expression softened. “I know just the one.” She directed him to a cage in the far corner, then reached in and scratched the occupant between the ears, producing an immediate, pronounced purr. “This is Olive. You’d make my week if you gave this old girl a good home.”

  Olive was every color but green. Black, gray, tan, white, brown, gold—this cat had every genetic thread known to kittydom packed in a massive, fluffy body. One eye was circled with black fur, the other orange, which gave her an oddly maniacal look, like a pirate.

  Jonas grinned and took a turn scratching her massive head. “Hello, matey.”

  “You saw that, too, huh?” The young woman beamed up at him, all suspicions clearly put to rest. “Olive is my favorite. Problem is, she’s been here too long. Not everyone appreciates the advantages of an older cat—” she batted her eyes at him—“like you do, Mr. Fielding.”

  He looked over his shoulder, then bent down to whisper. “Are her days … uh, numbered?”

  “There’s no set schedule for such things, but when the kennel gets crowded like this, and the animal has been here a long time.…” She shrugged, her meaning clear. “Olive is friendly, even-tempered, already spayed, only three years old, and ready to make someone a fine pet.”

  “Sold.” He shoved the paperwork in her hands. “Where do I pay my fifteen dollars?” The bargain of a lifetime, this.

  Gently easing the monstrous creature out of her cage, Jonas managed to get his hands wrapped firmly around her bulky body, then turned toward the front door, setting his own voice on purr. “You just wait, Miss Olive. Emilie is gonna flip when she meets you.”

  Nathan flipped the remains of his cigarette at the cement walkway that led to Jonas’ front door, then groaned in resignation and retrieved it. Too classy a street for butts on the sidewalk.

  His brother’s place was everything he’d hoped and more. A high-priced two-story in a fancy new neighborhood. Primo. He’d had the cab
driver swing by the golf course on the trip from the bus station last week, and knew that place was turning into a first-class setup, too.

  Nate grinned, despite the dread that tightened his windpipe. Maybe there really is a God.

  Shivering in the morning cold, watching his breath trail out in steamy huffs, he lit a second Camel, hands shaking as they sheltered his lighter from the brisk March wind.

  One thing was certain: There really was a Dee Dee. She of the tight, green dress. He grinned at the memory. A little older than him, but age wasn’t a concern. Young, old, tall, short—long as they were easy on the eyes, he was game, and this one was fine.

  Maybe he’d call her, try and get something set up for the weekend. And pay for it with what, Nate? He took a long drag on his cigarette, blowing a curl of smoke out on a frustrated sigh.

  Money, money, always money.

  According to the calendar in Jonas’ stark kitchen, it was the start of a new month. For him, it was the same old money problems, only worse.

  March 1. The date had gnawed at his soul for two weeks. Cy expected him to cough up eighteen thousand today. Cy also expected him to still be in Florida.

  Nate hadn’t told a soul where he was going. Made sure he left no trail of bread crumbs behind him when he disappeared on his Greyhound bus getaway.

  He hadn’t heard a peep from Vegas. Had almost stopped looking over his shoulder every ten minutes for an unfriendly face. Maybe in a month or two, he could sleep all the way through the night or walk down the street without picking up speed every time he heard footsteps behind him.

  The phone in the house jangled. Not Jonas’ business line, but the house phone. Nate stubbed out his cigarette half-smoked, tucking the rest away for later, and stepped inside.

  Could be his brother, calling to say he’d been bitten by a sourpuss. Nate grinned at his own pun. Funny, man. What possessed Jonas to buy his girlfriend a cat was anybody’s guess. Moving toward the phone, Nate scratched Trix’s head on the way by. “Don’t worry, girl, he’s not bringing some fool cat into this house.”

  Out of habit, Nate checked his watch before he answered the persistent ring. Just after eleven. “Fielding residence.”