Bookends

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  A male voice blasted out of the receiver. “What are you, somebody’s lah-dee-dah butler?”

  Cy. Nate almost dropped the phone. “H-how’d you find me here?” Stupid question. He didn’t need to know the particulars, though Cy seemed quick enough to share them.

  “My guy in Jacksonville checked with the rental car gal, who remembered hearing you call a cab for the bus station. Then he found a Greyhound agent who remembered talking to you about how pretty Lancaster was. Only a coupla Fieldings in the phone book. See? Not hard, kid. What’s hard is having you do me this way when I’ve been so easy on you.”

  Nate gripped the phone. “Look, I’m broke, Cy. Not a dime to my name. Not a penny.”

  “That’s not how I hear it. Hear you’re livin’ in a real nice house, ridin’ around in a brand-new black Explorer, makin’ eyes at all the women at church. Church, Nate? You goin’ religious on me?”

  Cy knew everything, it seemed, except why he was in Lititz. Nate started to explain—about his brother, about trying to get in his good graces, maybe work up to asking for a gig at the new golf course.

  But Cy didn’t care about any of that. He only cared about his money.

  Nate tried to sound relaxed. “Cy, old buddy. What’s eighteen grand to a high roller like you?”

  “I’m not your old buddy, got that?” The voice on the other end of the phone had grown cold and sharp, poised to kill like a sheet of ice hanging from a shingled roof. “You’re right. The money is nothin’. It’s the fact that it’s my money that matters. The fact that if word gets out that Cy Porter is goin’ easy on people, letting ’em get away without settling their debts … well, that’s a problem, Nate. How’re you gonna solve that problem?”

  Nate’s mind struggled to function. As best he knew, Cy had never killed anybody. But he’d hurt people. Trashed their houses. Scared their families. Cy’s network spread farther than Nate had ever imagined. He’d figured Florida or Pennsylvania was plenty far away from Nevada.

  Apparently he’d been wrong.

  “April 1.” Nate hated hearing his voice shake. He swallowed and said it again, more firmly. “April 1. That’s when I’ll have the money, all of it plus interest. Let’s make it twenty thousand. Okay, Cy? A little extra for your troubles. Wish I could have it sooner, but it’s gonna take some time to … get it together.”

  The phone was silent. He thought the line had gone dead until he realized Cy’s low breathing was still coming over the line. Finally Cy spoke, his voice unnaturally steady. “Is this a joke, Nate?”

  Nate’s throat tightened again with a jolt. “No, not a joke! No, nothing funny about this. I … just need another month, that’s all.”

  “Sure you’re not pulling some April Fool’s prank on your old buddy?”

  Nate’s laugh was thin, high and wavery, more like the yelp of an animal in pain. “I know better than to try and fool you, Cy. Thursday, April 1. Got it marked right here.” Nate drew an imaginary circle on the wall calendar with a trembling finger. “You won’t have to call again. The money will be there, on the first.”

  “No more second chances, Nate. This is it. Understood?”

  Only too well.

  Nathan dropped the receiver in place, then sank to his knees on the hardwood floor. Everything ached—his head, his chest, his gut. There wasn’t a medicine in the world that could take away this kind of pain.

  How did it come to this?

  That’s what he couldn’t figure out. His three brothers were big shots in their communities, their mother had been a saint, their father had been a flippin’ hero.

  “So what are you, Nate?” He rammed his fist against the floor, then cursed when he bruised it, shouting into the empty house. “What are you? A screwup? A write-off? Who needs you, Nate? Who needs you?”

  He bent over, hugging his knees. “I’ll tell ya who. Not a livin’ soul.” Long past tears, long past regret. Only the rage and the pain remained.

  “Nobody needs you, Nate Fielding.” He tore the word out of his throat. “Nobody.”

  Jonas wasn’t there when the phone call came.

  The message on his answering machine from Ben Haldeman, the contractor responsible for the initial ground clearing for the course, had been brief but enigmatic. “Something’s come up you oughtta know about, Chief. Call me. Soon.”

  Messages like this one had become commonplace the last few weeks. Most of his work as a developer had come in the early stages—two, three, four years ago. Sell the concept, buy the land, put the players together, get the financing approved, jump through all the legal hoops, fill out all the paperwork. Twenty hours a day of nothing but work.

  No time for doing something capricious like driving south to Lancaster to buy a cat for Dr. Getz. Though considering the sacrifice she’d made for Carter’s Run, the fifteen dollars was practically a business gift. Grinning as he flipped open his notebook with Ben’s phone number, Jonas pictured the look on her face Monday when he’d knocked on her door, Olive in hand.

  “Jonas!” Clearly, she’d been overwhelmed with his generosity. “Not another … pet?”

  He’d smiled and handed over the furry mass. “It’s the least I can do to say thank you, Em.”

  The cat, the litter box, the food, the works. No wonder Emilie was speechless. He’d only talked to her by phone the last few days, always thanking her profusely for letting him proceed without a fight.

  What a woman!

  It was obvious what was going on. She cared too much to cause him that kind of grief. And he cared about her, didn’t he? Sure he did. Enough to drive sixteen miles round-trip for a silly cat.

  However fond the memory, though, today was a serious workday. Five weeks exactly until the grand opening. Now more than ever, he was the go- to guy for problems, the point man when it came to taking concerns before the steering committee. His schedule was his own until a situation reared its ugly head.

  Ben’s deal sounded like a situation and a half.

  Jonas punched in the numbers and was relieved when Ben answered his cell phone on the first ring.

  “Ben? Jonas Fielding. Yeah, fine. What’s up?”

  “It’s like this, Jonas.” The man’s rough-as-gravel bass rolled across the line. “I’m working on another job in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, with some of the crew who worked for me on your job last year. Sure is a fine place, that Lititz. You ’bout ready for your big opening?”

  “Right.” Nobody could drag out a story like Ben Haldeman. “And …?”

  “And we were talking about weird stuff we’d unearthed on clearing gigs. You know, bathtubs, gravemarkers. Found a ’49 Chevy in Lansing, Michigan, once.”

  “I gotcha. So …”

  “So one of the fellas—Gary, I think, guy from Pottstown. No. Not Pottstown. Pottsville. Potts-something-or-other.”

  Jonas bit his lip. “Uh-huh. Go on.”

  “Anyway, Gary—I think his name was Gary. Coulda been Greg. Well, he said he’d found the craziest thing on your golf course over there. Too big for a grave, too small for a modern house, he thought. Not exactly a foundation, but close. Walls were eighteen inches thick, Gary said. Lotta pieces of pottery and stuff. Looked real old, he thought.”

  Jonas felt an uneasy twinge skip up his spine. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this, Ben?”

  “To be honest, Jonas, you weren’t there. This was last June, remember? You were in Hungary. No. Haiti, was that it?”

  The mission trip to Honduras. “I left you in charge, Ben, as I recall.”

  “Yeah, you sure did.” His chuckle sounded like an old truck engine on a cold morning. “Jonas, the thing is, we were almost finished the afternoon Gary found this. You were outta the country and I was on another machine on the far end of the course. Down at the ninth hole. Say, did that turn out like you wanted it to? I thought the bunkers were a bit—”

  “Yes!” Jonas stood up to keep from exploding. “It’s all great, the course is great. But Ben, this news is not
great. Are you telling me Gary just shoved dirt over this foundation and left it there?”

  “Well … yeah. I mean, we didn’t have any instructions otherwise. Nothing on the clearing order, nothing on the permits, no red flags in the dirt, no notices posted. You know the routine.” He sounded a bit miffed. “Look, we did our job, Jonas. Gary never mentioned it, that day or any other day, until the subject came up here in Cherry Hill. Man, this place is nothing like Lancaster County. Nothin’ but highways and byways and malls out the—”

  “Ben.” Jonas paused to catch his breath while the man rambled on. “Ben, the question is, where on the course did Gary see this old foundation? Did he remember?”

  “Sure. Who forgets a thing like your eighteenth hole? It’s the crown of the course, Jonas, you know that. Why, the closing—”

  “Thanks, Ben.” Jonas sank back in his chair while Ben kept talking. When the older man finally ran out of steam, Jonas assured him, “No, Gary’s not in trouble. I shoulda been there, that’s all there is to it. Look, I’ll take things from here. Thanks for giving me a heads-up. Yeah, you too, Ben.”

  Jonas hung up the phone with exaggerated care, as if it might electrocute him if he did otherwise. His thoughts were running like shock waves through his system, with the overriding one being this: Why now, Lord? Why, after Emilie agreed to let him finish the thing, why did this news have to come today instead of next month, when it would be too late?

  For that matter, now was too late.

  It’s not too late, Jonas, and you know it.

  He stood, arguing with himself, pacing the room, flailing his arms around him like a windmill gone haywire. If he ignored the news, he would have to live with the guilt every time he looked down into those light brown eyes and that creamy complexion and that rosebud smile.

  Anyway, people would find out soon enough. Ben was a talker and the golf industry loved a chewy bit of gossip. If she found out—no, when—she would never forgive him.

  And that would make two, because he could never forgive himself.

  Okay. Suppose he let her have the eighteenth hole? Dig it up, trash the thing, turn it into a historic landmark with tourist buses and third-graders tossing candy wrappers on his clubhouse lawn.

  Nah. The whole scenario gave him hives.

  But Emilie had made that sacrifice for him. To honor the Lord, she said. Couldn’t he make that sacrifice for her, for the same reason?

  Lord, I’m willing. Easy to say, hard to do. Impossible to do.

  With me all things are possible.

  “I know, Lord!” Jonas threw his arms heavenward. “So show me another possibility. Please, Father. I’m trusting you to help me find a way that makes sense.”

  He ground his fingertips against his temples, willing his brain to work faster, come up with some solution. Whatever the plan, it’d be a lot easier to sell to the committee if he had that blasted antique survey map.

  Think, man. Was there another option, another place to put the eighteenth hole?

  Ridiculous. Stupid to even consider it.

  Still, he started pulling out drawings even as he grumbled, spreading out the architectural renderings to see if maybe, just maybe …

  Wait. Of course! The solution jumped off the page. A shot of adrenaline ran through his body at the simplicity of it. One phone call could put it in motion. No, not one. Two. And a third for good measure.

  He punched in the numbers, so elated it took him four tries to get the numbers right.

  A voice came on the line, smooth as silk. “Snyder Realty.”

  “Good! You’re there.” His grin stretched wider. Already things were looking up. “Dee Dee, it’s Jonas Fielding. Got a minute?”

  Nineteen

  Life’s under no obligation to give us what we expect.

  MARGARET MITCHELL

  Emilie made up her mind.

  She would call the man immediately.

  No! She would drive over there, this minute, while the whole thing was fresh in her mind and hot under her lace collar.

  Did he think he could get away with this? That it didn’t matter to her? That she had no opinion on the subject?

  The very idea! Giving her a cat. A cat!

  Had she asked for a cat? She had not.

  Did she even like cats? She did—especially when they were owned by other people.

  But this cat ate more food in a sitting than she did. The entire huge bag of smelly cat food was already gone in three short days. Not to mention the multicolored hairs all over her clean upholstery. And then there was this business of changing the litter box …

  Well. Jonas Fielding was not getting away with it. Talk about irresponsible! After all, what had she so thoughtfully given him? Plants. Quiet, unassuming houseplants that ate nothing, drank only a little water on occasion, didn’t meow incessantly to be petted, and wouldn’t think of shedding or leaving a disgusting mess for him to remedy.

  A green plant simply sat there and looked beautiful.

  A cat was … was … a cat!

  In her three days under Emilie’s roof, this Olive creature had managed to swallow the goldfish whole, scare the parrot half numb, and choose as her favorite sleeping spot the top of the guinea pig cage, frightening Clarice and Clyde into a stupefied silence.

  Victor had stopped squawking “Pretty girl!” and replaced it with an equally annoying phrase he heard Emilie say ten times a day: “Naughty cat! Naughty cat!”

  And to what did she owe this most generous of gifts? Her heartrending sacrifice of her Gemeinhaus property in favor of a peaceful, God-pleasing resolution with Jonas.

  Humph. A cat did not a Gemeinhaus replace.

  Jonas needed to understand. And he would, the minute she got to his place and demanded that he take his menagerie—what was left of it, bless Mavis’s poor departed heart—and care for the noisy flock himself.

  Emilie dressed warmly enough to ward off the breezy March winds and stomped out the back door, Olive meowing in the background as she yanked the door shut. It was eight blocks to Jonas’ house. Plenty of time to turn her good head of steam into a full-blown, beginning-of-March roar.

  Emilie the lioness. The image alone carried her two blocks in two minutes.

  “Jonas,” purred the voice over the phone. “I’m always happy to hear from a Fielding man, but I rather hoped it would be Nathan calling. Where is that brother of yours?”

  Jonas shook his head. Even in the midst of business dealings, Dee Dee Snyder had other things on her mind.

  “He was gone when I got home. Left a note saying he was going out for a walk.” To think things through, Nate’s note had said.

  Dee Dee didn’t need to know that.

  Jonas hadn’t told anyone about Nate’s month in rehab, not even Emilie. Wasn’t his story to tell. Nate would share it with people in his own good time, if ever. The two of them had hit Hess Clothing for a bunch of pants and shirts yesterday. Poor guy arrived in town with nothing but the clothes on his back, literally.

  If Nate wanted to strike something up with Dee Dee, that was his business, but Jonas didn’t intend to aid and abet.

  He jammed the phone between his shoulder and ear, smoothing out the wrinkled course design drawing with both hands. “I’m calling because we have a situation at Carter’s Run and I need your input.”

  An abrupt knock at the kitchen door interrupted his thoughts. Nate. His brother always knocked before he came in. Place must not feel like home to him yet.

  After a moment, Jonas heard the back door open and quietly close again. Satisfied Nate was safely in, he spun his chair back around toward the desk and matters at hand.

  “Dee Dee, do you remember Ben Haldeman, our clearing contractor from last June? Ben called with some news this morning. Yup. Very bad news, I’d say.”

  Hearing footsteps in the hall behind him, Jonas hollered out a welcome, then kept talking.

  “Seems a fella on Ben’s crew—some guy named Gary or Greg. You know Ben, he never can keep n
ames straight. Anyway, this guy found what appeared to be a foundation for a ‘very old’ building, as Ben put it. How old, we don’t know, but eighteen-inch-thick walls suggest it wasn’t built ten years ago. Some artifacts too, pottery and such. I’ll tell you what I think it is: Emilie’s Gemeinhaus.”

  Jonas paused, detecting an odd noise in the hall. A bump or thud of some sort. It wasn’t Trix—she was outside, enjoying the fresh air. Must be Nate scrounging around the kitchen. Whatever.

  “Guess where this foundation is located? You got it, Dee Dee. Right under my eighteenth hole. Does that beat all? It seems the lady professor was right.” Which, despite the hassle, made him prouder than if he’d come up with that deduction himself. What a woman!

  He nodded at the phone while Dee Dee talked, then interrupted her with a strangled gasp. “Tell her? You gotta be kidding. We’re five weeks from the opening, Dee Dee. I don’t intend to tell Emilie Getz or anybody else, not even my brother. You’re the only person who knows this, and that’s how it’s gotta stay. You, me, and in a couple of minutes, the architect, but not another soul. Got that? I want this thing under wraps.”

  He listened to her chatter for a moment as he studied the papers in front of him. No way would he tell Emilie Getz. What, and spoil the fun? Uh-uh. He’d quietly get things taken care of, then spring the news on her. And boy, would she be surprised.

  “Listen, there’s another property I wanted to check with you about. Yup, that’s the one. What’s the news there? Huh. Keep me posted and in the meantime, remember—not a word to Emilie.”

  Emilie had never eavesdropped in her entire life.

  She’d seen Jonas on the phone as she walked past the window. Tapped on the backdoor, then when he didn’t answer, let herself in. She’d convinced herself it was perfectly all right. Hadn’t he invited himself through her door a time or two?

  Following the sound of his voice, she stepped lightly through the kitchen, reached his open office door, and lifted her hand to knock at the very moment he said those fateful words: Emilie’s Gemeinhaus.