Bookends

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Now she smiled. “Oh, yeah.”

  If he didn’t kiss her right now he was going to detonate.

  Sara saved the day by pulling Emilie away from striking distance and toward the church. “C’mon, Auntie Em. They’re closing the doors.”

  He cocked his head. “Auntie Em?”

  “Long story.” Emilie offered a gentle wave and turned to follow Sara, still wiggling her fingers over her shoulder. “See you later.”

  Later? “Tonight, then?” he called out impulsively. “We gotta talk, Emilie.”

  She didn’t turn around, but instead nodded her head, laughing softly. “Yes, we do, Jonas.”

  He grinned at her retreating back, jamming his hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels. Wait until you hear what I have to say to you, Doc. Just you wait.

  “Mom.” Emilie cradled the phone, keeping one eye on Sara and Olive tumbling on the living room floor like two kittens. “It’s Em.”

  Her mother gasped. “Goodness! Is everything okay? Is your collarbone hurting again?”

  “Mom—”

  “Honey, if you need the car, I’ll have your daddy follow me over there right this minute.”

  “Mother—”

  “Emilie Gayle, I worry about you, alone in that house on that busy street—”

  “Mom!” She grinned, waiting to be sure it sank in. “I’m fine. Really. I’m also thirty-six, remember? Today, though, I’m baby-sitting and wondered—”

  “Baby-sitting?” The wires hummed. “Whose baby?”

  “Beth and Drew’s little girl, Sara. Who is anything but a baby.”

  “It is easier once they’re potty trained.” Her mother’s tone calmed a bit. “What can I do for you, dear?”

  Emilie lowered her voice. “Mom, I’ve run out of things for a four-year-old child to do for amusement. Short of renting another movie, can you think of something?”

  “Well, now!” Her mother sounded pleased as punch. “To think my daughter, Dr. Emilie Getz, would actually think I know something she doesn’t.”

  “When it comes to mothering, you are definitely the pro.” Emilie smiled to herself. Though I hope my turn will come someday.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. Now let’s see if I can’t come up with the perfect activity. She’s artistic, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, very. I have the crayons, markers, and paint all over this house to prove it.” Even after just one day, the messy rooms were beginning to look normal to her. Lived in.

  “Do you have this week’s Record Express handy?”

  Emilie reached on top of the fridge, one of the few places Sara hadn’t found to put things yet. “The March eleventh issue, is that the one?”

  “Correct. Now turn to page twenty—got that? I’m looking right at it, too. See down in the lower left corner?”

  “An Easter coloring contest? Mom, that’s perfect! Ages four to ten. Great. Thanks, Mom. You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Happy to be of help to you, dear. We’re looking forward to dinner on Wednesday night. Planning on … bringing anyone?”

  Emilie rolled her eyes, surprised this hadn’t come up sooner. “Don’t be coy, Mom. I’ll see you Wednesday. Three places at the table should do it, okay? Love you, too.”

  She hung up the phone, studying the rules of the weekly contest. Sara would only be competing against other four- and five-year-olds. Very fair. They could use any medium Sara liked. Sara will use them all. She could win five dollars, and it was due at the newspaper office tomorrow at noon. Great! It was one block from her house. Emilie would see that it was delivered herself.

  Reaching into a drawer for scissors, Emilie hummed a line from Easter Parade, even as she watched the snowflakes drifting outside her cozy house. So, Em. Is this little art project for Sara or for you?

  A ridiculous giggle bubbled up and out. Yes!

  “Oh, Sara sweet.” Emilie carefully cut out the contest form with the outline of an Easter egg basket just begging to be turned into a work of art. “Auntie Em has something fun in mind. Come see.”

  Sara was already at the kitchen door, wide-eyed, a contented cat draped over her shoulder. “Fun? Oh boy!”

  Boy, I hope she’s hungry.

  Jonas sat across the street from Emilie’s front door, his whole passenger seat filled with white boxes of fragrant Chinese food that were tickling his taste buds more by the second.

  He’d taken a big risk, showing up like this without calling. What if she wasn’t home? What if she wasn’t hungry? What if she was starving and hated Chinese food?

  Next time, call.

  And lose the element of surprise? Nothing doing.

  He was the one surprised when Drew and Beth pulled up in their van. Of course. Sara. Emilie and her baby-sitting duties. He was still shaking his head over that one. Probably made the poor child use one crayon on one piece of paper at a time. Eat every bite on her plate. Go to bed at 8:31 sharp.

  You’re talking about the future mother of your future children.

  Jonas smiled. Right.

  Emilie would be a great mom, especially because she’d have him there to teach her everything he knew about parenting.

  Em was standing in the door now, hugging them all good-bye, so intent on what she was doing she didn’t even look up and spot his black Explorer, a rather large target on the snowy white street.

  Should he get out, say hello?

  He hated to interfere with their exchange, slow everyone down.

  Let the food get ice-cold. Yeah, that too.

  In a moment, the Landises drove off, never looking his direction. He felt rather foolish about it now. Have to apologize to Beth about that tomorrow. Right now, though, two of his three questions were answered.

  Emilie was home and was no doubt famished. If she favored cashew chicken, oriental pork, or sweet ’n’ sour shrimp, he’d be one happy man. Grabbing his array of boxes, he headed across the street, his grin growing wider with each step until it threatened to touch both ears.

  Emilie answered the door seconds after he knocked.

  And promptly knocked him out.

  She stood there in the grungiest clothes he had ever seen on any woman, let alone this one. The button-down shirt was missing half its buttons, the jeans had holes in both knees and quit about mid-calf, and her hair was stuck on top of her head with a huge, shell-shaped plastic clamp.

  The effect was a cross between Elly May Clampett and Pebbles.

  She’d never looked more adorable. If it weren’t for the blasted little boxes swinging from his fingers, he’d have hugged her and asked for her hand in marriage on the spot.

  The only thing missing was a smile. What she was wearing was more of an O. Big eyes, big open mouth, even her nostrils were flared.

  “Jonas!”

  “Surprise.” He really didn’t need to say that. It was clear she was more than surprised, she was dumbfounded. “May I come in?”

  “In?” She was flustered. “In this house? Now?”

  He held up his boxes. “Yeah, if that’s okay. While the food’s still hot.” Glancing around her slim hips, he tried to see what the problem might be. Seeing none, he stepped on the threshold.

  “Oh!” She pressed her hands on his chest. “I’m a mess. And the house is … worse. Could you give me about … thirty minutes?” She pressed more firmly against his shirt. He could almost feel his wildly thumping heart beating against the palms of her hands.

  Lowering his head, his Chinese food all but forgotten, he slowly kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear, “I’ll give you exactly thirty minutes to quit what you’re doing to me right now.”

  Emilie jumped back as if stung by a bee. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to … well, anyway—” She tied her hands in a knot wringing them. “Please, Jonas, I’d love to see you. Truly. But I’m … it’s … messy.”

  He finally noticed the living room behind her and whistled. Whoa. She wasn’t kidding. Cushions were tossed willy-nilly, the lampshades were askew, a chair was t
urned over, and the dining room table looked like a watercolor war zone. Dirty plates were stacked on an end table, and empty bowls containing what appeared to be the dregs of popcorn were sitting on a bookshelf.

  Emilie’s bookshelf? A parking spot for popcorn bowls?

  “Wow,” he breathed. “It looks like home.”

  Emilie recovered enough to gasp. “Your mother’s house looked like this?”

  “Only when she was at work.” He grinned. “Or took a nap. We always had to clean it up though. Which is what I’ll help you do, Em. After we eat. Deal?”

  She stepped back, gazing at him in wonder. “You’re not … disgusted? With this mess. With … me?”

  He put his boxes down and wrapped his arms around her waist, tugging her closer. “Let’s get one thing straight: I would never be disgusted with you. Especially dressed like this. You were playing mother today, and by the look of things, doing a bang-up job.”

  She patted at her hair, as though one pat would put two hundred stray wisps in place. “Honestly? May I at least … change?”

  “Nope. Perfect outfit for eating Chinese food. I always end up wearing half of it on my clothes anyway, don’t you? In your case …” He bit his lip to keep from smiling too broadly. “You can just burn them.”

  “Jonas!” She swatted him. “These are my painting clothes. I wear them once every two years.”

  He leaned over to gaze at her torn jeans. “Are those the same kneecaps you wouldn’t let me see in church on Christmas Eve?”

  She tried to cross her legs standing up, to no avail. “You … you noticed my knees?”

  “When it comes to Dr. Emilie Getz, I miss nothing.” He kissed the tip of her nose, then let go of her waist and gathered up their dinner. “C’mon, let’s eat. If we can … uh, find a place to sit.”

  They landed in the middle of the living room floor, the rest of the Record Express spread out to catch the drippings. He was right, of course. She did end up having sweet ’n’ sour sauce land in several strategic places, while his black shirt and jeans kept his wonton soup drippings in the dark.

  Emilie broke open her almond-flavored fortune cookie and offered him half while she read her fortune. “It’s meaningless, of course, but just in case it’s interesting …” Her eyebrows shot up. “And is it ever.” She extended the white slip of paper between two slender fingers, which he playfully kissed before taking the paper.

  Smoothing it out with his thumbs, he read aloud, “ ‘Ask and you shall know the truth.’ Hmmm. Almost sounds like the Bible verse, ‘Ask, and it will be given to you.’ ”

  “I like your verse better.” Emilie put aside her chopsticks and napkin, folding her hands in her lap as if to steel herself. “Jonas, if I asked you, would you give me your eighteenth hole?”

  He blanched. “What kind of question is that?”

  “I want to know the truth.” Her pale skin grew paler, her features were utterly still and deadly serious. “I have … reason to believe that my Gemeinhaus foundation may be under there after all. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I do.” How could he ever lie to her, but especially about this? “I have reason to believe it’s there, too, Emilie.”

  Her eyebrows rose, as did her voice. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I wanted to be sure.” And foolish me, I wanted it to be a surprise. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up after you so kindly offered me—”

  “Right!” Her hands clamped on her knees in a defiant pose. “And you also didn’t want to dig up your precious golf course if it wasn’t necessary.”

  He waited one beat, then two, while she seethed. She looked so pretty when she seethed, like a feisty lioness. Finally, lest she also develop claws, he admitted the truth.

  “I may very well have to dig it up, Emilie. And I’m willing to. Honest. Can we leave things like that for the moment until I find out a few more details? Will you trust me?”

  This was clearly not what she expected to hear. Her V-shaped eyebrows eased back down, her wrists went limp on the floor, and a magical sort of light played around her eyes. “Whatever you say, Jonas. I trust you.” She gulped, looking a bit overcome. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

  “Emilie, I will always tell you the truth.” Maybe not according to your timetable, but the truth, always. He slid their dinner out of the way and pulled her toward him, rising to his knees and lifting her up as well. “May I depend on you to do the same, Em? Tell me the truth, always?”

  She nodded, her eyes misty. “Always.”

  “Then tell me this. Are you in love with me?”

  Emilie looked as though she might faint. “Am I …?”

  “You said you’d tell me the truth.” He pressed a tender kiss on each cheek. “And since I promised to do the same, let me tell you this first. I love you, Emilie Getz.”

  She sighed like an angel might. “Me too.”

  He couldn’t resist teasing her. “You love you, too?”

  “No, you. I love you, Jonas Fielding.” Keeping her eyes wide open, she kissed his lips, one of her butterfly kisses. “Do you even love my knobby knees?”

  “Oh, especially those,” he whispered, his voice growing hoarse.

  “What about my steel-trap mind, Dr. Fielding?”

  “Yes, I love that, too.” He sat back on his feet, needing air, needing space. The woman was like a fine dish of Szechuan and he knew when he’d had enough. “In fact, if you will, bring that exceptional mind—and everything else, of course—to Carter’s Run on Tuesday, March 30. I’m having a press conference you might find of interest. Say you’ll come, Em-ee-lee.”

  Both sitting back, only their knees touching now, hands held loosely together, they smiled at one another.

  “Jonas,” she said after a heady silence. “Hear me say this: If you want me there, I’ll be there.”

  He nodded, never more certain of anything in his life. “I do.”

  She grinned and squeezed his hands. “Me too.”

  Twenty-one

  When you play the game for fun, it’s fun. When you play it for a living, it’s a game of sorrows.

  GARY PLAYER

  Nathan stepped up to the uninitiated practice tee at Carter’s Run, grateful to be on familiar ground. The place was crawling with construction types putting the finishing touches on the clubhouse. Nobody seemed to notice a lone golfer—a Jonas Fielding look-alike at that—teeing up to hit a few balls.

  He squinted up at the bright sky. It was the fourth sunny day in a row with temps in the fifties. On the chilly side for golf, but he was dressed for it. The air was clean and sharp, not too breezy. Even using Jonas’ clubs, even woefully behind in his practice hours, Nate was hitting two-eighty to three hundred yards consistently.

  Rolling his shoulders to relieve some tension, he shook out his legs and walked through his swing in slow-motion first: Address. Backswing. Transition. Downswing. Impact. Finish. Golf was a head game, but it was a muscle game, too, and he was pathetically out of shape.

  Whack! The ball soared in a classic arc; his adrenaline soared with it. Man, he loved this game. Loved the feeling of power and freedom on the fairways, the exacting science of the putting greens. Loved the camaraderie of the other players … serious players, pro players.

  Players who weren’t a has-been like him.

  Ten years ago, when it came to choosing practicing or partying, he chose partying. Five years ago, when it came to choosing between the game or the money, he chose the money.

  Now the party was over; the money was gone.

  And Nathan was in way over his head.

  The Christianity bit, for example. That had started out as a lark, a game, a subterfuge to win Jonas over to his side and fast. He knew how religious Jonas was, how wrapped up in his church he’d become. What easier way could there be to make points the minute he pulled into town?

  Problem was, it’d worked too well. Jonas believed his story and expected him to pray all the time—not just before
meals. How stupid could that be, talking to God? As if he were listening. As if he cared.

  Jonas kept dragging him to church, quoting Bible verses, talking about a new life in Christ. Nate wanted a new life, all right. A new life without Cy, not a new life with somebody else.

  Unless it was Dee Dee Snyder. Too bad he wouldn’t be around long enough to pursue that angle more fully.

  This week was the big one. “Holy Week,” they called it. Great. Church seven nights in a row. Not his idea of a good time. Luckily, he had an out: He’d found a job at Hess Clothing. When they’d shopped there earlier, the store manager had commented on his good taste in men’s fashion and his knowledge of the better lines. When the guy heard Nate was a former pro golfer with free time on his hands, he’d called to offer him a sales position. “Any brother of Jonas Fielding is okay by me,” he’d said.

  Just don’t do a background check, buddy.

  Not that the man would find a criminal record. The two drunk-driving charges from back when he was at Stanford had been dismissed and Nate had judiciously steered clear of the courts since then. He’d also steered clear of a steady job with steady income, choosing instead a life of gambling in the one state that made it legal.

  Gripping his club, he went through the motions that had become habit, slowly, then at full speed, turning his frustration and anger into energy for his swing. Whack!

  He almost chuckled. Must be plenty keyed up. Hit two-ninety on that one, easy.

  At least he had a job and a place to practice gratis for a week. He almost hated to admit it, but it felt good to be working again. Took a long time to earn a buck, but they couldn’t take it away from him.

  Cy could. In a New York minute.

  And would. Four days from now, on April 1. No fooling.

  Desperate times called for desperate measures. And he was nothing if not desperate. Forgive me, brother. He’d said it over and over in his mind, consoled only by the fact that it wasn’t Jonas’ money that’d be missing. It was construction money. Borough money. What’s twenty grand when you’re talking about a budget of five million?