Bookends Page 13

  “I’m sure I’ll remember.” As if she could forget. “Do I need to … bring anything?” Courage for starters, Em. “Hot chocolate, perhaps?” she added lamely.

  “Nah, I’ve got that covered. And Emilie?” She could hear the banked excitement in his voice. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “You do?” She hated surprises.

  “You’re gonna love it, I promise.” Jonas paused, his enthusiasm clearly getting the better of him. “I’ll give you one hint: you’ll be flying before the morning is over.”

  “I see.” See what? See myself flying into his arms? Certainly not! She scrambled for some legitimate reason to bow out. “Are you sure you’ve … recovered sufficiently?”

  “Healthy as old Trix here.” Emilie heard a bark of agreement in the background. “Now listen, Emilie.” His cautionary tone pushed her nerves further on edge. “It’s nasty out. Dress warmly.”

  “Dress warmly?” Her mind reeled at the thought. “Are we … uh, practicing … outdoors?”

  A deep chuckle reverberated across the phone line. “You aren’t planning on going sledding in my living room, are you? Granted, not much furniture there, but I’d like to spare the hardwood—”

  “Did you say—I mean—sledding?”

  “Sledding, yeah.” His voice was a question mark. “What did you think we were doing?”

  Don’t ask. “I wasn’t sure … exactly.”

  “You seemed to enjoy yourself last Friday. First time, right?”

  “Right.” For a lot of things. She sighed, her nervous system gearing down, one notch at a time. She’d already said yes. No point backing out now. “What time should I come over?”

  “Eleven oughtta do it. The roads are a slippery mess. Take it easy on Cedar Street, promise?”

  She heard a soft click, then a dial tone droned in her ear.

  “Promise,” she said into the stillness of her kitchen, and hung up the receiver, still dazed. How could she have misconstrued his meaning so completely?

  Jonas didn’t remember a thing about last Friday. Except sledding.

  So much the better, Em.

  She kept reminding herself of that truth, even as she dressed in a blouse that buttoned up to her chin, a sweater that buttoned down to her knees, and scarves that concealed every kissable inch. “There.” She stood in front of the hall mirror, her voice muffled by layers of clothing, her body so thoroughly padded she appeared to have gained twenty pounds. “This should get the message across.”

  The actual delivery of Emilie’s keep-your-distance message was delayed longer than expected. It took fifteen minutes to scrape the ice off her car and four grinding tries before the engine finally sprang to life. Her dependable BMW, kept rust-free from one semester to the next with careful paint touchups and plenty of TLC, came through yet again.

  Sitting behind the wheel, hot as burned toast from her efforts and overdone attire, Emilie pulled away from the curb, lightly tapping the brakes to test for traction.

  There was none. Oh, wonderful.

  She inched forward, hovering over the gas pedal, as she turned—rather, slid—onto Cedar. A “slippery mess,” Jonas? Bit of an understatement there. Week-old piles of gray slush, shoveled toward the curbs, lay hidden under last night’s fresh snowfall and this morning’s treacherous addition: ice.

  Clutching the steering wheel, Emilie crawled past the school, then past Trinity Evangelical, noticing how few other drivers had ventured out that morning. A secret shiver of pride ran up her spine. Brave Emilie and her BMW! They’d been through so much together, surely they could handle this.

  After a steady climb upward, her car crested the hill and started down the other side. Odd. The road hadn’t seemed this steep before. On many a sunny day, she’d soared over the rise and down toward Marion Street with nary a moment’s hesitation.

  She was hesitating plenty now—inching forward and inevitably downward. Parked cars along the curb, draped with crusty white heaps, loomed closer than seemed prudent. Her destination felt miles away instead of blocks.

  From the corner of her eye, Emilie watched a car pull out onto Cedar, fifteen yards ahead. Surely she was going slowly enough to stop. Surely. She eased on the brakes, pumping them in slow motion, just like her father had taught her twenty years earlier.

  It may have worked then. It wasn’t working now.

  Her BMW began drifting sideways. The useless brakes only made things worse. Sliding broadside, her speed increasing, Emilie panicked. Steer away from the slide? Into the slide?

  Immobilized, she hung on, eyes widening with fear.

  Without warning, the car in front of her veered right, propelling itself over the curb and out of the BMW’s path. Thank goodness!

  In a split second, relief gave way to terror. The rear wheels locked, then hit a patch of ice. Emilie was suddenly facing backward—backward!—staring up at the snowy hilltop. With a sickening spin, she turned sideways again. Then headfirst, then sideways. Her world became a revolving blur. The only thing in clear focus was the immovable stone gate of the Moravian Cemetery, waiting in ice-shrouded silence at the bottom of the hill.

  “Where is that woman?”

  Jonas checked his watch again. Eleven-thirty. No answer when he called her house. Beth, snowbound at home with Sara, said she hadn’t talked to Emilie since Thursday. Helen hadn’t seen her either.

  The always-punctual Dr. Getz either changed her mind, ran some errands first, or … nah. He wouldn’t let his imagination go there.

  She wasn’t in trouble.

  Just late.

  For the first time in her life.

  When his cell phone rang, he punched it on in mid-chirp. “Emilie?”

  Silence. “Nooo.” The female caller sounded perturbed. “This is the other woman in your life.”

  The other woman? Jonas held the phone away from his ear with two fingers, as if handling a poisonous snake. An old girlfriend, maybe? One of his sisters-in-law? He eased the phone back against his ear. “That you, Diane? Connie?”

  “No, silly man. It’s Dee Dee.”

  Caught off guard, he blurted out, “Dee who?”

  “Look—” she sighed, an undercurrent of irritation rippling below her smooth tone—“I know you collect women like baseball cards, but surely you remember your real estate agent, who—”

  “Oh! Dee Dee.” Of all people. The woman was like a bad penny. “What can I do for you?”

  Her throaty laugh sang across the phone line. “I can think of several possibilities, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

  Good. He glanced at his watch again. “Do you mind cutting to the chase here? I’m … expecting someone.”

  “That brainy historian with the mousy brown hair, I suppose.”

  Jonas frowned, trying to remember if he’d ever seen a mouse with brown hair.

  “Never mind,” Dee Dee added with a groan. “Any more details will just depress me.”

  He heard her shuffle through papers, let out a disgruntled humph, then rattle more pages before she declared, “Aha! Here we go. Remember that property adjacent to Carter’s Run, the one you desperately wanted for your clubhouse?”

  He remembered, all right. “The one the owner wouldn’t sell, at any price we offered?” His one disappointment about the whole project, and Dee Dee the dealmaker had to bring it up. Talk about depressing.

  “I found another angle, Jonas. Is it too late, design-wise?”

  Now she had his attention. “Not if you can give me something definite in the next thirty days.” After months of haggling, he’d been forced to settle for a much smaller clubhouse than he wanted—too close to the street, and too small for anything but the basic services. With the additional corner lot, he’d have the first-class setup he longed for, overlooking the entire eighteen holes.

  If—and it was a big if—the budget stretched that far.

  “How much, Dee Dee?”

  When she said the amount, Jonas let out a whoop. “Miss Snyder, yo
u are a miracle worker. I don’t even wanna know how you did it.”

  “Using perfectly legal methods, I assure you. We have a few more details to work out, but before I proceed, I wanted to be certain this would still … please you.”

  He almost didn’t notice the purr in her voice. “Trust me, I’m pleased, Dee Dee. As soon as the weather breaks, I’ll have the crew back in here, bulldozers roaring. Keep in close contact with me, will you?”

  “That was the idea.”

  “Good. And … thanks.” He punched off the phone, adrenaline pumping through his system. The borough would be thrilled. After he got the full story from Dee Dee, he’d stop by the council meeting Tuesday night, give them the good news.

  When the cell phone in his hand rang again, he nearly dropped it in surprise before finding the right button. “H-hello? Emilie?”

  “Emilie, huh? So you finally snagged a woman.”

  He stared at the receiver for a half second, the male voice on the line not registering.

  “You there, Jonas? It’s Nate.”

  He gripped the phone harder. “Nathan? Is it really you?”

  “Sure it’s me. Who’s Emilie?”

  “A … a woman, here in Lititz.” Who’d better get her mousy-haired self over here pronto before I send Trix out to find her. “More later on that score. Where are you, man? What’s going on? You doin’ okay?”

  Nate’s laugh sounded forced. “I’m in Florida. Jacksonville area. Hitting a few golf balls. Making a few friends.”

  He knew the sort of friends Nate usually attracted. Guys out for a fast buck, trying to find the right hustle that would put them over the top financially. And women willing to go along for the ride who had nothing better to do than hang on.

  Jonas didn’t stoop to calling them losers, but they were definitely lost. Like Nathan.

  “You didn’t answer my last question, Nate. Are you okay?”

  “Sure.” His brother’s response was a long time coming. “I’m a little low on cash right now, that’s all. Nothing new. I’ll manage.”

  Jonas felt a knot forming in his gut. He knew what Nate would say next, knew what was expected of him, the older brother with all the answers—and all the resources. It no longer made him feel useful—just used.

  “Manage how?” Jonas prompted him, dreading his response.

  “You know. Find a good club looking for a pro. Florida’s lousy with golf courses. Something will open up.”

  Good. At least he was trying to find honest work. “What about cash in the meantime?” Jonas couldn’t hang up without knowing his brother had a roof over his head and three square meals a day.

  Nate’s chuckle sounded like a spring uncoiling. “Well, if you have any loose bills sitting around …”

  Jonas plucked his checkbook out of the clutter that served as his desk, and checked the balance. “How much are we talkin’ about, bro?”

  The phone line seemed to go dead. One beat, then two. “As much …” Nathan’s voice faltered. “As much as you can spare, Jonas. Just for a few … months. I’m talking about a loan, not a handout.”

  “Right.” He’d heard this before. “Is five thousand enough?”

  Silence again. “Yeah. Great. Should last me quite a while, let me get on my feet down here, find a nice place …”

  Nathan was babbling now, his words a gushing stream of relief. Jonas grabbed a pen and scribbled down the necessary information while he listened to his brother’s endless thanks, shaking his head at his own gullibility. No matter what Nathan promised, Jonas knew he’d never see this money again.

  The practical, bottom-line, business side of him said it was the worst thing, the stupidest thing he could do.

  The generous, protective, big brother side of him said it was the best thing, the most sacrificial thing he could do.

  Which was the godly thing to do? That’s all Jonas cared about. Right now, he wasn’t getting a clear word from that sector.

  “Where do I send it, Nate?” Jonas printed the address on an envelope and stuffed the check inside. “Done. This’ll have to hold you for a while, buddy. I’ve got a lot of my funds tied up in Carter’s Run. Yeah, we’re right on schedule.” Jonas filled him in, describing the course in detail, elated at his brother’s sudden interest in his work.

  It was nearly noon when Jonas finally punched off the phone after a final admonition to keep in touch. A pointless exercise. Nate wouldn’t call back until he needed something.

  The cell phone rang again almost immediately. “Good grief,” Jonas muttered, punching it back on. “This better be you, Emilie.”

  “Jonas, finally!” a woman gasped. “It’s Beth Landis.”

  “Beth?” The muffled sound of traffic hummed in the background. “Where are you?”

  “Cedar Street. Some guy loaned me his car phone and—” Her voice was drowned out by a grinding motor in the background. “—been trying to reach you for half an hour. After you called me about Emilie, I started worrying and decided to walk over to her house. On the way—” Beth’s words dissolved into a high, thin wail. “Jonas, she’s … she’s been in a terrible accident.”

  “An accident?” Jonas was on his feet. “Is she hurt?” He jammed the phone against his shoulder and scrambled to find the keys to his Explorer, warm gloves, a flashlight, a blanket, anything that looked like emergency gear. “I’ll be there in five minutes. Less.” He felt his own vocal cords tightening. “And tell me she’s okay.”

  “We … we don’t know yet, Jonas.” Beth was fighting for breath. “She’s … trapped in the car. The police are here. And EMS. And the fire department.”

  “The fire—?” He yanked on a wool cap, sprinting toward the back door. “Okay. Okay, don’t move, don’t panic, Beth. I’m out the door. Hear that engine starting? I’ll be there in two minutes.” He backed down the slick driveway, barely noticing the poor traction as he turned the knob to engage the four-wheel drive. “Make that one minute. Don’t cry, honey. Emilie is in good hands. She’ll be okay. Just sit tight and pray, Beth. Pray hard.”

  He tossed the phone aside and pointed the Explorer toward Cedar, his heart pounding, his mind racing. Beth had tried to call him for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes! But no, he was too busy buying and spending, too worried about his business and his brother …

  The guilt trapped in his throat nearly choked him. Keep her safe, Lord. Please keep her safe! He shouldn’t have let her drive in the first place. Should have picked her up, for crying out loud. So what if that made their sledding thing look like a date. It was a date, wasn’t it? Sort of?

  In the rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of Emilie’s new Flexible Flyer in the cargo section, propped up with a big, blue bow tied on top. Too late, Fielding. You’re too late. The knot in his throat sank to his stomach.

  The minute he turned north on Cedar, he could see the red lights of emergency vehicles two blocks ahead. Releasing his foot off the accelerator only slightly, he closed in on the entrance to the cemetery, taking in the scattered semicircle of police vehicles and pedestrians congregating around a badly crumpled BMW with North Carolina tags.

  He didn’t remember parking the car or stuffing his pockets with everything in sight that might serve some purpose. All he remembered were Beth’s eyes, wide and weeping, and Sara’s small arms reaching toward him as he hurried across the snowpacked pavement.

  “Sara!” Without thinking, he grabbed the sobbing little girl and crushed her against his chest, tears stinging his eyes. “I’m here, Sara. I’m here. Everything will be okay, I promise.”

  Sara shook her head and swung one soggy pink mitten in the direction of the mangled car. “But Em-ee-lee’s in there.” Her tiny voice barely penetrated through her scarf. “They can’t get her out, Whale Man. Can you get her out?”

  “I’ll sure try, honey.” He lowered Sara to the ground in time for Beth to give him a brief hug and a wary look.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t …” He shook his head, overcome, knowing ho
w lame his excuse sounded. “I’m … I’m sorry.” Jonas abruptly turned toward the accident scene, avoiding the disappointment written all over Beth’s face.

  I didn’t know. Didn’t know, Lord!

  “Can I help?” He eased his way through the crowd, concerned faces parting to make way for him. Maybe it was his own grim expression that cleared a path for him to reach the inner circle within seconds. Spotting the chief of police, Jonas raised his voice to get the man’s attention. “Ted, what can I do here?”

  “Unless you got the Jaws of Life in your back pocket, nothing.” The older man eased over, his eyes trained on the battered car. “Do you know this woman?”

  “Yeah, I do. She … she goes to my church.” Attaboy, stick your neck out. Jonas pulled off his cap and wiped the cold sweat off his brow. “Has she moved yet? Is she breathing?” Side by side, the two stared at the BMW, crushed like an accordion against a square stone and mortar pillar. Emilie was slumped against the driver’s side, her shoulder pinned forward in an awkward and painful-looking position. She was utterly still, her face paler than he’d ever seen it.

  Oh, Emilie … Jonas swallowed several times, jamming his hands in his pockets, fighting for control.

  Emilie isn’t moving. Why isn’t she moving, Lord?

  Around the accident site were half a dozen rescue workers doing their best to dismantle what was left of the car. A volunteer fireman attempted to pry the door loose with a crowbar while a young woman in an EMS uniform managed to get one arm through the twisted metal, then shouted, “We’ve got a pulse!”

  A murmur of hope circled around him as Jonas inched closer, every cell in his body straining to see her, touch her, hear her voice. Know she was alive. Tell her he was sorry, that he’d messed up, that he—

  “It’s all about you, then. Not about me.”

  Her words, spoken in a heated moment in Pastor Yeager’s office, echoed in his memory. No! It’s about you, Emilie. All about you, this time.

  Would he ever stop feeling guilty around this woman?

  Farther up Cedar Street a horn blared. As the crowd turned to watch another volunteer in a rescue vehicle inch his way down the slippery hill, Ted clamped a meaty hand on his shoulder. “Good news, Jonas. There’s the guy with the tools we’ve been waiting for. We’ve had wrecks all over the township this morning, you know. Worse than last weekend.” Ted raised his voice above the din. “Give the man some room!”