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  Emilie noted with a smile of satisfaction that the old Moravian Congregational Store, circa 1762, hadn’t been altered one iota except for the addition of dormers in the roof. There were laws about remodeling such buildings. “Remuddling is more like it,” she murmured to no one in particular as she neared the corner and turned right onto Moravian Church Square.

  In the chilly night, her heart skipped one beat, then two.

  It was all there. The trombone choir, their elegant brass slides pointed toward the sanctuary doors, sounded a hymn as recognizable as her own name. The snow-dusted sidewalks guided visitors to the Putz—the church’s annual diorama of Bethlehem of old. And hanging from every porch ceiling on the square were Moravian stars dancing in the wind, their ivory glow dispelling the darkness.

  Nothing had changed. Nothing.

  And that pleased Emilie immensely. From her wavy brown hair to her sensible leather boots, she was a woman who understood the importance of tradition. This was her hometown, after all. Her home congregation. Her people, as her Winston-Salem friends would say. The last thing she wanted was to find everything she valued—everything she loved—tossed aside in the name of progress.

  Slipping through the door with a nod to the greeter, she made a beeline for her favorite seat near the front, blinking hard as her senses were overwhelmed with awakened memories. The lump in her throat felt like an orange stuffed in a Christmas stocking. She sank onto a much-worn padded pew and tucked her small purse beside her, careful not to disturb the couple to her left as she made a nest for herself with her cashmere dress coat.

  It seemed that every minute of eighteen years had passed since she’d sat in that exact spot.

  Not true. It seemed like yesterday.

  Letting her eyelids drift shut, Emilie drew in a quiet breath, savoring the spirit of Christmas past that hovered around her. The lingering scent of beeswax candles—snuffed at the close of the earlier vigil service—still tinged the air. Behind the wide door to the old parsonage, aromatic coffee and sweet buns waited for the final love feast of the season, soon to be served to the chosen and the curious who filled the pews of the Lititz Moravian Church.

  Home.

  Eyes still at half-mast, her ears tuned to the faintest traces of Pennsylvania German in the voices murmuring around her, Emilie didn’t see the man preparing to sit down next to her until he landed with a jarring thump, flattening one side of her cashmere nest.

  Good heavens. Didn’t he realize he was sitting entirely too close?

  Not lifting her head to acknowledge him, she merely shifted to the left and whispered, “Pardon me,” while she tugged at her coat sleeve. The black jeans plastered on top of it were the sorriest excuse for Christmas Eve attire she’d ever witnessed. Obviously not a Lititz man.

  When his response wasn’t immediate, she turned her whisper up two notches. “Sir, if you would, please. You’re sitting on my—”

  “Really? No kidding.”

  His full-volume growl sounded like a muffler headed for a repair shop. Young and old in a three-pew circumference turned to see who was disturbing the peace. When Emilie’s gaze joined theirs, she found herself face-to-face with something even more disturbing.

  The man—and he was definitely that—had impossibly short hair, enormous eyes with brows covering half his face, and a five o’clock shadow that darkened his chin line to a slovenly shade of black.

  Before she could stop herself, Emilie grimaced.

  Ick.

  A lazy smile stretched across the field of dark stubble, at which point his narrow top lip disappeared completely. “Sorry, miss.” He leaned slightly away from her, keeping his eyes trained on hers as he released her coat. “My mistake.”

  She snatched back her sleeve, chagrined to feel the crush marks in the fabric and the warmth of his body captured in the cloth. Men! Flustered, she fussed with her coat, trying to rearrange it just so without brushing against those tasteless black jeans of his, the ones that matched his black T-shirt and black sport coat, which, Emilie couldn’t help noticing, displayed an unseemly number of blond hairs.

  A masculine hand thrust into view and the muffler rumbled again. “So. I’m Jonas Fielding. And you are …?”

  Blushing is what you are, Em!

  She swallowed, hoping it might stop the heat from rising up her too-long neck, and offered her hand for the briefest shake. He was so … so not like her professorial peers at Salem College, buttoned up in their conservative shirts and ties. This man was—goodness, what was the word for it? Earthy. Masculine. Something. Whatever it was, it unnerved her.

  Still, she really ought to be polite. They did have an audience, and it was Christmas Eve.

  Pale fingers outstretched, she nodded curtly. “Dr. Emilie Getz.”

  He didn’t shake her hand—he captured it. “New in town, Dr. Getz?”

  The oldest line in the book! And he couldn’t have been more wrong. She jumped at the chance to tell him so as she slipped her fingers back through his grasp and stuffed them in her dress pocket.

  “Not new at all. I was born and raised in Lititz. Graduated from Warwick High School, in fact.” Valedictorian, in fact. She didn’t mean to jerk her chin up, it merely went that way all by itself. “I’ve been … ah, gone for a few years.”

  His gaze traveled over her longer than necessary before his eyes returned to meet hers. “I’d say more than a few years, Emilie.”

  “Why … I …!” She was sputtering. Sputtering! The warmth in her neck shot north, filling her face with an unwelcome flush even as a sly grin filled his own devilish countenance.

  An arpeggio from the pipe organ provided a blessed means of escape from his boyish wink and the chuckle that followed. Heavens, what an ego he has! With his dark features and all-male charm, he was undoubtedly the sort of fellow other women found drop-dead handsome. Emilie hoped he would simply drop dead. Or, at the very least, vanish at the end of the service, never to sit on her coat—or step on her toes—again.

  “More than a few years”? Humph!

  An out-of-towner, no doubt. The borough of Lititz, nestled as it was in the heart of Amish country, swelled with visitors over the holidays. Clearly Jonah—or whatever his name was—belonged among their number, which meant he’d be long gone before she turned the calendar page to January.

  Calm down, Em. It’s Christmas Eve.

  An organ prelude by Pachelbel soon softened the corners of her mouth into a tenuous smile. The sanctuary dated back two centuries; the melody was older still. For historians, a Moravian vigil service approached heaven on earth.

  Though at age thirty-six, Emilie herself was anything but historic. Wasn’t that so?

  “More than a few years …”

  The echo of his words tightened her smile. The nerve. How old was he, then? Reaching for a hymnal, she stole a furtive glance at the stranger on her right. His dark eyes, she was relieved to discover, were focused on the printed sheet in his hands. His expression suggested bemused indifference. The nerve!

  The man was easily her age. Older, judging by the hint of silver in his close-cropped hair. Granted, only two hairs were gray, but they were gray. Definitely.

  His eyes shifted toward hers before she realized she’d lingered too long. “Counting my gray hairs, Emilie?” At least his voice was lower this time. Very low, actually. “I have two. Find ’em?”

  “No! I mean, yes, but that’s not what I was looking for.” She sat up straight and pointed her chin toward the pulpit. “Never mind.”

  He leaned closer. “In case you’re wondering—and you apparently are—I was born in the sixties. And another thing: You can skip the hymnal. All the words are in this program.” He waved it under her nose, clearly enjoying himself. “Didn’t you get one?”

  “It’s not a program, it’s an ode. And I don’t need one, thank you.” She jutted her chin forward further still, refusing to look at him, and shoved the hymnal back in the pew rack. “I was born Moravian. I know all these hymns by
heart, including the German ones.”

  Seconds later, when the lights in the sanctuary faded to black, “Stille Nacht”—“Silent Night”—floated down from the choir loft behind them. None too subtly, she mouthed the words auf Deutsch for all three verses, recalling her years in the soprano section.

  “More than a few years, Emilie …”

  That infernal man and his insinuations! He was at least as old as she was, she’d quickly calculated. Probably the very same age. It was quite obviously the only thing they had in common.

  She’d seen his type all her life: athletic, popular, big man on campus, strutting around with a pretty airhead on each arm. The sort who wouldn’t give a sober, studious girl such as she the time of day.

  He was only talking to her now because he was stuck sitting next to her. Some things in life never changed.

  When the congregation stood to sing “All Glory to Immanuel’s Name,” Emilie was amazed to hear a tolerably pleasant bass voice booming from the broad chest next to her. Not solo quality—not by any stretch—but fairly on pitch. Yes, she’d definitely heard worse. He also seemed to know the tune, even without printed music. Had he been here in years past?

  Curiosity overruled her good sense. In the sparse moment of silence before the pastoral prayer, she whispered in his general direction, “Have you attended our Christmas vigil before?”

  “Five years in a row. I’m Moravian too.”

  Her jaw dropped before she could catch it.

  “Not born Moravian, like you,” he chided softly, nodding his head toward the front to remind her the pastor’s prayer was already in full swing. “You’ll have to explain that one to me later.”

  Later? As in after the prayer? After the service? Later over tea in her cozy kitchen on Main Street? Surely he isn’t suggesting such a thing! Surely not. She hadn’t invited a man under her roof for tea—or any other reason—in a very long time.

  Disgusted with the mere notion of brewing a pot of Darjeeling for a Neanderthal, she fixed her gaze on the enormous Moravian star hanging above the pulpit, spinning ever so slightly in the rising heat, and composed her features into an attitude of worship, even if her mind wasn’t cooperating.

  The man is not your type. At all. Another quick glance at the blond hairs on his jacket assured her of that. Still, his comment taunted her. Explain what to him later? Explain why she was back in Lititz after all these years? Explain why her whole academic career depended on what she might uncover less than a mile away?

  Wrong. No explanations needed, not when there wouldn’t be anything happening later with Jonah something-or-other.

  When Pastor Yeager began reading the Christmas story from Luke, Emilie snapped to attention with a guilty start, determined to hear every word, to listen as if she might be tested on the material the next morning. Anytime a grade was involved, her concentration was legendary.

  “And it came to pass …” the reverend read.

  “Later,” her rebel’s heart translated.

  Enough! She pressed her lips together in a firm line and busied her hands smoothing her straight wool dress, determined to cover every inch of her knobby knees. Not because of the man sitting entirely too close to her—certainly not! She was merely doing it for modesty’s sake. And propriety. And simple good taste, considering her knees were beyond ugly.

  Not that such a thing mattered.

  What’s the matter with her knees?

  Jonas watched the woman next to him fretting over her skirt, tugging the fabric well past her calves as if the hem were in danger of crawling up a scandalous quarter of an inch. He rubbed his jaw to mask a broad smile and realized he hadn’t shaved. This morning, yes. This afternoon, no.

  Whatever.

  She’d settled back against the pew and was still trying her best not to brush against his jacket. A nervous sort, this one. Prickly as a porcupine.

  His eyes were drawn up front as the two dozen youngsters parked on small benches around the pulpit stood to sing the “Children’s Te Deum.” Their cherub faces—framed in short, white robes and big bow ties—jogged an unexpected memory of his three younger brothers, all in their early thirties now. They’d been about this age when the accident happened.

  It seemed like eons ago.

  Nah. It seemed like yesterday.

  A ripple of anticipation moved through the congregation as proud parents craned their necks to watch the junior choir members in action. Emilie Getz, it appeared, hardly noticed the kids, so intently was she staring up at the Moravian star.

  Counting the points, probably. Should he tell her there were exactly one hundred and ten? The woman was a serious piece of work. Dr. Getz? She looked more academic than medical. Conceited and prissy and arrogant as all get-out, which meant she was hiding something—and not just her knees. Women like her—uptight, no-nonsense, nose-in-the-air females—always had some dark secret they kept tucked away for a rainy day. He knew the type: “Look, but don’t touch.”

  Then why don’t you stick to that, Jonas?

  Good plan.

  Even if her pale, creamy skin did remind him of a porcelain angel he’d seen on top of a Christmas tree yesterday.

  Jonas scanned the sanctuary looking for familiar faces, and found several. Only one, though, snagged his gaze and hung on to it, whether he liked it or not. Dee Dee Snyder. The real estate agent who’d sold him his new house last year was perched on the end of a pew, her long legs crossed, her foot swinging provocatively, her short skirt hiked up too high for church or anywhere else.

  Dee Dee Snyder didn’t care who saw her knees.

  She winked at him. Winked! What was this woman’s problem? Did she think she could pick up men during a worship service?

  He refused to acknowledge her except with a brief nod. Sure, the woman was a looker—short blond hair, bedroom eyes, and curves in all the right places. She was also dangerous with a great big D. As in Dee Dee.

  No, thanks.

  Besides, where was the challenge in dating the ubiquitous Miss Snyder? The woman had thrown herself at every single guy in Lancaster County before she’d decided to set her sights on him—again—this fall. He’d resisted being conquest #54, #97, and #122. He wasn’t about to be #146.

  It was more than that, though. He didn’t have time for a woman who didn’t have time for God. Dee Dee was only in church tonight because it was Christmas Eve. And because she knew I’d be here. He hoped that wasn’t the case, but judging by the way she was dangling her red high-heeled shoe in his direction, it looked like the ugly truth of it.

  Jonas made up his mind: The minute the organist hit the first note of the postlude, he was out the door. Santa wasn’t gonna catch him kissing Dee Dee Snyder under the mistletoe. Not this year. Not any year.

  His attention shifted back up front when the children’s choir dropped onto its benches with obvious relief. The congregation around him settled in, prepared to sing half a dozen Moravian hymns while the traditional lovefeast was served. Food in church. What a concept! After five years and two dozen or more lovefeasts, he still looked forward to the simple meal and felt his stomach rumble as the kitchen doors swung open.

  On cue, dieners—women of the church chosen for such service—arrived bearing baskets brimming with sweet buns. Taking their place at the end of the pews, the women quickly dispensed their fragrant wares. Passing the basket to Emilie, Jonas couldn’t help noticing her hands, graceful as small white doves, and her concentrated effort to keep the powdery bun as far away from her dark dress as possible.

  Which meant he was looking straight at her when she suddenly swung her head toward him and asked, “Jonah, is it?”

  “Jonas.” He bit his lip, fighting a chuckle. “Jonas. With an s.” Few things entertained him more than an intelligent woman caught making a mistake. “Jonas Fielding.”

  “Ah … well, then. What … what exactly did you want me to explain to you … later?”

  He took in a pair of light brown eyes, not quite focused on
his, and rosebud lips, now pinched into a tight line. She’s already sorry she asked. Her inquisitive, doctoral-degree mind had obviously taken over and insisted on fishing for an answer.

  He grinned and swallowed the bait.

  Two

  Being an old maid is like death by drowning, a really delightful sensation after you cease to struggle.

  EDNA FERBER

  “You said you were ‘born Moravian,’ right?”

  You asked for this, Em. She dipped her head in concession, then forced herself to meet Jonas’ gaze, furious that she hadn’t kept her insipid question to herself. “And …?”

  His dark eyes bore down on her. “When a woman tells me she was born in Lititz, that I understand. Were you?”

  She nodded, keeping a steady grip on her lovefeast bun.

  “Okay. And I know what born-again means.”

  She wrinkled her brow. What kind of statement is that?

  He pressed on. “What I’m asking is, how can you be born Moravian?”

  Is that all? “Easy. The Getzes have always been Moravians.” Over the opening strains of a Herrnhut hymn from the eighteenth century, Emilie added softly, “I was sleeping in the nursery here before I was a month old.” She inclined her head toward the front. “I sat in the third row of the children’s choir for more Christmases than I can count. Attended vacation Bible school every summer in the Brothers’ House. Studied for confirmation in the basement of the fellowship hall.” Her gaze fell to the cranberry-colored carpet that circled the raised pulpit. “And that’s where I took my first communion. Now do you see?”

  Jonas nodded slowly in agreement, but his eyes told a different story.

  What? Had she said something wrong? He’d only wanted to hear about her Moravian heritage, right? Fine.