Bookends Page 24

  “That’s the point.” Jonas shifted his warm gaze away from the brightly plumed bird and toward her. “I have Trix to keep me company. Now you’ll have Victor.”

  Then, for the first of many times to come, Victor spoke. “Pretty girl!”

  His full-volume squawk ruffled Emilie’s feathers. “Good heavens! How often does he talk?”

  “Whenever he feels he’s not getting enough attention. Isn’t that right, Victor?”

  “Pretty girl!”

  Emilie shivered at the grating sound, noticing how her heavily-sprayed hair barely moved when the rest of her did. “Is there some reason this bird only says pretty girl?”

  Jonas nodded. “While Don’s customers sat around getting a shave and a haircut, if a nice-looking woman walked by, one of them invariably commented, ‘Pretty girl.’ Victor here picked up on it, and there you have it. Besides …” Jonas’ eyebrows wiggled meaningfully. “ ‘Pretty girl’ certainly seems like an apropos thing to say in this house tonight, don’t you agree?”

  She smiled, trying hard to look happy about the whole thing. “But isn’t Mavis the goldfish enough? And Clarice the guinea pig? You know how much I’m … enjoying them.” She went for an emotional pitch. “Do you think a bird is a wise addition? Mavis or Clarice might get jealous, you know.”

  He shook his head emphatically. “You can watch a goldfish, you can talk to a guinea pig, but a bird like Victor that speaks back? Now, that’s really something.” Jonas stepped closer, sliding one hand slowly up and down her silk sleeve. “And you are really something, Emilie Getz. Have I mentioned that this evening?”

  She found her resistance—to parrots, among other things—melting at his gentle touch. “You did mention it a time or two. And while we’re on the subject—” she turned toward the door—“you look pretty handsome yourself.”

  Minutes later, she decided handsome was also the right word for the three-story brick building that housed their destination for the evening, facing the town square a short stroll from her front door. The General Sutter Inn was almost as old as Lititz itself, offering food and lodging since 1764.

  But it wasn’t history Emilie had on her mind tonight. It was the clear and present danger of having Jonas Fielding seated across the table from her, wearing his striking black suit and a devilish smile.

  He’d recovered, it seemed, from his initial shock at her altered appearance. Catching a glimpse of herself now in the long windows by their corner table, even she did a double-take.

  Emilie wasn’t sure she liked all the froufrou. She was quite certain she could never reproduce it. But for one night, it was grand fun watching Jonas Fielding behave like an inept adolescent on a first date.

  He was trying his best not to stare at her now. Generously granting him an opportunity to look to his heart’s content, Emilie gazed out the arched doorway that led to a brick courtyard dotted with half a dozen old maples. In the warmer months, tables were strewn across the bricks and light meals served. It was almost warm enough for that this evening, another midwinter respite from the cold weather that would undoubtedly return all too soon.

  “What’s on your mind, pretty lady?”

  She looked back at him then, noticing how the masculine planes of his face reflected the glow of the candles gracing their table and nestled in the colonial sconces on the wall. “Pretty? Jonas, you have never called me such a thing since the day we met.”

  “Shame on me. I’ll count on Victor to remind me to do so.” His dark gaze roamed over her hair and face, then seemed to settle on her neck.

  Too long, too thin. She’d never liked her neck, had always been careful to swath it in sweaters, collars, high necklines, anything to hide its endless pale expanse. Ick.

  “You realize, of course, I’ll never look like this again.”

  His face was the picture of innocence. “Like what?”

  “Honestly, Jonas. I haven’t the faintest idea how to make my hair poof out like this, or line my eyes, or paint my nails.” She glanced down and realized to her horror that her thumbnail had already suffered a tiny chip. “You’ll have to take me as is, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing to be afraid of there,” he said gently.

  She was relieved to see his attention focused on her eyes alone. Nonetheless, she rested one hand on either side of her bare neck, a vague image of embarrassed Eve and her fig leaves springing to mind.

  Seconds later, a waiter appeared, pen in hand, and they placed their orders. Black Angus beef for him; roasted chicken, all white meat, for her. Their meals were delicious, their conversation warm but guarded. No discussion about the property, she noticed. If it didn’t come up during dinner, she intended to pursue the subject the minute they got back to her place.

  One thing needed explaining posthaste. “Are you going to tell me why you kept your … ah, advanced education a secret?”

  “A secret?” He managed a blank look. “Everybody knows.”

  “But I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t ask.” His eyes twinkled. “Until Tuesday.”

  She exhaled and tamped down her mounting frustration. “Couldn’t you have mentioned it yourself?”

  “And missed seeing you toss around your credentials at every turn?” He reached for the coffee cup at his elbow, obviously planning to mask a smile.

  “Point taken.” She pursed her lips, considering her next question. “Is it customary for a land developer to have a master’s, let alone a Ph.D.?”

  “Nope.” He put down his coffee, his expression decidedly more serious. “Most of my peers at Rutgers had designs on teaching at the university level. I’ve got enough of my dad in me, I thought I might pursue that angle, too.” His lengthy sigh spoke volumes. “After one semester in the classroom, I discovered I liked the hands-on stuff better. Working with local government. Building a community first, making money second.” He shrugged. “Guess I’m an overeducated dirt pusher who likes to help people.”

  And a modest one at that. The humility was genuine, as real and honest as the man himself.

  Emilie sensed her chest constricting, right near the spot where her heart rested safely. Maybe not so safely. Until now, Jonas had been an articulate, attractive diversion. Try again, Em. He hadn’t merely diverted her, he’d steered her into deeper waters than she’d ever known existed.

  He was regarding her with eyes that held no more secrets. Instead they shone with sincerity and integrity and something else, something at once foreign and familiar and altogether frightening.

  Jonas cared for her.

  And I care for him.

  It was more than that, really. More than care for yet not quite love. Such a potent word, that. Was there nothing in the middle?

  “Emilie, remember the Monday after your accident, the day we sat watching the creek overflow and I told you about my father?”

  She nodded solemnly. As if I could forget.

  He sighed. “It’s taken me years to wrestle through the pain of his drowning. Suddenly I was a kid without a dad. Confused at first, then angry with everybody, but mostly with God.”

  “You were mad at God?” Could one express such a thing and survive?

  “God is hardly a stranger to anger, Emilie. He knows how to handle it. Especially when it stems from a broken heart, which it usually does.”

  “But you had a right to be mad.” Didn’t he? “And to be heartbroken.”

  “Yes.” He shifted on his chair to face her more fully. “I just didn’t want to live there. I wanted someone to love me as much as my dad did, someone who could understand my anger and forgive it.”

  Emilie nodded slowly. “So … did your mother fill that role?”

  His chuckle caught her off guard. “My mother was a fine person, Emilie, but she could never fill my father’s shoes. Only the Lord could do that. See, it was losing my earthly father that sent me in search of a heavenly one.”

  He seemed to relax at that admission. “ ’Course, I didn’t know that at the time.
But since I figured it out a few years back …” He shrugged. “I guess I thought I’d share it with you.”

  She slipped her hand across the table and touched the strong fingers resting on his coffee cup. “I’m honored that you did, Jonas.” Honored? Is that the best you can do, Em? “You mean … a lot to me.” Better. “It’s wonderful to know how your relationship with the Lord came about.” She felt her skin warm. “After all, you were there when my own took wing.”

  He nodded, all the tension gone from his face, a wistful smile playing on his lips. “A nice way to put that, Emilie. How are you two flying along these days?”

  She chewed on her lower lip, realizing her Wildfire mouth was no longer such a vivid hue. “I’ve noticed little things. My time in the Daily Texts, for example, has been more meaningful. More personal.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “I think about other people more.” Especially you, Jonas.

  He signaled the waiter for their check, then leaned forward, his eyes merry with expectation. “Anyone in particular?”

  She pretended to scowl. “Are you fishing for compliments again?”

  “I had beef, you had chicken—the only thing left on the menu is seafood.”

  At that, they both laughed, winding down in tandem to a silent exchange of significant glances.

  “So …” he began, then paused, his eyes trained on hers.

  “So,” she echoed, uneasy with the direction things were going, yet just as eager to press on. The uneasiness won out and Emilie smoothly pivoted their discussion along a different vein. “Your relationship with God is solid. Are all your brothers on the same footing?”

  “Two out of three.” His voice was low as he leaned sideways to pull out his credit card, the magic between them vanishing like will-o’-the-wisp.

  Between Chris, Jeff, and Nathan, she was fairly certain who the prodigal son might be, though now she wished she’d let things move in a more tender direction. Perhaps later. Perhaps not.

  Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, Em!

  They rose to leave, winding through the dining room, drawing attention with every step. Emilie glanced back over her shoulder, then forward again, smiling to herself. Odd as it felt, they made a rather handsome couple in their black dressy attire. Scooping up complimentary mints at the front desk, they stepped out the door onto Main and found the balmy afternoon temperatures had fallen considerably.

  Unprepared, Emilie gasped when the decidedly colder night air hit her neck and shoulders. Her silk-and-satin dress was no match for February’s changeable weather. “I knew I should have worn a coat,” she murmured, hurrying down the steps. Home was only one full block away, but her nonsensical shoes slowed her down, even as her pride kept her going.

  They were in front of Benner’s Pharmacy when Jonas finally talked her into wearing his jacket, which quickly swallowed her up in its black folds. It held his warmth, though, and his savory scent, both of which made her forget she was wearing such ridiculous shoes.

  Seventeen

  Everyone’s faults are not written in their foreheads.

  ENGLISH PROVERB

  “Pretty girl! Pretty girl!”

  Ten minutes of listening to Victor squawk his one and only phrase and Emilie was ready to wring his ugly little parrot neck. Would have, in fact, if a certain bachelor weren’t busy nibbling on her own neck as they sat on the couch, comfortably entwined in each other’s arms while a CD of Moravian chamber music played softly on the stereo.

  Only one thing worried her: Jonas was even more attentive than usual. Was it just the snazzy dress and big hair? The dramatic makeup and colorful nails? Those things were fun but they weren’t her. What if he preferred her this way? Would he still care for plain old Emilie?

  No, Em. Don’t go there. Not now, not tonight.

  She also didn’t have the heart to bring up the Gemeinhaus property and the progress she’d made that week, putting together a knowledgeable dig team. She could discuss that with Jonas on Monday, couldn’t she? When he wasn’t sitting there in his black suit, looking so utterly appealing? And she wasn’t sitting next to him in her silk dress, feeling the most feminine she had ever felt in her purely academic life?

  The hour was late when Jonas sat back and studied her, long enough to make her feel uncomfortable with his frank assessment. “What is it?” She huffed and swatted at his tie—bright red this time, for Valentine’s Eve—wishing he’d say whatever it was he had in mind. “Out with it, please.”

  “Will you be offended if I asked to look through your purse?”

  “My purse? I don’t see why … I mean, it’s not appropriate.” Really, Em! What would he find in there that matters? She groaned. “Oh, all right, I suppose.” Emilie handed it over, disapproval intentionally drawn on her features.

  He seemed not to notice, intent as he was on digging through her black leather bag and pulling out a handful of assorted items that had little in common except that they belonged to her.

  “Ah.” Apparently satisfied, he put the purse aside, reached up with both hands and began smoothing her hair back with a comb, first one side, then the other, jamming in a few hair pins here and there with no finesse whatsoever.

  “Jonas, what are—?”

  “Shhh.” He tweaked her nose and kept pinning, smiling more broadly with each second that passed.

  She could feel her overblown hairstyle growing more tame as he worked, though the way he was poking those pins in there, she feared how it might look when he finished.

  “There.” He sat back with a nod of satisfaction. “Much better. Next item.” He took her old navy scarf—a sling from her weeks of recovery, stuffed in her purse just in case—and tucked it around her neckline.

  At least that made sense. Cover up all that ghastly bare skin.

  Then he took a tissue and patted her lips. Gently, as if he were kissing her with his fingertips, carefully blotting the remains of her Wildfire lipstick. His ministrations did odd things to her heart, sending it off to do cartwheels. Was he planning to kiss her but hated lipstick? Was that what all this was about?

  Finally, he lifted her reading glasses out of their embroidered case and unfolded them, holding them out to her. “Slip these on, will you?”

  Bewildered but willing, she slid them over her ears and eased them down onto the bridge of her nose. Jonas’ handsome face came into perfect focus.

  “Emilie,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Say something historic.”

  “Do what?”

  “Please?” Jonas engaged his most effective weapons—lowered chin, puppy-dog eyes, a slight pout of that generous bottom lip—and added plaintively, “For me?”

  “Jonas, this is—”

  “Please, Emilie?”

  Honestly! How could she refuse such a man?

  Clearing her throat, she assumed her classroom voice: “Beginning in 1796, reference is made to the Wachovia Wagons, which managed frequent trips between Moravian settlements in North Carolina and those to the north in Bethlehem by way of—”

  Then he kissed her. Thoroughly. Passionately.

  She would almost say he besieged her mouth, so swift and thorough was his attack, if it hadn’t also felt absolutely wonderful.

  “Jonas, what—”

  A second kiss, more remarkable than the first, left her wide-eyed and speechless. Though not permanently.

  “Jonas, explain yourself!” She pressed her hands on his lapels, holding him at arm’s length.

  His lethal grin subsided only slightly. “Emilie, I must confess, when I first saw you this evening, I was dumbfounded.”

  “I noticed.” She tried not to sound smug.

  “The women at that salon—”

  “And Beth,” she reminded him.

  “Right, and Beth, are to be commended for turning you into a first-rate fox. I was duly impressed, Emilie. Believe me.”

  “Was?” Hmmm.

  “The point is, I would never want you to think that such trappings matt
er to me.”

  Emilie blinked. “You mean they don’t?”

  “Nah.” He softly nudged her chin with his knuckle. “That kind of beauty-in-a-bottle stuff wears off. I’ve dated plenty of supposedly pretty women, so trust me, I know what I’m talking about. This is the woman I most admire.” He pulled her to her feet and turned her toward the hall mirror. “See? Dr. Emilie Getz, my favorite historian.”

  Her eyes almost bugged out of her head. “Aaah!”

  Her scream woke Victor and started him shrieking, “Pretty girl! Pretty girl! Pretty girl!”

  Appalled, she shrank away from her reflection. “Pretty? Nothing could be farther from the truth, you idiotic bird!” Her hair was tightly pinned in blobs and clumps all over her head, the plain scarf around her neck looked absurd with her fancy dress, and her glasses were meant to assist her reading, not her looks.

  Emilie whirled around to face her Pygmalion, feeling close to tears. “Jonas, have you lost your mind?”

  “Yup.” He gathered her up in his arms, slipping off her glasses and tucking them in his suit pocket. “It seems I’ve lost it entirely to a woman who doesn’t understand how beautiful she is to me. All the time. As is. No improvements needed.”

  Jonas’ voice grew softer with every word until he uttered the last with the slightest of breaths, hovering over her lips, his only punctuation a cartwheel-spinning kiss.

  Nathan Fielding had never been without a car, without cash, and without friends.

  Until now.

  Looking out the grimy window of his taxi, Nate watched the familiar landmarks of Jacksonville flash past him for the last time.

  His thirty days in “rehab” were over. So were his chances for scraping together another eighteen thousand in Jacksonville. He’d sold everything he owned but his body. The designer-label clothes he’d hoped to build a wardrobe around were bartered for a bus ticket. His most prized possession—his Cobra golf clubs—were gone as well, sold for a third of what they were worth. At first, he’d hoped to turn the extra cash into a bonanza at the track. By the end, it was barely enough money to keep his head above water.