No. Not he—she.
Emilie. Dr. Emilie Getz. He slowed down at the square while his mind whirled. Why hadn’t he put that together sooner? Because, Einstein, you assumed the doc was a guy. So the hoity-toity history professor from Winston-Salem was a she, here for the big anniversary.
Well, whaddaya know …
That meant the woman wasn’t in town for long—six months, tops.
Just as well, right?
He swung onto Broad Street, surprised to hear his tires squeal.
Right.
No sooner had he straightened the wheel than the cell phone in his pocket chirped. Fumbling with it in the dark, he finally found the right button and punched it.
“Fielding here.”
“Wish you were here,” a feminine voice purred.
“Here?” he barked into the phone. “Where? Who is this?”
“You saw me at church tonight, remember?”
At church? Had he given Emilie Getz his number? Nah. Besides, she’d never sound like this coy little kitten.
The breathy voice came on the line again. “Don’t you know who this is?”
Know? No. Oh, no …
They said it in unison—one with a purr, the other a groan: “Dee Dee.”
“That’s enough moaning and groaning, dear.”
“Sorry, Mother.” Emilie gripped the phone with one hand while the other gently snipped a dead leaf off her aspidistra. “I hadn’t intended to come for the whole day, that’s all. I … I need to get back to my research.”
Her mother’s faint tsk-tsk spoke volumes.
Emilie stared out the small kitchen windows at the fresh flakes slowly covering the sleeping garden that would beckon her come the first warm day. The snowfall was steady, but not enough to prevent her impending drive to her parents’ house for Christmas.
“Okay. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll be there about noon.” Emilie sighed, depositing plant debris in the wastebasket next to her desk. “Fine. Eleven, then. But I’ll need to be home by six. Yes, I realize your house is home.” She bit her lip to stem her irritation. “I meant where I’m staying now … that home, okay? See you shortly.”
She eased the phone into its cradle, proud of herself for not banging it down in exasperation. Much as she loved her mother—and she did, she truly did—their conversations of late had been reduced to one topic: her unmarried status.
Never mind the bachelor degree with honors from Moravian College, or her master’s. Not even her hard-earned Ph.D. from Wake Forest University merited a brownie point on the home front.
“But I have no grandchildren,” Barbara Getz had grumbled on the phone moments earlier. “Surely you don’t plan to be an old maid.”
“Mother,” she’d countered, pruning the ends of an overly vigorous sweetheart vine. “They don’t even use the phrase old maid anymore. Not career girl, either. I’m a historian, an academic. Is that so shameful?” She’d swallowed hard, fighting to control her emotions. “Besides, I’m thirty-six, not eighty-six. Don’t throw away those shower gifts you’re hiding in the closet quite yet.”
Her mother had tried to keep her stash a secret. Said they were items she’d found on sale here and there. Useful household things, that’s all. Emilie had counted and knew better: one toaster, one iron, one blender, one mixer, one electric knife.
And one baby blanket. Pink.
Emilie paused in front of the mirror and smiled in spite of her sour mood. Pink, like the sweater you’re wearing this very minute. She did love pastel colors. Her closet was full of pale yellows, grays, blues, greens, and pinks, all in natural fabrics like cotton, linen, and wool. To her way of thinking, polyester wasn’t even good enough for curtains, let alone for apparel.
She smoothed the creases in her winter white slacks and glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes until she had to climb behind the wheel of her venerable BMW, point it north toward Noble Street, and face her mother. Enough time to finish watering the cherished collection of houseplants she’d transported from North Carolina with great care, their leafy green heads covered with a sheet to ward off the cold.
First, though, she’d unpack the last of her research materials and get things in order for this evening, when she’d begin putting together the pieces of the Gemeinhaus puzzle.
Pulling two heavy volumes from a box at her feet, Emilie lugged them up onto the dining room table with a determined thump and an equally forceful vow: Never again would a failure like Bethabara blemish her resume.
“Never!” She slapped another book on the table, punctuating her resolution with a satisfying bang.
Three
Home is where one starts from.
THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Jonas groaned again.
The pounding in his head was relentless. Bang! Bang! Bang! His subconscious was shouting at him, too. Wake up! Haul it outta bed, Fielding. C’mon, get up!
He pulled an extra pillow over his ears, but the voice in his head only grew louder and more insistent. “Go ’way,” he growled. “Lemme sleep.” When the pillow was snatched out of his hands, he was awake in an instant—eyes wide, heart beating, fists at the ready.
Two men stood in his bedroom doorway and chimed in unison, “Mornin’, big brother.”
“What? You …!” Jonas exhaled in frustration and relief as his eyes adjusted to the sight of his twin brothers, Jeff and Chris, strolling toward his bed—dressed, shaved, and wearing a pair of wicked grins. Plastered by Jeff’s side, with a stolen pillow trailing from her drooling mouth, was Trix, Jonas’ traitor of a dog.
“Figured you could sleep in on Christmas morning, huh?” Chris bent down to rub Trix’s ears. “What will the Lord think, this being his birthday and all?”
Jonas collapsed with a grunt, hand over his heart. “Aren’t you two supposed to be in Milford?” Trix bounded onto the bed, her shaggy blond tail beating the air with a joyful rhythm, her bobbing head begging to be petted. Disoriented, Jonas scratched his own head instead, trying to make sense of it all.
“You didn’t think we’d leave you all by your lonesome self on Christmas, did ya?” Jeff’s grin never budged. “No way, brother.”
“That’s right,” Chris chimed in. “Aren’t you gonna ask us how we got past your fancy security system?”
“Hey!” Jonas grabbed the pillow behind him and swung it at the nearest target. “Good question, turkeys. How did you get in here?”
Jeff rubbed his head in mock agony. “Some blond woman was parked in front of your house when we drove up.” He offered a broad wink. “Said you were … good friends.” He ducked when Jonas swatted him again. “Anyway, she could tell we were brothers. Said she’d be happy to let us in since she had a key.” He lifted one dark eyebrow. “Uh … how come she has the key to your house, Mr. Do-Good Christian?”
Jonas let out a noisy sigh. “Because she sold me this place. I guess she kept an extra key handy.” A problem he intended to correct pronto. He’d managed to avoid a visit from her when she’d called last night; now he’d have to face the woman after all, like it or not.
Not.
Jonas nudged Trix off the bed, then reached for a pair of jeans, standing to pull them on, stalling long enough to buy some time and sweep out the cobwebs. “So. I take it you haven’t left hearth and home behind to make my own Christmas merry and bright.” He yawned, stretching a T-shirt over his head. “Where’s the rest of the crew?”
Chris jerked his thumb toward the living room. “They’re out there, waiting for you to get decent.”
“This is as decent as I get.” Tucking the black shirt in his jeans, Jonas followed them toward the front of the house, finally noticing the muffled sounds of activity coming from the living room. It was obvious that his younger brothers—both happily married and settled in their hometown of Milford, Delaware—had gone to a great deal of trouble to transplant their holiday celebration more than three hours north.
Although the twins were i
dentical—dark haired, swarthy skinned—their wives were polar opposites. Diane—cool, blond, and sophisticated—had given Jeff a carbon-copy daughter, plus two dark, rough-and-tumble sons that carried on the all-boy Fielding tradition admirably. Diane was the first one to spot Jonas and nodded her sleek platinum head in his direction. “My, my, look what Trix dragged in.”
Despite the rude awakening and his scruffy appearance, Jonas threw out his arms in a general embrace. “Mornin’, family.”
Connie, a tall, curly-headed Texan with a toddler balanced on each hip, crowed back, “Will y’all look at that mess? Jonas, when was the last time you shaved that sorry face of yours?”
“Huh.” He squared his shoulders, assumed his most macho pose, and stuck out his tongue. “Some females like a bit of stubble on a man.”
The two women rolled their eyes. “From a distance, maybe,” Connie grumbled. “Di and I make sure there are fresh razors at every sink in the house.” She lowered her two wiggly bundles to the floor. “Children, give your Uncle Jonas a big hug, but mind you, don’t get your tender cheeks anywhere near his chin. It’s worse than Daddy’s.”
In seconds, he was shoved into an overstuffed chair and covered with nephews and nieces, giggling and squealing and ignoring their mothers’ warnings as they rubbed their sticky faces along his scratchy one. “Uncle! Uncle!” Jonas hollered, knowing that would only spur them on.
When they finally stopped hugging and tickling long enough for him to catch his breath, Jonas eyed his siblings through the maze of arms that circled his neck, feeling his chest tighten and a catch creep into his voice. “Um … thanks for coming.”
Chris shrugged. “Sure. You’re our big brother, right?”
Jonas nodded, not trusting himself to say another word, and squeezed the children that were draped across his lap. At that moment, he was as proud of Jeff and Chris as if they were his own sons instead of his younger brothers.
He couldn’t fill their father’s shoes, not for a second. But he’d tried. The Lord knew he’d tried.
With two of his siblings, those efforts had paid off. But not with Nathan. Never with Nathan.
Jonas released his squirmy lapful, grunting as they stabbed him with sharp little elbows and knees. Judging by the look on both his brothers’ faces, they were thinking about Nathan, too. “Three out of four of us,” he muttered, standing. “Not bad for the Fielding clan. Got just the place for us to have Christmas dinner, too.”
While the women marched the children out to their vans to bring in presents and sticky buns, the men moved to the kitchen, trying to look busy making coffee and pouring milk. Leaning on the counter, Jeff asked the unspoken but obvious: “Have you heard from Nate?”
The same question came up every time the three of them got together.
Jonas sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I haven’t seen Nate in almost a year. Got a couple of phone calls from Vegas, another one from Palm Springs, but that’s it.”
“At least he calls you.” Chris’s mouth hardened into a tight line. “He doesn’t give us the time of day. Hasn’t for years.”
Jonas said nothing, only nodded as he measured out the coffee in generous scoops. The twins—who, at thirty-three, fell between him and Nate in age—had spent their lives marching along the straight and narrow. They’d earned their degrees, joined the Marines, married wisely, and made their late mother proud at every turn—all of which ticked off young Nathan royally. After big, strong Jonas, then perfect Jeff and Chris, kid brother Nathan hadn’t stood a chance.
Jonas knew that. Maybe that was why he’d been there for Nate, again and again, even when Nate didn’t deserve it, didn’t appreciate it, didn’t want his help. Period.
Somebody had to do it. Jonas was the oldest; he got the job.
Nate had more talents tossed his way than the rest of them put together, and they all knew it. Awarded a full golf scholarship to Stanford University, he majored in economics and minored in drinking. During Nate’s junior year his world came apart at the seams. Kicked off the golf team for a frat party that got out of hand, he dropped out of Stanford and pursued a professional golf career with mixed results. Though he’d passed the PGA’s rigorous playing ability test with flying colors and served as an apprentice to some of the best players in the profession, when it came to qualifying for the PGA tour, he’d missed the final cut.
“Next fall,” Nate had assured anyone who asked, then stopped by the club lounge to drown his sorrows.
Jonas knew Nate was still drinking, still throwing his career away with both fists. But lately, he sensed it was worse than that. There was a desperation in Nate’s voice that no amount of bravado could hide. If Nate didn’t darken his door soon, he’d have to find him, bring him home, shake some sense into him.
Rescue him.
The reality hit Jonas like a blow to the solar plexus.
“Jonas, you okay?” Jeff eyed him, concern creasing the dark features so much like his own.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He jammed the coffeepot in place and pushed the brew button with more force than necessary. “Just thinking about Nate, wondering if he’ll call today.”
They all knew the answer to that one: not a chance.
“What are my chances of holding even one grandbaby in my arms before I die?”
Barbara Getz sniffed—more dramatically than necessary—then offered her daughter a fresh box of candles for the dining room table. Christmas had been, if not disastrous, at least disappointing. The house appeared older, care-worn. Her mother looked more so. Her dress was neatly pressed but familiar, her apron tied in a severe knot around her too-narrow waist. The hollows under her eyes were darker and her cheekbones more pointed.
Almost as pointed as her words. “After all, Helen has eleven grandkids.”
“That’s not fair!” Emilie jammed another candle in place. An entire afternoon spent on the same topic had worn her patience down to the nub. “Helen Bomberger gave birth to four children, not one.”
“One daughter is sufficient—assuming she’s married, of course.” Barbara lifted her shoulders slightly. “Grandchildren are a natural expectation for a mother to have, you know.”
“I know it’s natural, Mother.” Emilie jammed her fingers into the wavy strands that framed her face, not caring what damage she did to her carefully gathered knot of shoulder-length hair. “Kids just aren’t me.”
Her mother’s eyebrows arched on the ends, creating a perfect V—the same look Emilie saw every morning in the mirror. The older woman’s voice dropped precipitously. “Do you mean to say you’re not normal, dear?”
“Of course I’m normal!” Emilie circled the room, waving her hands through the air as if trying to grasp at some elemental truth that escaped her. “Husbands are fine and children are fine and all that is … fine. For someone else. Not for me.”
Her father’s voice floated in from the hallway. “Give her time, Barbara.”
Donald Getz, the referee. Her calm, rational, feather-smoothing father.
He stepped into the dining room, as unobtrusive as his faded green sweater and beige corduroy pants. “Our Emilie Gayle hasn’t met the right man yet, that’s all.”
“Pa-paa!” Her groan filled the small paneled room. “Not you too.” She was struck with how much shorter he seemed than the tall, imposing man she remembered from her childhood. His hair was solid gray now, his jowls hanging in loose folds around his gaunt face.
He was the same man, yet not the same at all.
His mind, however, ran on the very same track as his wife’s.
“We thought you might bring someone with you today.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders.
Emilie felt her eyebrows tighten into a V. “Bring who?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Her mother’s long neck slowly turned cranberry-relish red. “Maybe someone … special.”
“Mo-ther!”
The day went downhill after that.
After dinner, their family gift e
xchange was blessedly short. The two small items she’d chosen with great care in Winston-Salem were opened and acknowledged with appropriate murmurs. Her own present was mined from her mother’s closet stash: the Sunbeam blender. Emilie pretended to be surprised, even thrilled with the impersonal gift, already finding a hiding spot for it deep in the recesses of her kitchen cupboards back in North Carolina.
Her patience didn’t last until six o’clock after all. By four-thirty she was pacing the kitchen floor, drying her grandmother’s china so vehemently that her mother finally snatched the dish towel out of her hands and ordered her to sit down.
“I have a better idea.” Emilie grabbed her coat from the back of a kitchen chair and buttoned herself inside its cashmere warmth, her fingers flying. “I’m going home. To Main Street. To work. It’s been … Christmas.” She sighed heavily and stuffed her hands in her pockets. “I’m here for six months, Mother. We’ll try again on a day that doesn’t matter so much, all right?”
She was halfway out the front door before she turned back and pressed a firm kiss on her startled father’s cheek. “Good-bye, Papa. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize, Emilie Gayle.” He kissed her back, then rested his arthritic hands on her shoulders. “A smart woman like you shouldn’t have to wait for a man to wise up and see what he’s missing. Why don’t you pick out one you like, and ask him?”
“Fine.” She bit her tongue to hold back another groan. “I promise. The next single man I run into, I’ll ask him to marry me. Okay, Daddy?”
“That’s our girl.” Her parents stood side-by-side as she marched down the steps, then closed the door behind her with a parting wave.
Home. A mixed blessing if there ever was one.
Fumbling for her keys, she squinted up the street toward Candi Hoffman’s house. Emilie smiled, despite the day’s frustrations, remembering the summer morning she woke up early and wrapped bathroom tissue around the Hoffman’s spruce trees, then took a picture and sent it to the Lititz Record Express—anonymously, of course.
Bookends Page 4
