Emilie looked doubtful. “I will?”
“Would I steer you wrong, Doc?”
Her only response was that V thing she did with her eyebrows.
With Trix straining at the leash, Jonas waved toward a copse of trees, barely visible in the inky darkness. Separated from the others, he felt rather than heard the subtle sounds of nature awakening around them. Though a great horned was more likely to hoot at dusk, an early morning serenade wasn’t out of the question.
“Here, on this log.” He sat down and patted a smooth spot next to him, then watched Emilie perch on a rougher patch of bark, putting more distance between them. “Wherever you’re comfortable, then.”
Out of habit, he uncapped his binoculars, then remembered they were useless in the low light. “For later,” he explained, hoping she didn’t catch his mistake. “For now, press Play on that recorder, then listen closely. If we’re lucky, a great horned out there will hear our mechanical bird and call back.”
Slipping off one glove to dutifully press the button, she shook her head. “I’ve heard of books on tape, but birds on tape? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“When you hear it, you mean.”
“Humph.”
The tape whirred in silence, then four low-pitched hoots droned out of the small speaker, each one less than a second long. Silence. Then another series of low hoots.
He nudged her foot with his and whispered, “Turn it up.”
A slight breeze carried the lone recording of a forlorn owl, hooting at who knew what.
Hoot. Hoot. Hoot. Hoot.
Minutes passed with no other sound but Trix’s subdued panting. Finally, in the endless stillness between the taped calls, an answer echoed from the invisible branch of a nearby tree.
Hoot. Hoot. Hoot. Hoot.
Emilie whirled around on the log, almost tipping over in her excitement. “Did you hear that?” She rose and moved in the direction of the sound, her light step barely snapping the twigs underneath her.
He couldn’t resist the urge to swing his binoculars up and rest them on the bridge of his nose, adjusting the focus until he had a certain brown-haired woman captured in his sights. Even in the faint light of predawn, he saw the expectancy on her face, the touch of awe in her expression, the wonder at God’s creation reflected in her upward, oval-eyed gaze.
His chest tightened—with pride, with gratitude, he wasn’t sure what. He knew this much: His father must have felt the same sensation the first time he’d taken Jonas birding thirty years ago in the wooded marshes of the Milford Neck Wildlife Area. Father and son, alone on a quiet summer morning, certain the calendar held many more such days for them.
Jonas’ throat ached along with his chest. Even after two dozen years, the painful memory had a way of sneaking up on him.
Now, instead of birding with his father, he was spending the morning with a woman who treated his dog, his music, and his profession with equal regard: She hated all three.
Most men would give up on a woman like Emilie Getz. Toss her in the backseat with Trix and head for home. Forget where she lived. Lose her phone number. Change churches. Whatever.
But Jonas Fielding was not most men.
He considered humor-impaired women like Emilie to be a challenge, plain and simple. A stubborn oak that required pruning. A solid wall of resistance that needed dismantling.
A tough assignment that called for tougher measures.
Tough joy. What a concept.
Unbidden, a mischievous thought crossed his mind. A simple way to unstuff the very stuffy professor.
“Psst! Emilie!”
When she turned and shot him a nasty glance, he lowered his binoculars and felt a roguish grin crease his face. Stretching out his hand, he offered an earnest invitation. “C’mon, let me show you something even more … intriguing.”
She tiptoed closer. “Is it a bird?”
“Definitely. Ever hear of a black-crowned night heron?”
Emilie shook her head. “No. Is it a common species?”
“Yes and no. Don’t see too many around here, usually. Almost never in the winter. It’d be a real coup if we spotted one.”
“So, do you have that birdcall on tape, too?”
“Nope.” He dug out his bird book with one hand and hid his smile with the other. “Unfortunately we don’t have that one on tape.”
“Oh.” She looked genuinely disappointed.
“Not to worry, though. It says right here—” he opened his book to the herons, jabbed at page ninety-eight, then snapped it shut—“they go kwawk.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Quack?”
“No, no. Kwawk. Try it again.”
He coached her in proper kwawk technique until she got the hang of it. Not that he’d ever seen or heard that particular heron in action. Until now. Sort of.
“You’re really good at this, Dr. Getz. A natural birder if I ever saw one.” He waved her toward the waterside, where a thready morning light glistened along the surface. “They’re fishers, these birds. Go ahead, do the call again.”
She obediently tried her best, but not a kwawk was heard echoing back across the water. Shrugging, she started toward him. “I must be doing something wrong.”
Talk about a perfectionist! The woman even had to get her birdcalls right to be happy. And she still wasn’t laughing at the thing. Time for more drastic measures.
Shaking his head emphatically, he stood and motioned for her to stay near the water. “No, no, you’re doing great. All we’re missing are the movements.”
“We need movements? Oh, surely not—”
He didn’t give her a chance to argue. “Most definitely. Head, tail, wings, legs, the whole bit.” He bobbed his head up and down to give her confidence. “Your kwawk is flawless. We just need to add the appropriate actions that go with it, and herons will be dropping out of the sky to greet you.”
Her face registered the first inkling of doubt, so he plunged forward. “Herons, as I’m sure you know, are related to the phoenicopteridae family.”
“The what?”
Jonas grinned. Four years of Latin finally paid off. “Flamingos, Doctor. Surely you’ve heard of them.” And surely she’d see where this was going any minute now and start chuckling.
Her expression, however, was anything but amused.
“I suspect I know as much about herons as you do, Mr. Fielding.” She made a sound that resembled a snort and spread her feet apart in a defiant stance, even as dawn was spreading a wintry haze across the skies behind her.
She was a harder nut to crack than he’d imagined, which only made his heavenly assignment more interesting. When his elbow brushed against the video camera stored in his pocket, his cheer-up-the-prof scheme soared to new heights. He and his brothers used to videotape each other doing outrageous bird imitations, laughing their heads off before, during, and after. A bright woman like Emilie would probably get a kick out it, too.
Wouldn’t she?
“As you’re aware,” he began, stalling while he surreptitiously fished out the camera. “Herons, like flamingos, have a particular way of moving.” He adjusted the camera in his hand, feeling for the record button. “Ever been to Florida, Dr. Getz?”
Five
He who laughs has not yet heard the bad news.
BERTOLT BRECHT
“I still don’t understand how you talked her into this.”
Pastor Yeager adjusted his bifocals and squinted at the small video screen in his office. Around the room Jonas counted a half dozen male church staff members, standing with their mouths agape and their eyes glued to the action on the screen.
He was there when it happened and even Jonas couldn’t believe the shenanigans he’d caught on videotape.
Not that he’d intended to show it to another soul—ever—but after spending yesterday afternoon alone in his den with this footage, howling with laughter, it seemed too good to keep to himself. His brothers would’ve loved it, but with the twins in Dela
ware and Nathan in Nevada—maybe—Jonas was left with a drop-dead funny tape and no audience.
That’s when he decided to show it to Pastor Yeager after the Monday morning missionary committee meeting, never figuring the rest of the guys would wander in to see what the noise was about. It wasn’t any big deal, right? Harmless fun, nothing more.
Oh yeah? Then how come his conscience was ticking like a noisy alarm clock?
All six men watched in amazement as Emilie Getz, Ph.D.—eminent scholar and noted professor, the She-Coon of Moravian Church history—strutted around Middle Creek with her tail feathers pointed north, her beak pointed south, and her arms akimbo in the singularly best imitation of a black-crowned night heron ever seen at the 93rd Annual Lititz Christmas Bird Count.
Or any other bird count, come to think of it.
Jonas couldn’t resist announcing, “Our historian-in-residence, gentlemen. In living color. With sound effects.”
He eased the volume up so the assembled could hear her well-modulated kwawk, which put Pastor Yeager and his youth director, Kyle Heagey, right over the edge.
“Hawwwww!”
That set off the rest of the group, meaning Emilie’s subsequent efforts were lost amid the chorus of hoots—tenors to basses—that swelled through the small room.
Jonas laughed harder than any of them, remembering the impromptu directions he’d shouted across the frozen marsh. “Higher, Dr. Getz. Step higher, that’s it. Now, can you bend forward while you—? Oh my, that’s perfect. Spot on, as the Brits say. Truly impressive, Doctor. The herons should show any second now.”
When she’d paused long enough to realize he was videotaping, he’d quickly explained that it was for archival purposes only, that the Lancaster Bird Club kept such tapes in their files for training future members. “No one but fellow birders will see this tape,” he’d assured her, chagrined at how glibly it’d rolled off his tongue. “Only those who will truly appreciate what you’ve accomplished here today will have the privilege of seeing your heron-ic self in action.”
No question, this group truly appreciated it. Three of the ministers were practically on the floor. “So—” one of them asked between gasps—“are you showing this at your next bird club meeting?”
Jonas shrugged, another stab of guilt slicing through his windpipe. The birders met once a month at Franklin and Marshall College in Lancaster. Showing them the tape at January’s gathering had never crossed his mind. Now the idea was tempting as all get-out.
Just kidding, Lord. The minute we’re through here, I’ll erase the thing. And he would. Absolutely.
On screen, Emilie had just executed her first brave leap through the dried grass along the water’s edge. He’d convinced her that herons had a distinctive leap-and-swoop move, which she’d valiantly tried to demonstrate. In her ultra-serious bid to succeed where he’d assured her others had failed, the woman had managed to successfully put five men of the cloth in serious stitches.
After watching an especially awkward kwawk and dip, the roomful of guys embarked on yet another round of raucous laughter, during which the music director managed to blurt out above the din, “Fess up, Jonas. Are you ever gonna let her in on the joke?”
From the doorway a woman’s voice brought their laughter to an abrupt halt.
“I believe he just did.”
Emilie simply watched them, not moving an inch.
Six pairs of eyes turned her direction, then swiftly downward.
Six pairs of feet rooted themselves to the carpet.
Six pairs of hands dove into pants pockets, no doubt lined now with cold sweat.
Like a classroom of slackers on final exam day, the group before her cowered with the awful realization that the jig was up.
The awkward silence was deafening. She wouldn’t let herself even look at Jonas. To think she’d trusted the man. Trusted him! When he’d asked her to learn a birdcall, she did it. When he’d instructed her in the finer points of heron behavior, she’d thought it foolish, but she did it, hoping to please, trying to go along with his agenda. When he’d pulled out a video camera, she’d feared the worst, but convinced herself his intentions were honorable.
How could she have known the entire episode was designed to embarrass her beyond measure? What kind of a man did such a thing?
Her exasperated sigh broke the stillness. She’d have to sort out her feelings later. What to do now with this sorry group? That was her dilemma. The women from the office had already lined up behind her, eyes glaring, teeth grinding. These men would be lucky to get one decent letter typed and out the door before next year.
True, that was only four days hence, but the point would be well made by then: Don’t tread on me.
Pastor Yeager was the first to speak, in a voice so low it was hard to imagine him ever stepping into a pulpit. “Uh … Miss … uh … Dr. Getz. I do hope you see the hu—” He abruptly caught himself. “I mean, the huge … uh, mistake we’ve made here this morning.”
She pulled herself up taller than she’d ever stood before. “What I see, Pastor, is six naughty little boys who’ve been caught laughing behind the teacher’s back.”
Around the room, the men’s heads nodded and faint smiles broke out on their faces, as though they expected her to laugh the whole thing off.
She dashed their hopes of a swift and painless acquittal with one arched eyebrow.
“The fact is, gentlemen, I do not see the humor in either this video recording or in this situation.” Stepping into the room, she strolled among them like a general on an inspection tour, her gaze traveling the length of them, letting disdain emanate from her every pore.
“This congregation, my congregation, my own home church—” for a brief second, her throat tightened but she swallowed and pressed on, determined not to lose her nerve. “This fellowship has hired me—has it not?—for the express purpose of researching and publishing a book honoring two and a half centuries of unity among the brethren.”
“And the sistren!” a volunteer from the hallway added.
“Suppose we begin by honoring our forefathers—” Emilie nodded at the gathering of women behind her—“and our fore mothers by respecting one another’s gifts, talents, and personalities. You, Pastor Yeager, have a calling to preach and lead the flock by example. Methinks you can do better than this, don’t you?”
He took the opportunity to step behind his desk and drop into his leather chair in obvious relief. “Yes, Dr. Getz, most certainly. I hope you can … forgive me for.… participating in …” His words disintegrated into a slight shrug and a properly contrite expression.
A curt nod was her only acknowledgment. “There now. That wasn’t too terrible, was it?”
One by one, she went on to point out the relative attributes of the males who stood before her with their egos tucked under their arms like criminals awaiting execution. Rather than the tongue-lashing they clearly expected—and deserved—Emilie granted them each individual pardons. A clamor of genuine repentance rang through the church offices like bells heralding the New Year.
When the men had returned to their desks and the women to theirs, only Jonas and Emilie remained standing. Pastor Yeager jumped up, mumbling something about needing to use the copy machine, and disappeared.
A weighty silence hung in the room.
Neither spoke. Or moved.
Behind the desk, the VCR softly clicked into rewind, filling the air with the whir of regret.
Emilie eyed Jonas as she had the other men. His gifts and talents weren’t nearly as apparent as his guilt.
The sudden rumble of his voice, low and warm, caught her off guard. “No offer of forgiveness for me then, Emilie?”
Her heart ground to a halt.
Not “Doc,” not “Getz” … Emilie.
Why, oh why, did he have to say her name like that? If he’d behave in his usual, smart-aleck manner, she could handle that. If he mocked her, she could shoot back a few zingers of her own.
B
ut this. She swallowed hard. That steady gaze of his. Those enormous, puppy-dog eyes that put silly old Trix to shame. That rough chin that dipped down like a shy boy’s, begging for mercy.
No, this was a stockpile of ammunition for which she had no defenses whatsoever.
Her harrumph, meant to sound superior, came out more like a girlish sigh. “Before I can even consider forgiving you for this … this inexcusable thing you’ve done, I have one question.”
He inclined his head, pretending to look confused when what she sensed about him was an air of surprise. And relief.
Maybe you have a volley or two left after all, Em.
Folding her arms for effect—and to keep her hands from visibly trembling—she angled her chin up toward his. “My question is simple enough: Why?” She pinched off the word before it dissolved to a throaty croak. “Why did you make a fool of me, Jonas?”
My name. She said my name.
Of all the worst times, and for all the worst reasons, the woman had finally said his name. Out loud. Voluntarily.
She was wrong—dead wrong—because there was nothing simple about her question.
Why? He met her gaze and waited for the right words to come.
How could he tell her the truth? That he’d made a fool of her—and she’d hit the nail on the head there—that he’d done it for no other reason than because he could. She was so full of herself, so convinced that she could do anything, so determined to take the thing seriously instead of seeing the humor in it, it’d been easy to knock her down a peg or two. Or four.
You’re the one who needs knocking down, son.
He didn’t need to look up to recognize where that word of truth came from. You’re right, Lord. He’d brought it on himself.
Clearly the fool standing in that room wasn’t Emilie Getz.
Look at her, man. Chin up, arms folded, head held high. The woman was gutsier than any guy he’d ever known. She’d managed to hand those other men their heads in a basket and still leave their egos intact.
Bookends Page 7
