Bookends

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  With school out for the holidays, the playground swings hung in silence, empty and still. Broad Street, though, was bustling with traffic as people left work early to get a jumpstart on the New Year. When they’d safely crossed the intersection, Beth shouted over the din, “Planning on coming to the Watchnight Service tonight?”

  Emilie merely nodded, her eyes straight ahead, her thoughts a thousand miles away. What would the New Year hold for her? The archaeological discovery of a lifetime … or one more embarrassing footnote in her unremarkable career?

  “Speaking of Jonas …”

  Emilie snapped her head toward Beth. “Who said anything about Jonas?”

  Beth giggled. “Guess I did, earlier. Anyway, there are a couple of things about Jonas Fielding that you oughtta know.”

  Looking forward again to mask even the slightest hint of interest, Emilie shrugged. “Not that I truly need to know, but go ahead.”

  “For one thing, he’s very much loved in this town. Could run for mayor, if he wanted to.”

  She felt her neck stiffen. “What does that have to do with me?”

  They turned left onto Spruce Street and its tree-lined collection of older homes, many built in the second half of the nineteenth century. “I just didn’t want you to think too badly of our Jonas.” Beth pointed ahead to her clapboard house painted in Williamsburg gold. “He’s certainly made himself useful around the church.”

  “Oh, I can see that. When it comes to supplying video entertainment, the man is without peer.”

  Shaking her head, Beth slid her key in the front door and unlocked it. “Honest, Dr. Getz, that was … well, I don’t know what that was, but it wasn’t typical.” She pushed open the door, talking over her shoulder, “You have forgiven him, haven’t you?”

  “Hmmm.” Emilie followed her into the living room. Forgiving him means forgiving yourself, too, Em. “The jury is still out.”

  “Sara!” Beth’s voice rang through the house. “Anna, I’m home!”

  While the younger woman tossed her coat on a chair and headed up to the second floor, Emilie unwound her scarf, eyes widening at the sight before her. Every single surface was covered with something—doll clothes, crayon stubs, hunks of yarn, cereal bowls with spoons stuck to the bottom, and pile after pile of artwork. Pencil drawings, watercolors, collages made from magazine pictures, coloring book pages, construction paper projects, all flowed across the couch and over the dining room table like a blanket of green Georgia kudzu.

  From the top of the steps came an explanation for the clutter. “Hi!” A tiny, towheaded girl with a toothy grin peered at her through the banister posts. “I’m Sara. I’m an artist.”

  “I see that you are.” Emilie didn’t know whether to applaud the child’s efforts or send her to her room without lunch. What a catastrophe of a house! The party responsible for the mess was an exact replica of her mother, with fine, blond hair swirling around her freckled face and dark blue eyes that sparkled with elfin mischief.

  Sara bounced down the last few carpeted steps in spritelike fashion, waving paint-covered fingers that begged for soap and water. “Mama says your name is Em-ee-lee, but I gotta call you Dr. Getz.”

  “Oh, that’s not really necess—”

  “Good!” Sara interrupted with obvious glee. “I like Em-ee-lee better.” Dancing around her as if she were a human maypole, the child stretched out a pair of orange and green hands and plunged them inside hers. “Em-ee-lee! Em-ee-lee!”

  Emilie grimaced at the sticky texture, comforting herself with a momentary fantasy involving a warm, soapy washcloth. “I … I’m here to have lunch with you and your mother.” With any luck, lunch would first require a visit to the sink.

  “Lunch will be yummy,” Sara assured her. “Anna made it.”

  On cue, Beth ushered a woman down the steps—fiftyish with salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a broad but weary smile. “Can you tell Dr. Getz who this is, Sara?”

  “She’s my morning mama!” the child crowed.

  Her appreciative adult audience laughed, then Beth introduced the older woman as Anna Ressler, Sara’s baby-sitter from eight until noon each weekday. Pleasantries were exchanged even as Emilie managed to detach her hands from little Sara’s firm grasp and hide them in her sweater pockets for safekeeping, hoping the little girl wouldn’t notice.

  Kids. What a foreign and unfamiliar concept.

  She’d never seriously considered motherhood, for several good reasons. Not having a husband was the obvious one. Her academic career was another. This topsy-turvy home decor was definitely a third reason. Definitely.

  Besides, she had a very satisfying life. Full of research and music and gardening and—

  A tug on her sweater brought her back to the task at hand. Sara looked up at her with a wrinkled pink nose that would’ve done Peter Cottontail proud. “Let’s eat lunch now, ’kay?”

  “Yes, let’s.” Not thinking, she offered the girl her hand. Big mistake. A still-tacky orange paw dragged her toward the back of the house. How odd it felt to have those small, warm fingers tucked inside hers.

  Moving through the house, stepping over the artistic debris, Emilie was amazed to find herself being led by this child, who didn’t know her, yet trusted her completely. For a moment—for only the briefest of moments—that little hand felt strangely good. And right. And—dare she admit it?—satisfying, all the way to her soul.

  “… Love one another deeply from the heart.”

  Jonas finished the reading from the Daily Texts, then closed his Bible and the small blue devotional. Some days he played catch-up, but it always paid off.

  Moravians had been meditating on a daily watchword since Zinzendorf got the thing going in 1728.

  Emilie no doubt read hers faithfully every morning.

  At 7:05 A.M.

  In German.

  Emilie. A strange and unfamiliar tightness invaded his chest. Would she be there tonight? Would she ignore him? Embarrass him? Do her best to make him grovel in public?

  Snatching off his new reading glasses, he tossed them on his desk and rose to stretch, feeling a stiffness in his joints. Time to hoist some weights, shoot some hoops. Anything to get his mind off Emilie Getz and what he would say if he saw her.

  Not “if,” buddy. When.

  Beth had warned him about the other guys sending her letters. Letters! What a waste of time. Pick up the phone. Tell the woman you messed up. Hang up. End of story.

  You didn’t even do that much, son.

  Jonas dropped his head, discovering a new set of tense neck muscles. I’m listening, Lord. I’m listening. That was the problem with grumbling right after praying. God was always there, waiting to offer a postscript.

  It wasn’t like he’d ignored Beth’s suggestion. He’d started a letter to Emilie on his computer two or three times, but they’d sounded stiff and nonsensical: “I’m sorry I made you act like a heron.” Ridiculous. As each day went by, it seemed harder. And less necessary.

  “Do it,” Beth had insisted. “You of all people owe her this, Jonas.”

  His gaze landed on Emilie’s field guide, left behind on the car seat when he’d dropped her off soon after her leap-and-swoop debut. The tidy new book sitting on his kitchen counter chided him.

  Just like Beth did. Just like his own conscience did.

  “Love one another deeply from the heart.”

  Jonas groaned. Clearly, he’d have to give up this watchword business for the year ahead. Too much static from above.

  “Love one another …”

  “Okay, Lord, okay.” His laughter rang through the empty house. “As long as it’s agape love, that I can handle. And a letter. A short one. Real short.” He headed toward the basketball goal behind his house, composing a note of apology in his head as he tracked down the ball and started hitting the boards, determined to get the kinks out of his muscles and a certain wispy-haired woman off his mind.

  “Dear Emilie.” Scratch that. “Emilie. The last thing I
wanted to do at the bird count was hurt your feelings when I …” Nah.

  With every toss of the ball, he came up with a different opening line, none of which was working.

  It would have been easier if he didn’t care what she thought of him. But he did care, blast it. That creamy-skinned, hardheaded woman plain got to him, for no good reason. She was intelligent—no, brilliant—not to mention brave and tough when she needed to be. Like when she stood up to six laughing idiots.

  That’s it! He had his opening line after all. When he caught sight of a bright red cardinal silhouetted against the gray sky, the rest of his letter presented itself, right along with the best way to deliver it.

  Perfect!

  Thirty feet from the net, his one-handed set shot dropped through with a graceful swish. Catching the ball on the second bounce, Jonas dribbled and shot again, feeling a self-satisfied grin spread across his face.

  Half an hour later, pen to paper, he wrote out the letter he’d already composed in his head:

  Dear Emilie:

  Yeah, why not? It’d make her feel better, right off the bat.

  I know what you’re thinking: “Jonas Fielding is an inconsiderate idiot.” I’m thinking the same thing. And hoping you’ll forgive me for taking advantage of your … agreeable nature.

  He chuckled, pleased with himself, then bore down on the notepaper.

  It should never have happened, and won’t happen again. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

  Your tarred-and-definitely-feathered friend,

  Jonas

  P.S. If you’d like to do a cup of coffee sometime—make that tea—I’m game.

  Could you “do tea” Sure, why not? Anyway, she’d get the message. So what is the message, man? Jonas wasn’t sure himself, but it felt right. Very right.

  Grabbing her bird book off the counter, he slid the note inside next to page ninety-eight, where the heron that’d started it all stared back at him in black-crowned glory. Folded in half, the note fit inside the book like hand in glove, without any stray edges hanging out. Emilie’s perfectionist self would surely notice that, earning him a few more brownie points. He’d sneak it in her mailbox tonight before church. She’d find it, read it, get teary-eyed no doubt, maybe even call him, offering heartfelt apologies and an invitation to tea. At her place.

  Word would get around that he’d done the right thing. Beth would talk to him again. Helen would feed him sugar cake again. All would be right with the world.

  The problem of how to smooth Emilie’s ruffled feathers was finally solved.

  “No problem,” Beth whispered, nodding at the usher. “We’re happy to sit on the side.” She slipped one hand around Emilie’s elbow and propelled Sara forward with the other, her husband Drew following close behind them.

  Emilie bristled as they walked past her favorite pew, now full of visitors, and settled into an empty one that faced the pulpit at a right angle. Honestly! Nothing looked right from this viewpoint. Instead of meditating on the stained glass and flowers, her eyes took in nearly the entire congregation, upstairs and down—children wiggling, parents scolding, choir members filing in. Very distracting.

  Beth leaned over Sara’s head. “Don’t you love the Watchnight Service?”

  “Usually,” Emilie grumbled. But not tonight. It was too early in the evening, no lovefeast would be served, and nary a trombone was in sight. “This is not how we do things in Winston-Salem.”

  Beth’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Really? What’s it like at Home Church?”

  It was important, Emilie decided, for Beth to understand that not all Moravian congregations shared identical traditions. “The service begins at eleven o’clock and ends when the pastor’s sermon is interrupted at midnight with the band playing, ‘Now Thank We All Our God.’ ”

  Beth giggled. “I don’t think Pastor Yeager would appreciate being cut short by a tuba.” At the first chord of the organ prelude, Beth’s voice dropped to a murmur and she nodded toward the back of the church. “Well, well. Look who’s here.”

  Tall, dark, and disgustingly handsome Jonas Fielding filled the rear doorway, both his hands resting on Helen Bomberger’s rounded shoulders. Emilie couldn’t stop herself from watching them make their way forward and find a seat within viewing—but not listening—distance.

  Not that she had any intention of talking to the man. He was positively the last thing on her mind at the cusp of a new year. The very last thing.

  Beth helped Sara out of her heavy coat, keeping her voice low. “How much has he told you about himself?”

  “Who?” Emilie pretended to be confused. “Pastor Yeager?”

  Her new friend’s smirk was less than subtle. “Nice try, Dr. Getz, but I’m not buying it.”

  Emilie snapped her chin toward Beth—and away from Jonas. “He’s told me virtually nothing. The man moves dirt. Develops things.” She shuddered without meaning to. “Hails from Delaware. Has three younger brothers.” Two of whom at least are cut out of the same overtly masculine cloth. Ick.

  “Has he told you about his father, then?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Emilie caught Drew’s slight scowl at his wife’s question.

  Beth obviously caught it, too. “I’m sure Jonas will share everything. When he’s ready.” The younger woman glared back at her husband, even as a telltale grin gave her away. “You know how men are about … personal stuff.”

  “I have no idea how men are, about anything.” Emilie reached for a tissue and blew her nose with a dainty sniffle. Whatever private story Jonas had stuffed up his T-shirted sleeve, it had nothing to do with her. Less than nothing.

  Other than his obvious physical merits, a quick mind, his purported business acumen, a notable commitment to church and family, and the respect of everyone in Lititz—other than that, she couldn’t think of one quality the man had to recommend him.

  An hour later when she left the church with her watchword for the new year in hand, Emilie was still sifting through reasons why Jonas Fielding held no attraction for her whatsoever. He liked dogs and children. And spending endless hours with older ladies, like Mrs. B. Well, there you are. Clearly no woman would find such a man appealing.

  Emilie strode down the street, grateful to have sent the Landises on their way so she could enjoy the brisk walk home by herself. Using one gloved hand to hold her scarf in place against the gusty night wind, she dug deep in her coat pocket for the front door key as her borrowed cottage came into view, illuminated by the glowing corner streetlamp still decorated for yuletide.

  If she was honest—and she was trying very hard to be so—it was that infernal black-crowned night heron incident that put the nail in the coffin of any potential … well, any friendship she and Jonas might have shared. Such a prank was simply unforgivable.

  Checking for traffic before crossing the intersection, Emilie was unprepared for the sudden, capricious wind that snatched the long scarf out of her hands. Her world went black as the wool wrapped itself around her face.

  “Aahh!” Her muffled scream barely penetrated the cloth as her small ring of keys fell to the pavement. Inches away, tires screeched to an ear-splitting halt.

  She froze, not knowing where to turn, not daring to move.

  A car door slammed and a male voice cut through the wind and the wool. “Emilie, are you okay?”

  Jonas. He would find her like that, looking foolish again. She struggled to unwrap her scarf, then suddenly felt it unfurl with a practiced snap.

  “Happened to my little brothers all the time,” he explained with an indifferent shrug, then scooped up her keys from the roadway. “Sure you don’t need a ride home?”

  Despite the cold, she felt her cheeks warming. “In case you’ve forgotten, my house is thirty feet away.”

  He turned toward her door and mimicked shooting a basketball. “Yup. So it is.” Grinning down at her, he swung around and climbed back in his vehicle, then leaned out as if he’d forgotten something. H
is expression was pure Cheshire cat. “By the way, you’ve got mail.” With that, he slammed the door, steered around her, and sped south on Cedar Street, his taillights winking at her in the darkness.

  Honestly! She stomped toward the mailbox, trying hard not to quicken her steps, not to notice the way her heart was pounding with anticipation. So he’d written her a letter of apology after all. The big brute. Thrusting her key in the lock, she made herself open the door first, take her purse inside, then slip off her wayward scarf, all before she stepped back out, trying to behave as if she always checked her mailbox at nine o’clock on New Year’s Eve.

  Reaching inside, she wrapped her hands around a bulky envelope and pulled it out, her curiosity piqued. Carefully opening the flap, she peered inside, then slipped out the contents.

  Good heavens. What kind of an apology was this?

  It was her forgotten field guide, period. No note attached, no letter sticking out, nothing else in the envelope except her own book.

  Well, I never!

  Slamming the door behind her so hard it rattled the windows, Emilie marched over to the nearest bookcase and jammed the slim guide onto the shelf, for once not caring if she tore the cover as the paperback squeezed between hundreds of others on the shelf.

  It’d be a mighty cold morning before that particular book ever saw the light of day again. And to think she’d considered befriending that buffoon! The notion sent her storming up the narrow staircase in a huff, disappointed that a book—one of her most dependable friends through thick and thin—a traitorous book had ended her year on such a discouraging note.

  Seven

  Friendship is a very taxing and arduous form of leisure activity.

  MORTIMER ADLER

  “Jonas, be a friend and run this by Emilie’s place, okay?” Beth held out a bulging file of papers. “It’s taken me days to find this stuff and I know she really needs it.” She waved it an inch closer. “Please?”