It was Jonas’ fault.
At least, that’s what Jonas kept saying, until Mother grabbed him by both shoulders and gave him a good shake. “It is not your fault, son,” she’d sobbed, pulling Jonas tightly against her. “Your father died like he lived, giving his life for others. He’s a hero, Jonas. God’s man to the end. You couldn’t have stopped him from jumping in that creek if you tried.”
The way Carl told it, Jonas had tried, nearly drowning himself in the process. He’d helped pull Carl to safety, then turned around just as his exhausted father was swept into the swift current, dragged under the icy waters and downstream until he disappeared from sight, leaving his twelve-year-old son stunned and shaking on the frozen banks.
Nate fell back against the scratchy upholstery, battling a wicked hangover, wiped out by the vivid memories. Of Jonas stumbling through the kitchen door, dripping wet, blue from the cold and red from running. Jonas, gasping for air, begging his mother to call the police. Crying that Dad … that Dad …
Nate shouted an expletive and threw the remote across the room. “If he was your man, God, where were you? Where were you?”
Twelve
Who said you should be happy? Do your work.
COLETTE
“Where do you turn when you hurt, Emilie?”
That’s what Jonas had asked her Monday, parked beside the overflowing banks of Lititz Run.
And there she’d sat, dumbfounded. Had she ever felt that kind of pain, that deep a loss? “I immerse myself in my work until the disappointment goes away,” she finally said, realizing how shallow and flippant it sounded.
Even if it was honest.
Emotional situations drained rather than filled her, while her work—teaching, writing, doing historical research—replenished her soul to the brim.
When she confessed that to Jonas, he’d looked at her with an expression that could only be read as pity.
Pity! She would not stand for it.
He was a nice man—very nice, when it came down to it—and their one on-purpose kiss had been warm and lovely—quite lovely, in fact—but Jonas Fielding was simply too inquisitive, too religious, too … something, to suit her taste.
Contemplating God was all well and good, naturally. He created the earth and all that was in it, and deserved her attention every Sabbath. But Jonas’ description of a personal relationship of some kind with their Creator was another kettle of fish altogether.
And Emilie didn’t care for seafood.
She’d come to Lititz for two reasons only: to write a book and to rewrite history. Plunging into both efforts with renewed zeal, the rest of the week had flipped past her like pages in a textbook, filled with the minutiae of dates, names, and places—her stock-in-trade as an historian.
Not feelings—facts.
Not fuzzy emotions—solid evidence.
The reliable, unchangeable nature of such information gave her a sense of security and well-being that no relationship—human or divine—had ever come close to matching.
Each time Jonas called, she made sure their brief discussions steered clear of sentimental subjects. There would be no more kisses, stolen or otherwise. No further questions about her religious beliefs. No more soul-baring conversations. As gently as she could, Emilie made her wishes known: Keep your distance.
When he didn’t call Friday or Saturday, when his greeting to her at church didn’t include one of his boyish winks or an invitation to join him for Sunday dinner, Emilie relaxed and knew her life was safely back on track.
The church bells chimed behind her now as she made a beeline for home, intending to squeeze in another good hour of research and a quick lunch before walking back down Main Street for the monthly meeting of the Lititz Historical Foundation. As a new member, she was eager to meet her fellow history buffs and talk shop, as it were.
Minutes before two o’clock, she climbed the icy, salt-strewn steps of the Schropp House, circa 1793—now the Foundation’s permanent home—admiring the stone walls and wide, white shutters along the wooden side porch leading to the entrance.
She was welcomed by a gust of heated air and a friendly greeter who waved her past the downstairs museum and gift shop—clearly she’d be making a return visit soon—and up the stairs to the second-floor lecture room. Finding a seat with some empty chairs around it, merely for breathing space, Emilie slipped off her coat and glove—with her arm in a sling, she needed only the left one—tucked it in her coat pocket, and took out a slim notebook in preparation for the lecture.
Along with the usual green chalkboard and lectern, some forty attendees filled the small room. They were of all ages, she noted, though more had gray hair than not. After a few preliminary formalities, the guest of honor was announced: Admiral William Reynolds, a native of Lancaster. Of course, the speaker wasn’t really the Civil War commander. He was a local historian of merit, portraying the historical figure. Emilie delighted in the man’s twenty-minute presentation filled with detailed accounts of his naval exploits and friendship with the Keystone State’s most famous bachelor, President James Buchanan.
A lively question-and-answer period followed, during which she kept quiet and busied herself making notes, not wanting to intimidate the others with her more scholarly questions.
Joining them in a spirited round of applause at the close of the program, she rose, intending to corner the “admiral” for a personal chat, when a vaguely familiar face turned to greet her.
“Emilie Getz, I can’t believe it!”
She couldn’t believe it either. “Brian?”
Brian Zeller, the other half of her shared chocolate malt at Bingy’s Restaurant twenty years ago, stood before her now, hand outstretched. His milkshake mustache had been replaced with a real one, but otherwise the man hadn’t changed one iota. Still tall and thin, sporting glasses and a mile-wide grin. “I’d heard you were in town, Em. Welcome home!” His gaze took in her canvas sling. “Hope that’s temporary.”
“Uh … yes.” She shook his hand with her free one, a bit dazed at the alive-and-breathing yearbook picture that towered over her. “How are you, Brian?”
“Terrific. Teaching history at Warwick, of course.”
“Of course.” A history teacher. Imagine that.
She took in his conservative suit, nicely tailored to his still-broad shoulders, and the wire-rimmed glasses that framed an intelligent pair of gray eyes. “Brian Zeller,” she murmured. “What a nice surprise to find you still in Lititz.”
“Earned my bachelor’s and master’s at Penn State, but I came back after graduation.” He shrugged, still smiling. “What can I say? It’s home.”
“It is that.” She lowered her gaze, trying to see if a wife hovered nearby, then chastised herself for even caring. Though with none in sight, she couldn’t stop herself from asking the question. “So, did you marry your high school sweetheart, Brian?”
The reddish freckles that had darkened over the years darkened further. “Emilie, I thought you knew. You were my high school sweetheart.”
Her heart did an odd flip. “I was?”
“None other.” His self-conscious laugh served as a welcome release for them both. “I never got up the nerve to ask you to the senior prom, Em. But I sure wanted to.”
“You did?” The news astounded her. To think, on that horrid night she’d sobbed herself to sleep she could have been dancing at the Treadway Inn with Brian Zeller. Her brain turned into applesauce. “Really?” She sighed with girlish delight.
“Really.” He grinned, and shoved his hands in his pants pockets. “When I moved back to Lititz, I hoped you might do the same.”
“Oh?” Was he suggesting …?
“But since you were too busy chasing after your doctorate, I had no choice but to marry my Penn State sweetheart instead.”
“Ohh.” Don’t you dare look disappointed, Emilie Getz! “And her name is …?”
“Kathleen.” He waved across the room at a stunning redhead, who glided towa
rd them with an Audrey Hepburn sort of grace. “Here she is. My wife, Kathleen.” He chuckled. “Zeller, of course.”
Of course. Emilie planted a smile on her face that quickly withered. “Nice to meet you.”
Their introductions made, the two women regarded one another long enough to rule out any threat, perceived or real, then exchanged polite small talk for a few moments.
Emilie hated small talk. Especially with a stunning redhead who barely looked thirty. She was about to make a timely exit, when Brian asked a question that stopped her in her tracks.
“Emilie, have you visited the Heritage Map Museum yet?”
“Maps, did you say?”
“Hundreds of them.” He folded his arms over his chest, capturing Kathleen’s delicate hand in the process. “Famous ones. Not prints, but originals. Ortelius and Blaeu—”
“Not the 1647?” Emilie gasped. “Of the Americas?”
“That’s the one.”
Her heart did a merry jig. A map museum in Lititz, of all places! Could they possibly have what she was looking for? It was a long shot, at best. Surely the Moravian Archives in Bethlehem had unearthed all the pertinent maps and land draughts decades ago. Still …
She caught herself gnawing on her lower lip, small talk forgotten as she fretted over her carless condition. “I suppose this museum is halfway to Lancaster.”
“No, it’s halfway down Water Street.” He inclined his head. “Remember that old brick monstrosity Clair Brothers bought?”
She lifted her eyebrows. “The what? That who bought?”
He laughed, squeezing Kathleen’s hand affectionately. “Never mind, Em, you’ve been gone too long. It’s easy enough to find. Not much more than a block from where we’re standing. Open every day but Sunday. I’ve taken several of my senior classes over there for a tour. Students love the place.”
Brian turned to his wife, even as Emilie’s thoughts turned the corner and trotted down Water Street. In less than twenty-four hours, she’d be surrounded by history. If the fates were kind, she might find a particular map, one from Lancaster county, created in, say, the mid-1700s. With a particular Gemeinhaus drawn in an unexpected …
Brian’s words sounded far away. “… an unexpected pleasure, Emilie.”
“Oh! Yes. Indeed it was.” She gathered her wits long enough to say her proper good-byes, then hurried down the steps and out the door, turning left instead of right toward home. Even though the museum was closed, she wanted to see the building, know it existed, dream about what secrets it might reveal.
Her steps matched the brisk, rat-a-tat beat of her heart, as the building came into view. No wonder she’d missed it before, sitting back so far from the street like that. She would not overlook it again.
Gazing at the handsome brick exterior and tall gold lettering over the doorway, Emilie smiled and turned on her heel, headed home to her stacks of books and a hot cup of tea. In truth, the sheer anticipation of tomorrow’s return visit invigorated her senses more thoroughly than any tea on her shelf or any history text on her desk.
Or any dark-eyed man with a penchant for black.
When the phone on his desk rang twice, then a third time, Jonas tossed aside his pen and grabbed the receiver, prepared for the worst: another disgruntled council member, a new drainage problem, a construction crew running behind schedule, or any other Monday morning headache.
“Fielding here.”
A faint chuckle. “Fielding here too. It’s your brother, Nate. Still in Florida.”
Jonas dragged his hand across his chin, a dozen thoughts running through his mind. At least it wasn’t another job site problem with Carter’s Run. Good news there. But what was Nate’s story? No way the guy needed more money. Nah. Nobody went through five thousand dollars in a week unless they used it for kindling. Must be something else.
He stretched back in his chair, propping one foot on the edge of his desk. “What’s on your mind, Nate?”
“Nothing major. Just wanted to … chat, I guess.”
“Okay.” Chat? That’s a first. An uneasy silence hummed between them. “You got my check, I hope?”
“Oh yeah! Great. Right on time. Thanks.” Nate’s rush of words sounded forced. And slurred. The tension between them stretched tighter still. “Look, Jonas, I … I need …”
“Don’t tell me. Money.” Jonas almost broke the receiver in two, he was gripping it so hard. “I can’t possibly—”
“No! Not money. Honest, not money.” Nate’s voice was strained to the point of breaking. “I need … I need … help.”
Jonas unconsciously lowered his foot to the floor and straightened in his chair, aware only of his heart pounding a slow, deliberate rhythm in his chest. “What is it?” He’d almost added “son,” his parental instincts kicking into overdrive. “I know you’ve been struggling lately, Nate. C’mon, let me help you. That’s what big brothers are for, right? First you gotta tell me what the problem is.”
“I’m … I’m …”
Jonas could hear him gulping for air, struggling to get the words out. Help him, Lord! Give him the courage to say it.
“I’m … well …”
“You’re what?” Maybe a little levity would help. “Too good-looking?” Jonas made sure the smile in his voice came through. “Too many women chasing you? Too many Florida fathers putting out warrants for your arrest?”
“Nah, nothing like that.”
Sensing his brother’s embarrassment, Jonas egged him on. “You can’t fool me, Nate. You wanna join Hunks Anonymous, is that it?”
No answer.
“Talk to me, Nate, I’m havin’ a one-way conversation here.”
The voice on the line was barely audible. “Let’s just say you’re halfway right.”
Jonas felt the blood drain out of his face. “Which half?” Surely his thirty-year-old brother hadn’t been arrested for corrupting a minor! “Any answer beats no answer, Nate. What kinda trouble are you up against?”
“I’m a … an alcoholic.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted.
“Sorry, Dr. Getz, but if such a map exists, it hasn’t crossed my desk.” The museum curator was a striking man in his late forties with a bushy head of hair and full beard, both platinum-colored. He closed his leather-bound ledger with its carefully printed inventory list and offered her a smile of genuine apology. “I’m sorry we don’t have what you need. What resources are you working with now?”
Swallowing her disappointment, Emilie opened her notebook and turned to her bibliography, grateful to have found a kindred spirit, if nothing else. She spread the page in front of him and watched his eyes skim down the list as he nodded in approval.
“Hmmm. You’ve certainly done a thorough job.” He reached behind him and pulled a thick volume from the bookshelf behind his desk. “See if you can’t find some reference to the Gemeinhaus that might be helpful in here. Meanwhile, I’ll keep my eyes open. Make a few calls.” He shrugged, standing to extend his hand. “You never know when something might turn up.”
She lifted the heavy book with a nod. “Thanks ever so much for the loan. I’ll take good care of it, I promise.”
He laughed, guiding her toward the door with a hand barely touching the center of her back. “Of that I have no doubt, Dr. Getz. Hope your luck improves as the week unfolds.”
She retraced her steps across the restored hardwood floor, the narrow boards laid diagonally and polished to a gleaming patina. Around her, creamy white walls provided a neutral backdrop for the tasteful display of framed maps, each one individually lit with a recessed spotlight. Enormous, sixteen-paned windows hinted at the brick building’s former industrial days, now long forgotten.
The museum was a find, no doubt. She had not, however, found the survey map of her dreams.
Skirting around an antique globe mounted on an oak stand, Emilie nodded to the front desk clerk and stepped out into the chilly midmorning air with a lengthy sigh. Short of digging up everything in a th
ree-quarter-mile radius of Elm and Main, she didn’t know how she could hope to find a cornerstone or any other evidence buried two and a half centuries earlier.
Talk about a wild Gemeinhaus chase.
Putting one foot in front of the other, the valuable book tucked under her good arm, Emilie made her way up Water Street toward Main, more discouraged than she’d ever been about a project. Research was all about hitting walls and burrowing under them, but this time her shovel was striking bedrock.
At the top of the hill, the milky gray sky surrounded the steeple of the Moravian Church with a soft matte. Emilie paused to catch her breath—she did need this exercise after all—and drank in the tranquil beauty of the sanctuary she’d fallen in love with all over again.
Pale mocha walls and white trim.
Tall, round-topped stained-glass windows.
Huge, stark maples stationed around Church Square, waiting to explode with color come October.
White lampposts, like wooden sentinels, standing guard year-round.
The Leichen-Kapelle—corpse chapel—more charming than its name implied, an ivy-covered stone building avoided with fear and loathing by all Moravian children since 1787.
Would the congregation care about her efforts, one way or the other? In its first fifty years, the pioneer community had built and torn down many a Gemeinhaus. Did one more really matter?
Emilie turned toward home, blinking hard. She could call it quits. None of her peers knew about her research. Or needed to know, for that matter. If she quietly packed away her notebooks and put aside her dreams, who would notice?
Jonas.
Jonas knew. Would hold her accountable, too. Probably tease her for being a quitter.
Humph. Her stride lengthened and her steps became more resolute. She was willing to do many things, but admit to that … that man she was stumped? Beaten? Throwing in the towel? Not on your life, Jonas Fielding!
That small bit of property, wherever it was hiding, had her name on it. “My name, mind you!” She shook her research book at an unsuspecting cardinal perched on the street lamp at Main and Cedar.
Bookends Page 17
