Emilie hated the direction this conversation was taking. Her feelings for Jonas—whatever they were—were her business.
Beth, it seemed, was not going to drop the subject. Her eyes resumed their pixieish twinkle. “What if pretending to like Jonas would earn you a crack at your Gemeinhaus property?”
Emilie’s ears perked up at that one. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that hard-driving Jonas, like most men, probably turns into mush when his heart—or his ego—is involved. Couldn’t you act interested in the man? At least long enough for him to agree to let you do some digging for a month or so, find out if there are any legitimate artifacts there?”
Emilie gazed at her friend’s innocent expression, wondering for the first time if Beth knew more than she might admit.
“Are you asking me to flirt? Toss shameless compliments his way?”
Beth grinned. “If you think it’ll get his attention, yes.”
“He’d see right through that.” Those big, puppy-dog peepers of his could peer through steel and melt it in the process. Heaven knows they’d softened her resistance on several occasions—one rainy Monday in particular.
Picturing his soulful brown eyes gazing back at her, even for a second, sent a warm shiver along her spine.
No, Em! No shivers.
She straightened her head, giving her backbone no choice but to join ranks. “We’ll have to think of something else, Beth. Another approach.”
“Okay, okay.” Beth tapped one slim finger on her lips, obviously deep in thought. “Why not give him something he needs but won’t buy for himself? Something impersonal, yet friendly. Something like …”
“Like a houseplant?” Indeed. Even Emilie saw merit in that. The man’s home was devoid of living things, unless one counted that pink-tongued monster of a dog. “He could certainly use a nice fittonia,” she murmured.
Beth’s brow wrinkled. “You want the man to have a fit?”
“No, a fittonia. A mosaic plant.” Emilie nodded to herself, warming up to the idea. “Bright green, white-veined, low growing. I have several along the windowsill in my kitchen. Very easy to care for, as long as I provide a mister.”
“Mister who?”
Emilie laughed, realizing only then that she hadn’t done so in days. “A mister.” She mimicked a hand squeezing something. “You know, for spraying water on plants?”
“Ohh.” Beth shrugged. “Sorry. I have ten brown thumbs. You’ll probably need to help Jonas on that score as well. Which is perfect.”
“Maybe.” Doubt attacked Emilie from every corner. Would Jonas think it was foolish? Brazen? Desperate? Conniving?
Was she willing to risk everything to find out?
Emilie smoothed her hand over her hair, as if preparing for a meeting. “So … how would one deliver this plant?”
Beth sighed, reaching for a phone book from the nearby shelf. “One would call a florist. The Hendricks greenhouses are right up the street. I’ll bet they’ve got one of those green fitto-thingies, waiting for you to attach a card and send—”
“A card?” Emilie balked. “What would it say?”
“Hmm.” Beth gazed at the ceiling for a moment. “How ’bout, ‘We had a good thing growing.’ Let’s—”
“Goodness! I would never write anything that corny.” Beth’s hurt expression hastened her to add, “Not that it isn’t creative. Perhaps if we made some reference to the soil it’s planted in.”
“Aha!” Beth’s smile was triumphant. “I’ve got it.” She grabbed a brown crayon from Sara’s collection and carefully printed a long message on a clean piece of sketch paper, then held it up for Emilie’s inspection. “Whaddya think? Sounds like you, doesn’t it?”
Emilie read through the note then slowly shook her head. “Jonas will think I’m crazy.”
“She’s crazy about you, son. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Helen, have you heard a word I said?” Jonas flailed his arms about him in utter futility, grinding his heels in Helen’s well-worn living room carpet as he spun around. “The woman hung up on me yesterday.”
Helen looked up from her needlework and blinked in surprise. “Emilie?”
“Yup.” He nodded with conviction. “Slammed down the phone right in the middle of our conversation.” The fact that seconds earlier he’d called her an “uptight, stiff-necked spinster” probably had something to do with it.
But she’d deserved it, blast it all!
And besides, it’d felt so good when he chewed up and spat out every syllable: up-tight stiff-necked spin-ster.
She was uptight, wasn’t she? Worried about every little thing, but especially her confounded research. Yeah.
And stiff-necked? No question. The way she jutted her chin out and carried her head like she had books stacked on top. Fact is, her whole body was stiff.
Not always.
Not when he’d kissed her that Monday. She’d bent like a graceful willow when he—
Don’t go there, fella.
He exhaled and started pacing again.
Spinster, though, was a cruel cut. So what if she was single? So was he. It suddenly struck him that society considered a single guy in his thirties—a bachelor—perfectly acceptable; a never-married, thirty-something woman was an old maid.
Huh. Not much justice there.
Helen swatted him lightly with her cross-stitch pattern book. “Now who’s not paying attention?”
He turned in her direction and tried to look contrite. “I’m sorry, Helen. What were you saying?”
She slipped her embroidery needle through the cloth, put aside her handwork, then folded her hands in her lap, looking every bit the proper matron. “If you’d stop waging a war of words with the woman and listen to her heart, you’d know what I’m saying is true. Emilie Getz cares for you, Jonas. I’ve known her every one of her thirty-six years, and she’s never scolded anyone as passionately as she has you. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
He leaned against her mahogany mantle, shaking his head. “It tells me that I get under her skin.”
Helen’s eyes narrowed. “What Emilie feels for you is much more than skin deep.”
“Really?” Pretending an inordinate fascination with a Hummel figurine, he avoided her pointed gaze and let the words sink in. Did Emilie care? Then why the high drama about a lousy quarter acre of land? Weren’t there dozens of other historic sites she could pursue, right here in Lancaster County?
Why this corner of his nearly finished golf course?
Okay, not his, exactly.
As good as his own, though. Like his own child.
A vision of Sara, her tiny arms wrapped around her daddy’s neck, crossed his mind. No, not like a child. Not that valuable, not that irreplaceable, not that eternally significant.
It was just a doggone piece of property. But it was his to manage, his to protect.
Helen invaded his thoughts. “Do you know what Emilie wants most in life?”
Jonas put down the figurine, having hardly noticed it, and gave Helen his full attention. “I should know, but I don’t.” Love, maybe. Didn’t every woman want that? He shrugged, not wanting to guess incorrectly. “You tell me.”
Her tsk-tsk reprimanded him. Her probing question embarrassed him. Her words, though, cut him to the quick.
“Emilie wants to be respected.”
He cleared his throat, not sure why he needed to. “I do respect her.”
Helen shifted in her seat, recrossing her ankles. “I’m not sure that you do. Not if you think she can put aside this quest of hers so easily. She wants—needs—to be respected for her uncommonly sharp mind. For her carefully orchestrated way of doing things—”
“You mean her picky, perfectionist, drive-a-man crazy way of doing things.”
The older woman’s head tipped sideways, acknowledging him yet not agreeing. “If that’s how you see it, then you truly don’t appreciate what she’s tried to accomplish with her life. What she wants i
s respect, but what she needs is something else again.”
Ah. “The love of a good man, I suppose.” He swallowed the grin that threatened to sneak across his face.
Helen snorted. At least it sounded like a snort. “Emilie doesn’t need a man, the way some women convince themselves they do.”
Jonas stared at Helen Bomberger as if he’d never seen her before. Maybe he hadn’t. Not this forthright, world-wise soul. “Oh?” was all he dared say, hoping she’d continue.
“She needs love, all right, but not from you or any other man.” Helen’s voice was soft, but her words were filled with conviction. “It’s love from the One who made her, that’s what she needs most. The one who gave her that fine intellect, who breathed that desire to pursue excellence into her very soul before her lungs filled with a single ounce of air.”
Helen leaned forward, as if making sure he was listening. As if he could do otherwise.
“She needs God’s love, Jonas. Have you shown her that?”
Had he? Or was it only his own affection—of the flesh, not of the Spirit—that he’d shown her? Selfishly. With little respect, if he was honest about it.
Jonas felt his limbs grow leaden and looked for the nearest available seat. “Helen—” he began, dropping onto the sofa—“God has made it clear that I’m to help Emilie understand the fullness of his joy.”
“Good.” She nodded, leaning back, looking relieved. “And have you done that?”
“Sort of.” What a lame answer, man! He exhaled noisily. “I’ve tried, but I’m not sure I’ve succeeded.”
Helen’s smile bore no hint of judgment. “It’s a beginning, Jonas.”
That’s what he’d told Emilie, nearly a month ago. A beginning. Trouble was, somewhere along the line he’d lost track of his mission in favor of the miss who’d blustered her way into his life, laying claim not only to a corner of his property, but the better part of his heart as well.
“Now what?”
He didn’t realize he’d said it out loud until Helen responded with a gentle but firm list of suggestions.
“Show her respect, Jonas. Reveal God’s love in as many ways as your bright mind can devise.” She smiled broadly, her straight white dentures sparkling. “Do that, and I believe your little property dispute will take care of itself.”
When she reached for her needlework again, he felt dismissed.
“So, what you’re saying is—”
“Win her over, Jonas.” In the kind, wrinkled face, her eyes twinkled like those of a young girl. “Win Emilie’s heart by showing her utmost respect, God’s boundless love, and your own gentlemanly attention. No woman could possibly resist all that.”
Resistance was futile, even though the invitation was attached to the ugliest little plant Jonas had ever laid eyes on.
No problem. Between his luck with houseplants and Trix’s curious chewing, this leafy green whatsit the florist just delivered would be dead in a week.
Jonas tossed his jacket on the kitchen counter, Helen’s words still ringing in his ears. Respect. Love. Attention. He’d show Emilie that and more—to please Helen, and definitely to please the Lord.
He’d be pleased in the bargain, if Emilie agreed to let him press on with construction at Carter’s Run unhampered by her fellow history fanatics.
Hadn’t his good old Fielding charm unlocked many a stubborn female heart in the past? Jonas grinned and dropped onto a kitchen stool. Dr. Getz won’t know what hit her.
An uneasiness in his chest told him he was off the mark there. Okay, Lord. Not charm. Encouragement. The pressure on his chest lifted as he unfolded the “You Are Invited” note, determined to keep his intentions honorable—and, if possible, his golf course intact.
The message was printed with a brown crayon. From Sara?
No. It was signed by Emilie.
Dear Jonas:
“Dear”? Things were already looking up.
Since we seem to share an interest in dirt …
Hence the brown crayon. And the plant. Clever, Doc.
please accept this peace offering and an invitation for tea Thursday afternoon at four.
Jonas grinned and scratched Trix behind the ears. “Check this out, girl. She’s inviting me to do tea. Gotta be a good sign.”
He hated tea.
Thursday couldn’t get here soon enough.
Perhaps we can discuss the small parcel of land on Kissel Hill Road and come to a mutual agreement.
“Mutual agreement?” Bingo! The whole thing would be over in two days, then. She’d consent to his moving forward without interference and forget all about digging around his practically finished eighteenth hole for her patently fictitious Gemeinhaus.
Sure, the structure might have been there a couple of hundred years ago, but it was long gone. The borough owned the land, free and clear. A little tea, a little sympathy, and she’d see the light. After all, he’d come home to an answering machine full of support from the Carter’s Run steering committee, assuring him they would keep it on the q.t. but that they were behind him 100 percent.
If he could convince a dozen men, how hard could it be to persuade one woman?
Jonas continued reading, unable to keep a smile off his face.
Do respond at your earliest convenience if Thursday afternoon will not suit.
It would suit fine. In fact, he’d wear a suit, just to demonstrate his regard for her. Earn some extra credits from the professor while he was at it.
First he’d have to buy one. Hess Clothing on Broad Street would have something in his size, right? In black?
I’ll watch for your arrival promptly at four at my historic cottage on Main Street.
She would have to mention that “historic” part.
Your friend in property management, Emilie Getz, Ph.D.
Ha. “Property Management,” eh? What a kidder.
The Ph.D. wasn’t an accidental choice of verbiage either.
Emilie could toss her credentials around all she liked. They’d buy her his respect, joy, and admiration—but not his eighteenth hole.
P.S. The plant is a fittonia argyroneura and is partial to warm temperatures and high humidity. A kitchen or bath with an east or west exposure is best. Not to worry—I’ll present you with a mister on Thursday.
A what? He shook the letter at the slobbery golden retriever panting at his feet. “I’m the only mister this sister will ever need, Trix. Come Thursday afternoon, she’ll find that out.”
Speaking of presents, should he take her one as well?
Possibilities ran through his mind and were quickly discarded. Perfume was too personal, tea was too predictable, jewelry was out of the question.
Wait. She liked Mavis the goldfish. Maybe another small pet of some sort. To keep her company. To remind her of me. It was Groundhog Day, was it not? Naturally, groundhogs weren’t so much bought as they were trapped. No time for that. Still, he was on the right track.
He fingered the leafy plant, amazed when it didn’t wither at his touch. Somehow he had to keep the thing alive and out of Trix’s reach.
Kitchen or bath, Emilie said.
Easy enough. He’d hang it in the shower.
Emilie missed having a shower.
Her antique claw-foot tub was charming, an antique-lover’s delight, but from a practical standpoint, it was a pain in the neck—literally. When she slid down into the water till the foamy bubbles tickled her chin, the high sides of the tub caught her neck en route and offered no suitable perch once she was immersed in the suds.
Getting in and out of the tub with a broken collarbone was no easy feat either. She was grateful she lived alone, so no one would hear her splashing and grunting about when she struggled out of the tub each morning.
It wasn’t morning now, not by a long shot. She’d spent the first eight hours of Thursday cleaning and polishing her little abode until it shone like the electric candles that twinkled in every window, year-round. Having located a recipe for genuine Brit
ish scones, she’d bravely tossed a batch in the oven and marveled that they’d come out looking quite edible fifteen minutes later.
Lemon curd and fresh raspberries—imagine!—perched in a cool spot near the window, while the ingredients for a mock-Devonshire cream waited on the second shelf in the refrigerator. The dining room table was draped with her favorite lace-edged cloth, one of the handful of household items she brought from North Carolina, set with her best Royal Doulton bone china—the Lady Carlyle pattern, gold-rimmed and delicate. Jonas would never fit his sturdy index finger through the tiny handle in the cup, but he’d no doubt manage.
He’d also be sporting his usual T-shirt and black denim, of that she was certain. Wanting to make him feel comfortable, she’d laid out pressed blue jeans—the only pair she owned—and a plain white, oversized sweater. Her only nod to dressing for tea was a favorite navy silk scarf that would serve as her designer sling.
From her vantage point in the steaming tub, she could barely see the clock across the room. Nearly three. Plenty of time to finish her bath, dry and dress, and pour the scalding tea water into the waiting pot. No hurry really, not with a full hour. He’d never be early. Not in a—
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Three sharp knocks on her back door had her scrambling to a full sitting position in the tub, made slipperier than usual by the extra dollop of rose-scented bubble bath she’d poured in the water.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Not Jonas. It wasn’t possible, not an hour ahead of schedule. She squinted at the clock again, wishing her reading glasses were nearby, then steered herself through the bubbles toward the faucet to get a better look at the time.
No! Not three o’clock—four!
It was Jonas, punctual to the minute.
“Emilieeeee!” She could hear his muffled holler through the small, six-paned window just above her. The back door downstairs was unlocked. Might he let himself in? Come looking for her?
Or would he shout her name until the police came to arrest him for disturbing the peace?
Bookends Page 19
