Bookends

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Nate did his best to blend in, not wanting to draw undue attention, presenting himself as nothing more than an amiable, dark-haired golfer who’d suddenly started hanging around the clubhouse every afternoon. That’s when the CEOs rolled in, ready for a quick round and often looking for a fourth player.

  How may I be of service this afternoon, gentlemen? I’m Nathan Fielding, member of the PGA.

  Yeah. You and twenty-three thousand other members.

  If the men were rank amateurs, he offered tips that made them better. Made them grateful. If they played in the 80s, he complimented their games then made sure he scored a few points lower. Competitive to a man, these business execs liked spending time with someone who gave them a run for their money.

  Ever cooperative, Nate took their money and ran with it. In twenties and fifties and hundreds. On side games and long drives and putts. He lost on occasion—it made him seem legitimate—and tucked his winnings away until he could polish off his debts.

  It still wasn’t enough.

  At least the Jaguar was covered for two more weeks. He’d managed without booze, could squeeze by on one meal a day and a handful of mixed nuts at the club bar. Cy grumbled about the measly two thousand bucks Nate had sent, demanding more, but Nate knew how to butter up the man, get him laughing. It was the king-size bed he crashed on at night, the cold shower that shocked him awake in the morning, that’s what he’d let slide, figuring he’d pay up by week’s end.

  The end was near, only hours away.

  He looked at the phone by the bed and the number scribbled on the pad next to it. Rick. One of the friendlier types in the pro shop. Young guy, maybe twenty, putting himself through the University of North Florida by making himself useful at the club.

  Nate knew Rick had an apartment off-campus. Could he talk him into letting him land there for a couple of weeks? Buy some cereal, kick in a little rent, let him borrow the Jag for a night?

  He grabbed the phone off the hook, then banged it against his forehead in a pathetic rhythm, punishing himself. Why? Why did it always come to this? Asking for favors? For handouts? For loans he’d probably never be able to pay back?

  Exhaling the last of his frustration, Nate punched in the numbers and stretched a big, fake smile across his face. “Hey, Rick! How ya doin’, buddy?”

  He listened, nodding as if Rick were sitting right in front of him. “Same here. Looks like it’ll be another two weeks until they finish my condo, though.”

  It was a smooth lie, one he’d concocted driving past the place yesterday. Snazzy, upscale, the kind of high-rent building San Pablo members would call home. Opening February 25, the sign had said. Primo timing. His thirty-day blitz would be over by then and he’d already have kissed Jacksonville good-bye.

  But Rick didn’t know that. Nobody did.

  “I hate to ask this, sport, but could you spare a couch and a coffeepot for a couple of weeks? Really? That’s great, man. Just great.”

  Nate tried not to sound too relieved. Don’t give yourself away, Fielding. Don’t sound desperate. “If it’s okay, I’ll stop by late tomorrow morning and get a spare key. Nah, no stuff to store. One suitcase and a cell phone. You’ll hardly notice I’m there.”

  At least that much was true. He practically lived at the club and owned nothing but the clothes on his back.

  “Excellent. You’ll let me buy some groceries, right? And help you shave a few strokes off your game? Good. I’ll look forward to it. And … thanks, Rick.”

  He dropped the phone back in place, puzzled he wasn’t more elated about the whole thing. Maybe it’d been too easy. One call and he’d nailed a roof over his head and saved a bundle of money.

  Nate was a survivor. When he dug himself into a pit, he kept shoveling until he could dig himself out.

  Not true, man. You look for somebody else’s shoulders to stand on. That’s how you get out.

  The truth stuck in his craw, like a tough piece of meat.

  Maybe he had counted on others to boost him up. His dad’s shoulders had been stronger than anybody’s. Jonas was a poor but dependable second choice.

  Not true, Nate. He’s been more than a brother to you.

  Too much more. That was the problem. Jonas was his conscience. His mother and his father. Always wanting the best for him. Always hoping he would change. Nate could hear it in his brother’s voice.

  Jonas doesn’t judge you.

  No need. The guy’s squeaky-clean life was judgment enough.

  Jonas hasn’t given up on you.

  But he should. After all, Nate had given up on himself a long time ago.

  Two-hundred-fifty years to the day.

  Jonas double-checked his calendar. Yup.

  February 9. The day the Gemeinhaus—the second one, Emilie would insist—was dedicated and consecrated by the serving of communion. The day the Warwick Landgemeine Congregation threw open its doors to Moravians far and wide.

  Emilie wasn’t the only one who knew her history.

  Right this minute, though, Jonas cared only about the woman’s future. Her future with the Lord. Her future with you, Fielding. No question, that figured into this property fiasco as well.

  He shrugged into his parka, planning on a short walk over to Church Square. Emilie hadn’t answered her phone at home. Surely she’d be at the church office, today of all days. They’d talked all around the land situation since last Thursday. Now it was time to reach some consensus. Every hour brought them closer to the grand opening on April 9.

  “Let’s go, Trixie girl.” He snapped a long leash on her collar while the retriever fairly rolled her eyes at the prospect of a long walk. Trix didn’t just wag her tail, she wagged everything she owned, banging against him as they headed out through the garage.

  Jonas took off at a good clip, thanks to his spirited partner, and headed toward Cedar. The weather was decent; temperatures in the low fifties. A silvery gray, overcast sky but no threat of rain. Two blocks away, the bells in the Moravian church spire rang twice and he checked his watch, smiling at the vivid memory of another afternoon. Three-thirty. Almost tea time, Emilie.

  There’d never be another tea like the one they’d shared last Thursday, not in his lifetime. Not ever. He’d arrived on time, hoping to sweep her off her feet. Instead, the Lord showed up and swept her up in his own sacred embrace.

  At first Emilie couldn’t talk about it, just sipped her tea and sniffled in his handkerchief. Good thing he’d bought a new one to go with the suit. Then she started telling him about how she’d always believed—absolutely and positively—in the existence of God, yet had no clue when it came to knowing God in a personal way.

  “Like you do. Like Beth does, and Helen,” she explained, still trying to sort things out in her mind. He nodded, listened, and prayed silently while she talked, wanting so much to say the right thing. To encourage her, as he’d promised Helen he would.

  Helen. She’d cried on the phone when he called Friday to give her a full report. “I had nothing to do with it, and you know it,” he protested when Helen congratulated him.

  “Nonsense,” she said, tsk-tsking again. “You were there, you were obedient, and you were used of God. That’s as good as it gets, Jonas.”

  It was good. Better than good. Any discussion of mundane issues, like eighteenth holes and Gemeinhaus digs, faded to black in the wake of Emilie’s discovery. They’d sat on the couch together—after he strategically found a new perch for Clarice the guinea pig—and talked all through the evening, nibbling on cold scones and sliced ham for dinner, then feeding each other spoonfuls of raspberries with cream for dessert.

  The evening ended with nothing more than a kiss.

  But it lasted twenty minutes.

  Standing there in her kitchen, Jonas slipped his arms around her waist, drawing her into a relaxed embrace. His suit coat had come off hours earlier, which meant he felt her fragile warmth through the sleeves of his dress shirt. As if from a great distance, classical music floated
in from the living room.

  “Johann Friedrich Peter,” she murmured, though he hadn’t asked. “A Moravian composer.” Of course. “Eighteenth century.”

  “One of your favorites?”

  “Mm-hmm.” The shy look had returned. Her head was dipped down, with her forehead almost but not quite resting on his chest.

  Brushing one hand over her soft hair, down to the nape of her neck, he splayed his fingers to cradle her head, then tipped it back ever so slightly. He didn’t want her to feel forced in any way, understanding more than ever Emilie’s need for control, yet he longed to see her angelic face.

  Even remembering it now, walking down Cedar, Jonas swallowed a lump in his throat. Emilie’s countenance was radiant that night. Shining like a candle. The only word to describe it was joy. Pure joy.

  He hadn’t put that look there—it was totally the Lord’s doing—but he certainly could celebrate it. And Jonas had known precisely how he wanted those festivities to begin.

  When he lowered his head, eyes focused on her sweet rosebud of a mouth, she didn’t resist. Leaned up toward him, in fact. Met him halfway, sliding one small, white-dove hand up his arm then around his neck.

  In a single heartbeat, everything around them disappeared.

  The only sensation was her lips pressed against his, a perfect match.

  The only sound was her steady breathing. Maybe not so steady.

  The only scent was her rose-tinged hair and the lingering aromas from their afternoon tea.

  The only taste was sweet Emilie.

  And the only sight worth seeing was the fullness of joy reflected on her face when she slowly opened her eyes and whispered, “Kiss me again, Jonas.”

  Whew.

  He’d stumbled out the door minutes later, his heart singing, his mind spinning, and his Explorer forgotten as he walked a full block before he remembered that he drove.

  Fifteen

  When I walk with you I feel as if I had a flower in my buttonhole.

  WILLIAM THACKERAY

  Jonas’ brisk walk with Trix in tow—or was it Trix’s walk with him in tow?—brought them charging toward the entrance gate to the Moravian Cemetery. As he expected, the Emilie Getz Honorary Rock Pile still waited for the stonemasons to show up and reassemble it back into a solid pillar.

  Jonas grinned, in spite of the stark reminder of that icy Friday afternoon. That was one accident, at least, that led to a very happy ending, especially last Thursday.

  He’d done everything Helen suggested. And a few things she hadn’t, fella. Jonas chuckled, trotting past the fragmented gate. Wait until I walk in with Victor!

  After Mavis and Clarice, Victor would be his biggest surprise of all. He hoped to present it to Emilie sometime this week, in thanks for her anticipated cooperation about his eighteenth hole. Surely, after a kiss like that, the woman wouldn’t refuse him anything as paltry as a quarter acre of property.

  He followed the paved road up into the cemetery, tugging on Trix’s leash to keep her from chomping on the silk and plastic flowers poking from the dirt around the headstones. Familiar Lititz names caught his eye—Klein, Bender, Stauffer, Erb, Graybill—though not a soul was buried here that he’d known personally. Five years in Lititz made him the new guy in town.

  As he continued up the steep, curving drive, a cluster of ornate stones on the left caught his eye, including one name that struck a chord: Landis. He whistled a command at Trix, then knelt before a small grave marker with a cradle carved into the gray, polished granite.

  “Here, Trix.” His voice suddenly hoarse, he began reading the inscription aloud, as if trying to convince himself it was genuine. “Clayton Robert Landis. Born March 6. Died March 11.”

  Only five days. Jonas felt an invisible vise clamp down on his chest. He would be a little boy of seven now.

  There was more. “Son of Andrew and Elizabeth Landis.”

  It couldn’t be. Drew. And Beth. The vise gripped harder.

  He’d never asked about other kids. Sara was born soon after he moved to town, and he just assumed … he never dreamed …

  Beth. Beth, the woman who adored children, who helped with the nursery and the children’s choir, who mothered little Sara like a lioness caring for her cub. Beth had survived the unimaginable heartache of placing her infant son in a casket five days after first holding him in her arms.

  Stunned, Jonas rose to his feet, drawing in air with big gulps, his constricted throat and chest muscles fighting every breath. Clayton Landis. This little one he had never met, had not even known existed until now, all at once became real to him.

  The loss was real, too.

  Jonas stepped back slowly, with respect, then turned toward the church, walking forward but seeing nothing, still grappling with the unwelcome news. Trix, aware only of his change in mood, did her best to wrap herself around his legs, nuzzling his hand, nipping his coat with her teeth. “I see you, girl,” he murmured, scratching her head.

  He had never lost a son, but he’d lost a father.

  Either tragedy brought more than enough pain to last a lifetime.

  Oddly, Nathan came to mind. A brother who was very much alive, yet lost to him in many ways. The rehab was necessary, no question. The smartest five thousand dollars he’d ever spent. When Nate’s month was up, Jonas hoped he’d come spend a few weeks with him in Lititz. See how refreshing life in a small town could be.

  His spirits restored at the prospect, Jonas lifted his head and realized he’d almost reached God’s Acre, the oldest section of the cemetery. The large, square grounds had no monuments, only flat slabs of marble marking each grave, facing east, with the sexes carefully separated into choirs—men and boys, women and girls. Moravians never died; they merely fell asleep or went home, while their bodies remained buried awaiting resurrection.

  No wonder the Easter sunrise service included a triumphant walk to God’s Acre with trombones sounding and voices raised in hallelujah. It was not a place of the dead, but of those alive in Christ. Even Trix jogged along at a happy pace, oblivious to her surroundings. She was with her master on hallowed ground. All was well.

  On the grassy edge, near the stone and wood archway that led to the church buildings, stood a woman in a light gray suit, her back toward him, surrounded by two others and a man balancing a camera on his shoulder. Jonas grinned, finally recognizing her. Well, whaddaya know. Emilie Getz. She’d removed her sling, probably for the camera, and was gesturing in wide sweeps with the other arm.

  He lengthened his stride, tempted to call out, yet sensing Emilie was being interviewed. Something was happening, at any rate. He closed the gap between them, stopping five yards away to watch and listen as the cameraman from WGAL-TV shouted, “Rolling!”

  The reporter, a perky brunette with a vaguely familiar name, prattled on about the 250th anniversary celebration, then turned to introduce her guest. “With us on this important occasion is Dr. Emilie Getz, professor of history at Salem College in North Carolina. Dr. Getz, tell us what this day means to the Moravians of Lititz.”

  Jonas grinned. Yeah, tell us all about it, Doc.

  He knew his amused expression might throw off her concentration, so he pinched his lips tightly shut, willing them not to curl up on the ends.

  Emilie was the essence of poised professionalism as she leaned toward the microphone. “We Moravians are very proud of our heritage. February 9 is a day for celebrating the leap of faith made by twenty-seven visionary souls, people whose hearts were awakened to the joy of knowing Christ.”

  The grin escaped. You oughtta know, Doc.

  Undistracted, Emilie launched into a bright and breezy review of the local congregation, from Gemeinhaus to God’s Acre and everything in between. Clearly, Dr. Getz and the Lord were on a roll. The young reporter merely smiled and nodded, wide-eyed at her knowledgeable guest.

  When Emilie finished, the reporter abruptly scanned her notes, flustered, it seemed, over losing her place. Finally, she blurted out, “Uh …
Dr. Getz, someone at the church mentioned that in addition to the commemorative book you are writing, you are also doing a private research project. One involving a piece of property in town and a possible archaeological dig. Would you care to comment?”

  Jonas held his breath. She wouldn’t. Would she?

  No, Emilie.

  His grin long gone, Jonas stared at her in silence, willing her to keep this to herself. The committee knew; the community did not. Not now, Emilie. No comment. Say “No comment.”

  He trained his eyes on her, praying she got the message.

  She did.

  “You’ve certainly done your homework.” Emilie’s tone was smooth and assuring. “But since my homework isn’t finished on this subject yet, I’ll save my comments until I have something definite—and definitely exciting—to share with your Channel Eight viewers.”

  Jonas exhaled, his smile firmly back in place. What a pro. What a woman! He listened as Emilie offered a few more interesting tidbits about the church’s plans for the year ahead, from picnics to putzing, carol sings to trombone choir concerts. “We’ll begin with a special anniversary lovefeast on the fourteenth.” Emilie looked straight at the camera. “Do join us, won’t you? Ten-thirty Sunday morning.”

  On cue, the church bells tolled the hour. Four long chimes—on a lower, more solemn note than the quarter hour bells. The musical sound reverberated through the crisp February air as the reporter closed her story with a wide shot of the church behind her and a joy-filled historian by her side.

  Watching Emilie bid her good-byes to the television crew, Jonas impatiently started inching her direction. He didn’t want to rush her, yet longed to simply touch her hand, reconnect with her. They’d spoken on the phone each day since Thursday and sat together at the second service on Sunday, causing a full hour of rubbernecking around the sanctuary.