Read Bookends for Free Online

they’d moved their car far enough for him to maneuver out of the tight space and onto Church Avenue, Jonas realized Emilie was long out of sight. He pulled up to the intersection and braked, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Had she turned left or right on Main? Lititz wasn’t that big a place. Maybe eight, nine thousand people, tops. Emilie hadn’t gone far. He’d find her, make sure she wasn’t freezing her skinny neck off, see she got home in one piece.
    Left, then.
He turned, steering carefully down the narrow street with cars parked on both sides as he checked one sidewalk, then the other, looking for a tall woman with wavy brown hair. And no scarf.
    C’mon, Emilie, I know you’re here somewhere.
    Seconds later, sitting at the red light at Cedar, he caught a glimpse of her tan coat slipping past an open front door before it closed behind her.
    It was her all right. The car out in front had a bumper sticker that pointed to her like a sharp pencil: “You can take Salem women out of class, but you can’t take the class out of Salem women.”
    ‘Salem,’ huh? Bet her other car’s a broomstick.
    He sighed into the dim interior.
Not nice, Fielding.
    A light came on in the house. She was safe, then.
Good.
Didn’t need his help after all.
Fine.
    When the traffic light changed, he slowly drove by the white clapboard house with dark green shutters, a candle in each window, and a stone foundation.
Too bad she’s stuck with such an old house.
He almost felt guilty about stepping on the gas and heading for his own brand-spanking-new home with its straight-to-plumb and freshly-painted walls.
    Wonder why she picked that place?
    As the small house faded from view in his mirror, Jonas sorted through the facts at hand. The property once belonged to Miss Mary Augusta Huebener, the never-married daughter of a Moravian family and the unofficial town historian.
An old maid. Like Emilie, I’ll bet.
He grinned at the comparison. These days the house was owned by a missionary couple in Honduras, scheduled to come home on furlough next summer.
    Hold it.
If his minutes from the last missions committee meeting were accurate, the church was paying rent for some out-of-town professor to live there while he prepared—
    No.
Not
he—she.
    Emilie.
Dr. Emilie Getz. He slowed down at the square while his mind whirled. Why hadn’t he put that together sooner?
Because, Einstein, you assumed the doc was a guy.
So the hoity-toity history professor from Winston-Salem was a
she,
here for the big anniversary.
    Well, whaddaya know
 …
    That meant the woman wasn’t in town for long—six months, tops.
    Just as well, right?
    He swung onto Broad Street, surprised to hear his tires squeal.
    Right.
    No sooner had he straightened the wheel than the cell phone in his pocket chirped. Fumbling with it in the dark, he finally found the right button and punched it.
    “Fielding here.”
    “Wish you were
here
,” a feminine voice purred.
    “Here?” he barked into the phone. “Where? Who is this?”
    “You saw me at church tonight, remember?”
    At church?
Had he given Emilie Getz his number?
Nah.
Besides, she’d never sound like this coy little kitten.
    The breathy voice came on the line again. “Don’t you know who this is?”
    Know? No. Oh, no
 …
    They said it in unison—one with a purr, the other a groan: “Dee Dee.”
    “That’s enough moaning and groaning, dear.”
    “Sorry, Mother.” Emilie gripped the phone with one hand while the other gently snipped a dead leaf off her aspidistra. “I hadn’t intended to come forthe whole day, that’s all. I … I need to get back to my research.”
    Her mother’s faint tsk-tsk spoke volumes.
    Emilie stared out the small kitchen windows at the fresh flakes slowly covering the sleeping garden that would beckon her come the first warm day. The snowfall was steady, but not enough to prevent her impending drive to her parents’ house for Christmas.
    “Okay. If it’ll make you