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happy, I’ll be there about noon.” Emilie sighed, depositing plant debris in the wastebasket next to her desk. “Fine. Eleven, then. But I’ll need to be home by six. Yes, I realize your house
is
home.” She bit her lip to stem her irritation. “I meant where I’m staying now … 
that
home, okay? See you shortly.”
    She eased the phone into its cradle, proud of herself for not banging it down in exasperation. Much as she loved her mother—and she did, she truly did—their conversations of late had been reduced to one topic: her unmarried status.
    Never mind the bachelor degree with honors from Moravian College, or her master’s. Not even her hard-earned Ph.D. from Wake Forest University merited a brownie point on the home front.
    “But I have no grandchildren,” Barbara Getz had grumbled on the phone moments earlier. “Surely you don’t plan to be an old maid.”
    “Mother,” she’d countered, pruning the ends of an overly vigorous sweetheart vine. “They don’t even use the phrase
old maid
anymore. Not
career girl,
either. I’m a historian, an academic. Is that so shameful?” She’d swallowed hard, fighting to control her emotions. “Besides, I’m
thirty-six,
not eighty-six. Don’t throw away those shower gifts you’re hiding in the closet quite yet.”
    Her mother had tried to keep her stash a secret. Said they were items she’d found on sale here and there. Useful household things, that’s all. Emilie had counted and knew better: one toaster, one iron, one blender, one mixer, one electric knife.
    And one baby blanket. Pink.
    Emilie paused in front of the mirror and smiled in spite of her sour mood.
Pink, like the sweater you’re wearing this very minute.
She did love pastel colors. Her closet was full of pale yellows, grays, blues, greens, and pinks, all in natural fabrics like cotton, linen, and wool. To her way of thinking, polyester wasn’t even good enough for curtains, let alone for apparel.
    She smoothed the creases in her winter white slacks and glanced at her watch. Thirty minutes until she had to climb behind the wheel of her venerable BMW, point it north toward Noble Street, and face her mother. Enough time to finish watering the cherished collection of houseplants she’d transported from North Carolina with great care, their leafy green heads covered with a sheet to ward off the cold.
    First, though, she’d unpack the last of her research materials and get things in order for this evening, when she’d begin putting together the pieces of the Gemeinhaus puzzle.
    Pulling two heavy volumes from a box at her feet, Emilie lugged them up onto the dining room table with a determined thump and an equally forceful vow: Never again would a failure like Bethabara blemish her resume.
    “Never!” She slapped another book on the table, punctuating her resolution with a satisfying bang.

Three

    Home is where one starts from.
    T HOMAS S TEARNS E LIOT
    Bang! Bang! Bang!
    Jonas groaned again.
    The pounding in his head was relentless.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
His subconscious was shouting at him, too.
Wake up! Haul it outta bed, Fielding. C’mon, get up!
    He pulled an extra pillow over his ears, but the voice in his head only grew louder and more insistent. “Go ’way,” he growled. “Lemme sleep.” When the pillow was snatched out of his hands, he was awake in an instant—eyes wide, heart beating, fists at the ready.
    Two men stood in his bedroom doorway and chimed in unison, “Mornin’, big brother.”
    “What? You …!” Jonas exhaled in frustration and relief as his eyes adjusted to the sight of his twin brothers, Jeff and Chris, strolling toward his bed—dressed, shaved, and wearing a pair of wicked grins. Plastered by Jeff’s side, with a stolen pillow trailing from her drooling mouth, was Trix, Jonas’ traitor of a dog.
    “Figured you could sleep in on Christmas morning, huh?” Chris bent down to rub Trix’s ears. “What will the Lord think, this being his birthday and