Read Online Bookends by Liz Curtis Higgs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Liz Curtis Higgs
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either.
He followed her down the steps. “I’ve got you in the back. With Trix. Okay by you?”
“Naturally, I.… oh …” Emilie was close enough to see movement behind the tinted glass. Even in the darkness, it was clear Trix was a very large, very active woman. “So … how … old is Trix?”
“Four or five, give or take.”
Jonas reached for the door handle while Emilie watched in horror as the backseat passenger smashed her wet black nose and long pink tongue against the rear window.
“Aahh!” she shrieked. Emilie
never
shrieked. “Is that a … a …
dog
?”
“Yup.” He yanked open the door, and Trix came bounding out onto the sidewalk, greeting Emilie with slobbery kisses smeared all over her pale white hands.
“Oh …! Oh …!” Emilie was doing her best not to toss her breakfast pears all over the sidewalk as she hastily wiped her hands on the hem of herjacket. “I’m not … well, I’m simply
not
a dog person.”
“No problem,” Jonas assured her. “Trix likes everybody, even people who don’t like her back. Shoulda called her Gracie.” He patted the large, yellow beast. “Trix, looks like you’re riding in the back all by yourself. Miss … uh, Dr. Getz here says she doesn’t like dogs.”
“It’s not that I don’t like them,” Emilie corrected him, picking her way across the ice toward the passenger side. As far as it went, that was the honest truth. She
didn’t
dislike dogs. She loathed them.
Sliding inside the front seat, she’d no sooner tucked her purse beside her feet, avoiding Trix’s lethal tongue, when a deafening blast of music from the car speakers instantly pinned her back against the headrest. Her second shriek of the morning filled the air. “Good heavens!”
Jonas climbed in beside her seconds after the onslaught began. “Like it, huh?” He gunned the engine and shifted into drive, grinning at her as he inched the volume up a notch. “One of my favorite bluegrass CDs. Group of guys from Maryland.”
She pressed back harder, trying to escape the noise. “Those aren’t …
violins
they’re torturing, are they?”
“Nope.” The car careened down Main Street. “They’re fiddles.”
Fiddlesticks. She knew an abused violin when she heard one.
His elbow jammed into hers. “I thought you liked instrumental pieces.”
She fought the urge to elbow him back, knowing it was neither ladylike nor appropriate, and shot him a pointed look instead. “Classical music—real music—is more to my taste. Might you have anything softer?”
He touched a round button on the stereo and the disturbing racket disappeared as abruptly as it’d begun. The silence fell on her like a heavy quilt on a cold day—warm and welcome. Emilie tried not to sigh with relief as she mumbled her thanks. To think that she was spending the day with a man who considered that … that
noise
worth listening to!
Minutes later, heading north on Broad Street, he reached under the seat, pulled out an ancient cassette recorder, and dropped it in her lap. “It’s not classical music, but I think you’ll find it fairly interesting.” When she reached for the start button, his hand rested on hers for the slightest of seconds. “Later, Emilie.”
It was the first time he’d said her name that morning. She didn’t know which startled her more—those familiar three syllables rolling out on a smokybass note or the brush of his callused palm on her ungloved knuckles.
His hands were large and rough, the hands of a carpenter, yet his touch was featherlight. What did he do to earn his keep? She was an experienced researcher; it was time to ask a few well-chosen questions.
“Mr. Fielding, what precisely is your line of work?”
He shrugged. “I play with dirt.”
The look on her face made missing a day at Carter’s Run worth every second. Shock, confusion, disgust—who could tell? Not him, not in a lifetime. Eyebrows tipped up, lips curled down, chin jutted
He followed her down the steps. “I’ve got you in the back. With Trix. Okay by you?”
“Naturally, I.… oh …” Emilie was close enough to see movement behind the tinted glass. Even in the darkness, it was clear Trix was a very large, very active woman. “So … how … old is Trix?”
“Four or five, give or take.”
Jonas reached for the door handle while Emilie watched in horror as the backseat passenger smashed her wet black nose and long pink tongue against the rear window.
“Aahh!” she shrieked. Emilie
never
shrieked. “Is that a … a …
dog
?”
“Yup.” He yanked open the door, and Trix came bounding out onto the sidewalk, greeting Emilie with slobbery kisses smeared all over her pale white hands.
“Oh …! Oh …!” Emilie was doing her best not to toss her breakfast pears all over the sidewalk as she hastily wiped her hands on the hem of herjacket. “I’m not … well, I’m simply
not
a dog person.”
“No problem,” Jonas assured her. “Trix likes everybody, even people who don’t like her back. Shoulda called her Gracie.” He patted the large, yellow beast. “Trix, looks like you’re riding in the back all by yourself. Miss … uh, Dr. Getz here says she doesn’t like dogs.”
“It’s not that I don’t like them,” Emilie corrected him, picking her way across the ice toward the passenger side. As far as it went, that was the honest truth. She
didn’t
dislike dogs. She loathed them.
Sliding inside the front seat, she’d no sooner tucked her purse beside her feet, avoiding Trix’s lethal tongue, when a deafening blast of music from the car speakers instantly pinned her back against the headrest. Her second shriek of the morning filled the air. “Good heavens!”
Jonas climbed in beside her seconds after the onslaught began. “Like it, huh?” He gunned the engine and shifted into drive, grinning at her as he inched the volume up a notch. “One of my favorite bluegrass CDs. Group of guys from Maryland.”
She pressed back harder, trying to escape the noise. “Those aren’t …
violins
they’re torturing, are they?”
“Nope.” The car careened down Main Street. “They’re fiddles.”
Fiddlesticks. She knew an abused violin when she heard one.
His elbow jammed into hers. “I thought you liked instrumental pieces.”
She fought the urge to elbow him back, knowing it was neither ladylike nor appropriate, and shot him a pointed look instead. “Classical music—real music—is more to my taste. Might you have anything softer?”
He touched a round button on the stereo and the disturbing racket disappeared as abruptly as it’d begun. The silence fell on her like a heavy quilt on a cold day—warm and welcome. Emilie tried not to sigh with relief as she mumbled her thanks. To think that she was spending the day with a man who considered that … that
noise
worth listening to!
Minutes later, heading north on Broad Street, he reached under the seat, pulled out an ancient cassette recorder, and dropped it in her lap. “It’s not classical music, but I think you’ll find it fairly interesting.” When she reached for the start button, his hand rested on hers for the slightest of seconds. “Later, Emilie.”
It was the first time he’d said her name that morning. She didn’t know which startled her more—those familiar three syllables rolling out on a smokybass note or the brush of his callused palm on her ungloved knuckles.
His hands were large and rough, the hands of a carpenter, yet his touch was featherlight. What did he do to earn his keep? She was an experienced researcher; it was time to ask a few well-chosen questions.
“Mr. Fielding, what precisely is your line of work?”
He shrugged. “I play with dirt.”
The look on her face made missing a day at Carter’s Run worth every second. Shock, confusion, disgust—who could tell? Not him, not in a lifetime. Eyebrows tipped up, lips curled down, chin jutted
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