Bookends Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Liz Curtis Higgs
her beeswax candle and made a discreet canvass of the sanctuary, now brightly lit and filled with chatter.… but not with Jonas.
Just as well, yes?
Most assuredly.
Hiding the last powdery remains on her skirt behind her purse, Emilie stepped into the aisle, her eyes scanning the departing worshipers for a friendly face. Good riddance to Mr. Fielding notwithstanding, the notion of spending the rest of Christmas Eve alone in an empty rental house left her feeling oddly out of sorts.
The vigil service had been everything she remembered and more, right down to the trumpets heralding the entrance of shimmering trays of candles while the choir shouted in harmony
“Mache dich auf, werde Licht!”
When the evening closed with the congregation delivering a fortissimo “Sing Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!” complete with a soprano descant that shook the hallowed rafters, Emilie’s heart had been near to bursting.
Everything else that evening would be an anticlimax, she decided, aiming herself in the direction of the vestibule. Even if she did run into someone from her Warwick High days, visiting with an old acquaintance tonight would inevitably mean listening to countless stories of wedded bliss and cherubic children. Pictures would soon pour out of wallets, enhanced with witticisms allegedly spouted by the favored child and tales of perfect report cards presented at semester’s end.
Wait.
Grade schoolers didn’t call them semesters.
Terms, maybe? Grading periods?
She smiled to herself as she eased past the slow-moving crowd herding toward the door. How was she to know what children called things? An only child and a lifelong academic, she hadn’t spent ten minutes around little tots. Didn’t know the first thing about them.
Don’t want to, either.
A shudder ran through her at the very concept of sticky hands pulling at her tailored clothes and crayon drawings cluttering up her spotless refrigerator door.
Ick.
From behind her, a decidedly adult voice caught her attention. “EmilieGetz, don’t you dare take another step!”
Pausing outside the front of the church, Emilie turned to find an old neighbor from Noble Street squeezing through the door—a page from her childhood, wrapped in a woolen coat.
“Mrs. B. How lovely to see you again.”
Helen Bomberger was built like one of her apple dumplings: short and round. And sweet, as only four tablespoons of sugar could make a tart wine-sap sweet. Helen had lived two doors up from the Getz house all her married life, in a blue, two-story bungalow she no doubt still called home.
Loved by her neighbors and adored by their offspring, Helen had cooked and hugged and prayed her way into everyone’s hearts over the last seven decades. Her porch light was on at all hours, her lap was always ready for one more teary toddler, and her chicken corn soup stretched for miles when company showed up without phoning ahead.
It was impossible not to like Helen, even if she did make Emilie feel six years old again. Preparing herself for a long winter’s chat about God—Helen’s favorite subject—Emilie concentrated on the cheerful countenance beaming up at her. “Mrs. Bomberger—”
“Helen,” the woman corrected patting her gloved hand. “You’re old enough to address me by my given name, don’t you think?”
“
More than a few years, Emilie
…” Would the refrain haunt her all evening?
“Helen it is, then.” Her gaze fell on the woman’s too-snug plaid holiday dress and the wreath of wrinkles circling her sagging face. “Well, don’t you look … the same as ever?” Emilie cleared her throat. “I mean … you haven’t changed a bit!” She watched a crease of doubt crawl across the elderly woman’s forehead and added quickly, “How … how are you?”
“Older.” Helen smiled again and the crease disappeared. “As are you, dear. But the Lord has been kind enough to keep us breathing, hasn’t he? What does your mother have to say about her only
Just as well, yes?
Most assuredly.
Hiding the last powdery remains on her skirt behind her purse, Emilie stepped into the aisle, her eyes scanning the departing worshipers for a friendly face. Good riddance to Mr. Fielding notwithstanding, the notion of spending the rest of Christmas Eve alone in an empty rental house left her feeling oddly out of sorts.
The vigil service had been everything she remembered and more, right down to the trumpets heralding the entrance of shimmering trays of candles while the choir shouted in harmony
“Mache dich auf, werde Licht!”
When the evening closed with the congregation delivering a fortissimo “Sing Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!” complete with a soprano descant that shook the hallowed rafters, Emilie’s heart had been near to bursting.
Everything else that evening would be an anticlimax, she decided, aiming herself in the direction of the vestibule. Even if she did run into someone from her Warwick High days, visiting with an old acquaintance tonight would inevitably mean listening to countless stories of wedded bliss and cherubic children. Pictures would soon pour out of wallets, enhanced with witticisms allegedly spouted by the favored child and tales of perfect report cards presented at semester’s end.
Wait.
Grade schoolers didn’t call them semesters.
Terms, maybe? Grading periods?
She smiled to herself as she eased past the slow-moving crowd herding toward the door. How was she to know what children called things? An only child and a lifelong academic, she hadn’t spent ten minutes around little tots. Didn’t know the first thing about them.
Don’t want to, either.
A shudder ran through her at the very concept of sticky hands pulling at her tailored clothes and crayon drawings cluttering up her spotless refrigerator door.
Ick.
From behind her, a decidedly adult voice caught her attention. “EmilieGetz, don’t you dare take another step!”
Pausing outside the front of the church, Emilie turned to find an old neighbor from Noble Street squeezing through the door—a page from her childhood, wrapped in a woolen coat.
“Mrs. B. How lovely to see you again.”
Helen Bomberger was built like one of her apple dumplings: short and round. And sweet, as only four tablespoons of sugar could make a tart wine-sap sweet. Helen had lived two doors up from the Getz house all her married life, in a blue, two-story bungalow she no doubt still called home.
Loved by her neighbors and adored by their offspring, Helen had cooked and hugged and prayed her way into everyone’s hearts over the last seven decades. Her porch light was on at all hours, her lap was always ready for one more teary toddler, and her chicken corn soup stretched for miles when company showed up without phoning ahead.
It was impossible not to like Helen, even if she did make Emilie feel six years old again. Preparing herself for a long winter’s chat about God—Helen’s favorite subject—Emilie concentrated on the cheerful countenance beaming up at her. “Mrs. Bomberger—”
“Helen,” the woman corrected patting her gloved hand. “You’re old enough to address me by my given name, don’t you think?”
“
More than a few years, Emilie
…” Would the refrain haunt her all evening?
“Helen it is, then.” Her gaze fell on the woman’s too-snug plaid holiday dress and the wreath of wrinkles circling her sagging face. “Well, don’t you look … the same as ever?” Emilie cleared her throat. “I mean … you haven’t changed a bit!” She watched a crease of doubt crawl across the elderly woman’s forehead and added quickly, “How … how are you?”
“Older.” Helen smiled again and the crease disappeared. “As are you, dear. But the Lord has been kind enough to keep us breathing, hasn’t he? What does your mother have to say about her only