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daughter nearing forty and not a grandchild in sight?”
    “F-forty?” Emilie choked on the frozen night air. “I’m only—”
    “Yes, I know. Thirty-six. Wasn’t I there the day you were born?” Helen stepped aside as a gaggle of boisterous children hurried past. “Your father drove me to Lancaster General so I could see you in the nursery.” She wrapped her hand around Emilie’s elbow and steered her along the sidewalk toward the center of the square. “How proud he was of his baby girl!” sheadded with a twinkle in her eye, as the trombone choir reassembled for their last round of hymns before heading home to warm cider and warmer beds.
    “So, dear.” Helen’s voice rose above the brass instruments. “How are you and the Lord getting along these days?”
    “Uh … fine. We’re … fine.” Emilie had a sudden, uncontrollable urge to watch the French horn player, feigning interest in every note before her guilty conscience eased her attention back toward the woman by her side.
    Helen’s eyes shone in the lamplight. Not a hint of judgment was reflected there. “Stop by my place while you’re in the neighborhood, will you, child?”
    The sensation of being six years old returned with a hop, skip, and a jump. “Yes, ma’am. Any particular time?”
    “My door’s always open, Em. But then you know that.” Helen patted her hand again, then turned toward the parking lot behind the church. Emilie watched the older woman shuffle away, tottering a bit, her round body swathed in a bright red wool coat that had seen too many Christmases, her curly gray hair exposed to the wind.
    Without thinking, Emilie slipped her knit scarf from its cozy roost around her neck and hurried after her. “Mrs. B. That is, Helen … wait. Take this, please.”
    Helen had barely turned around before Emilie was tucking the still-warm scarf in place over the woman’s hair, then knotting it neatly below her double chin. “It’s too cold a night …” Emilie shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.
    “How thoughtful, dear.” Helen’s wise old eyes blinked at her. “I’ll be sure and return it when you stop by. Tomorrow, I hope.” Her head tipped sideways, making her look more owlish still. “You’re staying at the old Woerner place, aren’t you? Run along now, or you’ll be wishing you’d kept your nice scarf.”
    “See you tomorrow,” Emilie called out, surprised to hear a small note of enthusiasm in her voice.
Must be Christmas. Good will to men and fa-la-la.
She shivered, aware all at once of the icy wind on her bare neck, and hurried down the sidewalk toward Main Street and home, certain she heard a hot cup of Darjeeling calling her name.
    “Dr. Emilie Getz.”
    Jonas said it aloud, shaking his head as he watched her emerge through the church doorway. He squinted, trying to see through the darkly tintedglass of his Explorer, while his heater ran full blast and his bluegrass CD hummed at low volume for a change.
    A walking, talking contradiction, that Getz woman. He wasn’t spying on her on purpose.
No way.
After ducking out early to avoid a certain blond, he’d found his new vehicle blocked against the curb by another car—latecomers, probably—and had to wait for them to show up and move it.
    At least here in the driver’s seat, he was safely away from Dee Dee and her high heels on wheels. He’d spotted her as well, hurrying out the side door, obviously on a mission.
    To find you, big guy.
    It was not a comforting thought.
    Emilie had ended up near the trombone choir.
Who’s she talking to?
Unless his eyes deceived him, it was Helen Bomberger, the finest woman on God’s green earth. When he’d moved to town five years ago, Helen had practically adopted him, stuffing him with pot pie and apple strudel until he begged for mercy.
    She’d fed him spiritually, too. Prayed for him daily, she insisted. Nudged him onto the missions committee, then south of the border to build churches in Honduras the last two