After the shop closed, Philip sat across from Claire in her apartment with the account books spread open on the table. Her profit margin was nonexistent. He'd expected that for a new business. But he'd patiently reviewed the books with her, and he hoped she understood.
"I know you're a generous woman, Claire. You like to show your appreciation to the customer. But you can't give away the merchandise. You need to do something."
Philip jumped when Bodkin leaped from the floor and slid to a landing in the middle of the ledger. The cat gave Philip a haughty gaze and curled up on Claire's penned accounts. "You need to get yourself a computer, Claire." Teasing, he gave Bodkin an evil eye, stroked his fur and dropped the cat to the floor.
"He likes to be in on things," Claire said, reaching down and petting the insulted cat.
Philip delved back in his thoughts to where he'd been before the dive-bombing occurred. "How about… a monthly drawing."
"A drawing?" Slighting Bodkin, Claire straightened her back and gave him an uncertain look.
"Sure. Each customer can drop a card with her name into a fishbowl. You can display the prize. A scarf, let's say, or even a ten-dollar gift certificate."
Claire's face brightened. "I like it. Not a leather handbag. An inexpensive item."
"Right," Philip said, pleased that she caught the idea. "They'll come back more often so they can get their name into the fishbowl and for the opportunity to win a free gift."
Her face showed her pleasure, and he prayed she followed his advice. The summer tourist season had arrived, and the next months could make or break the boutique. Claire needed to understand the situation.
When she smiled, a second lecture made its way to Philip's mouth. "And what about those teeth in your pocket, Claire. Why haven't you seen Doctor Barrow?"
She shook her head. "Because I knew you'd tell him not to charge me. You've done enough. No handouts."
"All right, I promise," he said.
Her words took him back to his conversation with Jemma the day in the coffee shop. He'd hesitated when she asked for his help. Though he was pleased that she wanted his advice, her request made him wonder. Did she consider him as a friend…a relative? He drew in a ragged breath. Or a father? The word nailed him to the chair. Why did he insist on thinking such a thing?
He pushed away his thoughts and refocused on Claire. "I agree. No handouts."
Apparently satisfied, Claire plucked the dentures from her pocket and pulled off a few strands of lint. She rose and headed to the sink. Philip heard the water running and assumed that she was rinsing them under the tap.
"There," she said, turning around to face him, this time wearing her teeth. "I promise I'll see him. But remember your promise. No charity."
Philip agreed again and sank against the chair. He picked up his cola and took a sip. Despite his thoughts of Jemma, Claire tickled him. He'd controlled an earlier grin, but now he allowed himself to smile.
Philip had tried to avoid focusing on her getup— black spandex pants and some sort of off-the-shoulder gypsy blouse. A huge pair of hoop earrings hung from her ears and her arms had enough bangles to ring out the old and ring in the new. If that didn't attract customers, what would?
"You're smiling," Claire said. "I like to see that." She peered at him. "You're a good-looking man, Philip."
"Thank you. You're unbelievable yourself, Claire." His double meaning broadened his grin. "I'm glad you've cheered up."
Her lightheartedness faded. "Me, too. I'm ashamed of myself. Poor Jemma. I wasn't very nice the last days she was here. Selfishness. That's what it was."
"You, selfish?"
"Me," she said, answering his question. "I was thinking of my own wants. Jemma needs to get on with her life and not worry about her old mother-in-law. She's a young woman who should have—"
She paused, and Philip started to respond, but Claire's eyes brightened and she continued.
"She should have a husband…and a family. That's what she needs," Claire pronounced and leaned forward.
At the mental image of Jemma with a husband and family, Philip froze.
"Maybe a businessman…a successful businessman," she continued. "One who can let her stay home with the little ones while he brings home the bacon."
Reeling at what he was feeling, Philip threw his head back and laughed, covering the truth. "I hope you're not thinking of me, Claire. I'm old enough to be her father."
"Baloney!" Claire swished away his comment with her hand.
Philip's chest tightened. Jemma did deserve a happy, fulfilled life—one that was complete, with a loving husband and children. A wave of longing shivered down his back.
"You old? No way," Claire said. "You're just the kind of man Jemma needs. One with a good head on his shoulders. I've lived to regret my son's inability to make that lovely girl happy. Jemma tried to make it work. Tried like a trooper. But you can't be happy living with waste and alcohol…and unfaithfulness. I know."
Philip wanted to stop her. He didn't want to know about Jemma's unhappy existence. Yet…part of him did. Part of him wanted to hold her in his arms, protect her and shield her from further hurt. He wanted to make her smile. Wanted to love her. Wanted to start a family with her.
The image sliced through his thoughts while cold fear stabbed his heart. It was impossible. He'd become a role model in the community, a man who worked hard and stuck by his father's dream. Many people looked up to him. How would they perceive him if he were involved with a woman almost half his age. Cradle robber. That's what they'd call him. He'd heard the term before. Snide comments behind people's backs. Why did he care what people thought? People would scorn him…but worse, they'd ridicule Jemma. He couldn't allow that.
Straightening his back, Philip closed the ledger. "I'm serious about a computer, Claire. You could use a spreadsheet program and keep your records much more easily than you're doing now." He rose. "And no math."
"No math? How's that?"
"The program figures it for you. Give that some thought." His mind wandered as he noticed a stack of photographs on a side table. He lifted the stack and felt his heart give a kick when Jemma's smiling face glowed from one of the photos.
He grinned. Apparently for posterity, Claire had taken photos of every nook and cranny and every angle of the store. She'd snapped Jemma dressing the storefront window, Jemma setting up a table display. Jemma had only taken a few pictures of Claire.
"Nice photos, huh?" Claire leaned over his shoulder. "I'm keeping a scrapbook."
"Yes, they're great." His gaze lingered on one lovely photograph of Jemma. "This is an excellent shot."
"Keep it," she said.
Though he longed to, he shook his head. "What about your scrapbook?"
"This one's nice of her," Claire said, fingering through the photos. "Take a couple."
Philip smiled, recognizing Claire's desire to please the world. He was glad he hadn't mentioned he liked her shoes. He'd be carrying them home in a paper sack. "No, no, they're yours, Claire. Really."
She finally stopped pushing, and he quickly said goodbye before he forgot and mentioned he liked something else of hers. With a wave, he escaped down the stairs, and at the bottom slipped his hand into his jacket pocket for the keys.
He stopped and glanced back up the stairs, expecting to see Claire's smiling face. She wasn't there. Somehow she'd put something in his pocket when he wasn't paying attention.
Delving deeper, he drew out Claire's gift. His chest tightened as he eyed one photo after another— each one of Jemma's smiling face.
"Claire, what are you doing to me?"
The answer came from his heart. She'd done nothing. The problem was his. He lowered his eyes to one of the photographs and faced the truth. He was the one out of control.
In her small bedroom, Jemma tugged pantyhose up her legs, then rose and pulled a slip over her head. Moving to the mirror, she held the summer dress in front of her, hoping that the yellow print didn't make her look to
o pale. It had been on sale and she couldn't pass up the bargain.
Since moving into the Dorchesters' residence, Jemma felt like a prisoner. The couple were tolerable, but demanding. Jemma had known when she accepted the job that the work wouldn't be easy. She was used to hard work. But at the Dorchesters', no matter how hard she tried, she was chastised for the smallest mistake—while they seemed to ignore her efforts.
She looked toward heaven, asking God to forgive her. Gratitude was not a guarantee in life. Her reward would be in heaven. Rod Dorchester's vile language made Jemma cringe each time she heard the Lord's name in vain. Yet she'd grown fond of Stacy Dorchester's elderly mother, for whom she cared. She wondered how long she could cope with the situation.
But her life had a bright side. Claire had made every effort to let Jemma know that all was forgiven, and from what she could tell, Philip had done an excellent job of explaining things to Claire. The monthly drawing idea was a hit and even tourists participated, leaving their address and hoping to win the colorful scarf Claire displayed as the prize.
But Philip? She hadn't seen him for the past three weeks.
Her chest tightened, knowing tonight they'd be together. He'd called and invited her to join him and Claire for the make-up birthday dinner. One without interruptions. She missed him more than she wanted to admit.
Philip was not only a good businessman. He seemed to understand human nature. He'd helped her with Claire and guided Claire to think in a more businesslike manner. And he'd even guessed she would dislike her work with the Dorchesters. Had he known about Mr. Dorchester's cursing?
Jemma dropped the dress over her head and studied herself in the mirror. Was it the dress or her hair she didn't like? She grabbed a clasp, pulled her curls away from her face and secured it. A few wispy strands escaped. With the whisk of a facial brush, she added color to her cheeks and daubed on a bright lipstick. She'd pass.
She slipped on her lowest strap heels, grabbed her shoulder bag and hurried down the back steps. She'd agreed to wait for Philip and Claire out front, wanting no part of the Dorchesters' curious stares.
Late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, spreading dark and light patterns on the ground that shifted and flickered with the breeze. She usually loved summer: it held promise of bright skies and warm days. But this summer left her feeling cheated. She barely had time to enjoy a moment of relaxation, let alone the outdoors.
Her one day off seemed to fly. And though her nights were free, the Dorchesters' social calendar left Jemma in charge of the elderly woman many evenings. Grandma Agnes enjoyed her company, and Jemma couldn't disappoint her.
Jemma headed down the block, away from the austere brick house. A neighbor's rose garden sent its rich fragrance sailing on the air, and Jemma stopped, filling her lungs with the aroma that reminded her of Philip's aftershave.
When an automobile turned the corner, Jemma recognized Philip's car, and anticipation jarred her senses. During the past weeks, she'd lived for this day—to see him again and enjoy his company.
Through the windshield, she could see his silhouette etched by the lowering sun. Her heart skipped. She forgot to breathe. She wanted to stamp her foot at her foolishness.
When he pulled to the curb beside her, Philip leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. She stepped forward, glancing into the back seat to greet Claire.
The seat was empty.
Philip answered her question before she asked. "Claire begged to be excused. She said she was tired and felt a cold coming on."
Jemma knew better. Claire was being Claire. She'd hinted to Jemma when they visited her last that Philip would make a wonderful husband…for someone.
Since she'd found no point in arguing with Claire, Jemma had agreed. For someone, Philip would make a wonderful husband. But the someone wasn't her.
Jemma wanted to be aggravated, but this was Claire's way. Tonight Claire had generously given up a nice dinner to arrange this private rendezvous.
Claire's manipulation made Jemma feel ill at ease. Still, she could do nothing now, so she slid into the passenger seat, closed the door and gathered her thoughts before facing Philip.
"I suppose I should have let you know Claire wasn't coming," he said. "I hope you don't mind."
She avoided his eyes. "I'm just surprised."
"We could call it off and wait until she's feeling better."
Call it off? If he did, Jemma would be terribly disappointed. If he didn't, they would spend the evening together and Jemma would spend the night fighting her foolish longings. "Is that what you'd like to do?" Jemma asked, shuffling through her conflicting emotions.
"Not at all," he said, his voice soft and deep.
She faced him, afraid to look in his eyes, but she did. "Then, I'd enjoy having dinner with you."
He smiled. "I'm glad."
They drove in silence except for an occasional comment about the scenery or the day. In a short time they reached the inn's parking lot.
Surrounded by large elms, the Inn on Spring Lake was a low, rambling stone building that sat on the edge of a rise overlooking the lake that eventually flowed into nearby Lake Michigan.
They were guided to a cozy table beside a window that looked out on the calm, bottle-green water. Afraid to look directly into Philip's eyes, Jemma stared out at the landscape. Gulls soared and dipped, searching for their evening meal, and when the birds touched the silent water, concentric ripples rolled outward, tipped in gold from the setting sun.
Occasionally, Jemma gave Philip a sidelong glance, but his gaze seemed focused on her. The admiring look stirred her imagination.
"I'm always amazed at how quickly the sun goes down," Jemma said, watching the golden orb touch the water, sending quicksilver arrows darting across the blue stillness. "Time is a strange phenomenon."
With a questioning look, Philip tilted his head.
"If you're happy, time flies…like this glorious sun. In the blink of an eye, it vanishes into night and returns as another fleeting day. But when you're lonely or miserable, it drags like a funeral dirge. Unending."
"I don't want you to be miserable, Jemma. Tell me you're not." He moved his hand across the tabletop and rested it on hers.
His touch wrapped her in an unexpected calm. "Not miserable, exactly. But far from where I'd like to be."
"And where would you like to be?"
She longed to tell him. She'd like to be close to him, protected in his strong arms and soothed with his deep, reassuring voice. "I don't know," she answered finally. "But not at the Dorchesters."
"Then, resign."
It was as simple as that. Resign. She pondered the thought. She could easily give her notice—give them time to replace her—but she wasn't one to act rashly. "What would I do then? Go back to Claire's?" She lowered her eyes. "I can't. I really can't."
"I have a job waiting for you. Believe me, you can take your pick. Reservation desk, office clerk, waitress, housekeeper. You're doing that now. A job at Bay Breeze would be much better…and I guarantee a better wage."
She needed to think. Even more, she needed to ask God what to do. "I don't know. I just can't—"
He pressed his finger to her lips, then turned her head with his free hand.
She looked through the window and witnessed a lake of fire and diamonds. A miracle of orange, gold and silver spread across the water in glinting prisms of refracted light. A gasp escaped her.
"So beautiful," Philip whispered.
"It is," she whispered. She returned her gaze to his and felt her head spin, seeing his tender, telling smile.
"The sunset, too, Jemma, but I'm talking about you. You're like a spring day…all fresh and glowing with your golden hair and dress covered with sprigs of flowers."
He touched the sleeve of her simple print gown, sending a shiver of excitement down her arm.
"So young…and expectant. I envy you. I wish I was young again."
"You envy me?" Jemma stared at him with disbeli
ef. "Me?" She shook her head. "Anyone would envy you. You have everything a person could want. Success, wealth, generosity, kindness, people who look up to you—"
"I have nothing."
She stopped breathing.
"Don't look at me like that. I'm not out of my mind. My life is set. No adventure. No surprises. No family."
Her mind shot back to their first birthday dinner. "Your brother?"
"No. Not that kind of family. A family of my own."
Jemma couldn't believe what she heard. "A while ago you told me to spread my arms and fly. How about taking your own advice?"
"My own advice is for the young. I'm old enough to be your father, Jemma. Could you see your father spreading his arms and flying?"
"He could be…in heaven. My father died years ago."
His face blanched. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."
"That's okay—but don't you see? You're only fifty. That's still young enough for—"
"Not for what I want."
Like a whirlwind, questions spun through Jemma's mind. What did he want? Not her, that was clear. Was there some woman in his life? A woman he loved who didn't love him? How could that be? She had no words, no answers that rose from the gale in her head.
She turned and faced the water, seeing the last of the golden rays spill across the horizon, the heavens shadowing to coral and violet. Like her dreams, the sky had glowed, then faded to nothing but black night.
One stark thought pierced the darkness. She could never work at Bay Breeze. Seeing Philip every day would weigh on her heart. And she'd already had enough sorrow for a whole lifetime.
Chapter Four
"I understand," Philip said, controlling his discouragement. "I've heard the complaints myself."
Ian Barry fiddled with the keys clutched in his hand and shuffled from one foot to the other. "You're the boss, Philip, but I'm getting nailed every day for the positions we haven't filled."
"I know." Philip's focus riveted to the telephone. Why hadn't Jemma called and accepted his job offer? He knew the time had come when he could no longer avoid filling the resort's needs. He'd held open two particular jobs that he thought Jemma would enjoy.
Loving Treasures Page 4