Loving Treasures

by Gail Gaymer Martin

  In the mirror, she eyed her coordinated outfit and smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt, deciding she looked fine for church. She cringed as she wondered about Claire. When she had lived at the apartment, she had been able to suggest that Claire wear something less dramatic, but today, she asked the Lord to put a message in the woman's ear, suggesting a little decorum.

  Jemma grinned, thinking about God wasting time worrying about Claire's wardrobe. She locked her door and hurried down the stairs. At the bottom, she glanced at Jeanette's closed door. The woman seemed the perfect landlady—quiet, yet there if Jemma needed her. Outside, Jemma slid inside her car and aimed the vehicle toward the boutique.

  She loved Sunday mornings, and spending quality time with the Lord. And she often had Sunday off. Sometimes she wondered if that was a gift from Philip just like so many things in her life seemed to be.

  Today the streets were empty, the shops closed until noon and most people asleep—a relief during the busy summer season. Jemma smiled at the bright July sky, willing to admit that she needed to refocus on her goals and on the Lord.

  She had begun to revitalize her faith. She'd grown tired of the more solemn church she'd attended when she first came to Loving. Certainly God's Word was preached there, but the congregation was as stiff as their suits and dresses, and as formal as their Sunday celebration.

  A few weeks ago, she'd spotted a sign outside the Fellowship Church only a short distance away from the boutique. It read "If you can't find the spirit, look here." She had, and the sign had been correct. Powerful sermons, songs of praise and a friendly congregation. That's what she needed.

  Her other issue was not as easy to solve. Her goal. While she struggled for independence, her heart kept leading her down a different path. A path that led to Philip. She needed to talk with the Lord on that one.

  Before Jemma could toot the horn, Claire came through the side door of the shop, and Jemma released a thankful sigh. Claire wore a navy dress with matching pumps. The only color in her outfit was a multi-hued silk scarf fluttering behind her that she'd wrapped around her throat.

  "Good morning," Claire said, yanking open the passenger door. "Be honest. Do I look all right? Everything I wanted to wear needs cleaning." She tugged at the skirt of her dress. "I had to drag out this old rag. I think I wore it once to a funeral."

  A chuckle sputtered from Jemma's chest. "I'm not laughing at you. When you walked through the door, I thought how nice you looked."

  "I'll chalk your comment up to tact," Claire said, patting Jemma's knee.

  Claire chattered as Jemma drove the short way to church. Inside, pre-service music filled the air, and Jemma guided them to seats somewhere in the middle. She glanced through the newsy program, reading the special announcements and long list of scheduled activities. Her attention was drawn to the choir's summer conceit, a nice event to draw in the tourists. If Jemma had more time, she'd enjoy singing with the choir.

  When the service began, the air hummed with praise and joy. If a weak Christian couldn't sense the Lord in this place, he was hopeless. Jemma thought of Philip. Was that his problem? Maybe he'd been lulled to sleep by his conservative faith and needed a little shot of the Holy Spirit.

  Jemma wished she could tell Claire her real feelings. But the older woman had a way of meddling that made Jemma clench her teeth in frustration.

  Shifting closer to Claire, she pointed to the notice. "I was thinking we might enjoy this concert."

  Claire scanned the paragraph. "Sounds good to me," Claire whispered, "if I could get the shop door closed on time. I could use a little midweek uplifting."

  Jemma steadied herself. "So could Philip. He's too tied to that resort."

  "That man does work too hard. He needs to relax. I ought to give him a call."

  Jemma was relieved. She should have known she could count on Claire…and the Heavenly Father. She lifted her gaze to the stained-glass window—a cross between the descending dove and the eye of God.

  Jemma stood near Ian at Philip's front entrance, awed by the lovely setting and the guests who swarmed into the penthouse apartment. She'd never been in Philip's rooms before, though she'd seen the elevator marked Private that took him to his own quarters in the resort.

  Sometimes she wondered why he'd never shown her his quarters, but then she answered her own question. Philip was very private and protective of their relationship.

  Protective? Or embarrassed?

  In Philip's company, Jemma often forgot that she was the "poor relation." She forgot she lacked education and social polish. God had given her creative ideas and a flair for survival, and she was making her way. But Philip had shown her a rife she had never experienced. A life with sailboats, fine dining and cashmere clothes.

  Scanning the room, Jemma searched for Philip. Well-dressed women stood around the large room clinging to the arms of equally polished men. The ladies wore designer dresses meant to look casual and unpretentious, but the labels could have been on the outside. These women weren't fooling anyone.

  Jemma glanced down at her plain print sheath adorned with a gold-plated necklace and button earrings. On her wrist hung a thin gold bracelet that she wore with pride. She eyed the lush, expensive jewelry weighting the necks and fingers of the other guests, and understood Philip's discomfort with her. How could he ever have Jemma on his arm?

  She stiffened as feelings of inadequacy overwhelmed her. Stunned, Jemma spotted Philip with an attractive woman gripping his sleeve. The woman smiled into his face with a possessiveness that knifed Jemma's heart.

  Just as she'd seen him do downstairs, Philip ambled among his guests, the perfect host. Occasionally, he paused to introduce the woman at this side. The couples shook her hand, gazing at her with admiration. After a polite moment, she and Philip moved on again, while Jemma's ache grew deeper.

  Jemma turned away. Instead of feeling sorry for herself, she should rejoice for Philip. He'd been alone a long time. Companionship and love were God's gifts. Philip, who was so filled with compassion and thoughtfulness, deserved good things.

  Planting a smile on her face, Jemma bandaged her wound with determination. She'd prayed for guidance. She had to accept that this was God's will. Other couples arrived, and Jemma directed them to the hors d'oeuvres table before sinking back into her thoughts.

  Had she misread Philip? She'd assumed he didn't have a special woman in his life. Any woman, for that matter. When she really thought about it, she'd misjudged his faith, too. He'd shown her and Claire every gift of the spirit, every loving kindness. Maybe Philip didn't attend church every week, but he knew what God expected and he acted on it. Better than she ever had.

  "Would you like to mingle?" Ian said, stepping to her side. "You look like you could use a break."

  "I'm fine. Thanks." Jemma tried to send him a sincere smile.

  "At least get a plate of hors d'oeuvres. The crab is wonderful."

  She saw no sense in arguing. How could she explain?

  With a forced thank-you, she headed across the room to the large table spread with delicacies. Caviar, fruit and cheese, finger foods of every description. Though the assortment looked tempting, her appetite was fading as quickly as her hope.

  Jemma forced herself to lift a crystal plate and move along studying the array. Knowing she would look foolish holding an empty dish, she speared a piece of crab and a slab of melon—then froze when a familiar hand touched her arm.

  "You look beautiful."

  She lifted her eyes to Philip's longing gaze. "You're blind. Look at all the elegance." She motioned to the nearby crowd and noticed the woman who'd been on his arm now standing with a man and woman.

  "Blind? Maybe I am." His expression was un-definable.

  Flustered by his look, Jemma turned back to the table and lifted a strawberry onto her plate.

  "Did you try the clam dip?"

  His mundane question threw her off-kilter, and she eyed the table, expecting him to point it out. "No. Where is it?"
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  Instead, from his plate he lifted a cracker covered with the mixture and held it to her mouth. With their eyes riveted, she inched open her lips and he slid the appetizer between her teeth. The mixture of herbs and seafood played on her palate and wakened her taste buds. She slid her tongue over her lips to capture the crumbs. Philip's eyes held hers, and her heart stood still.

  Tonight she knew for certain. She loved him. Perhaps she should feel anger or jealousy, but what she felt was longing. Locked in his gaze, Jemma stood like a shackled prisoner, unable to move.

  "I'm a fool," Philip whispered as he reached forward and slipped the plate from her hand. In slow motion, he set both plates on a tray and took her arm. She walked beside him, wrapped in the lilting music of the small ensemble, and when they reached the parquet floor of the great room, he slipped his arm around her back and drew her to his chest.

  They moved as one, swaying and sliding, turning and twirling, breathless and spellbound. Gliding in rhythm, they seemed bound by a gossamer thread of providence. Despite all that had transpired, Jemma felt at home in Philip's arms.

  Philip closed his eyes, facing an inner truth. No matter what he'd tried to do—no matter how much he had tried to spare Jemma and himself from hurt, he'd failed. He'd been a fool to ask another woman to be his date for the evening.

  Jemma's cotton dress shifted beneath his fingers, and Philip lingered on the softness of the cloth, imagining the softer skin beneath. Drawn by longing, he'd taken her in his arms, knowing he had no business tempting himself or her.

  He'd sensed that she cared for him. And the fear of hurting her pierced his thoughts. That's perhaps what he feared the most. Yet what had he done this evening? Her face had said it all. He was a fool. He should let her go. Let her live. Philip fought his own emotions. A little hurt now would save her from a deeper wound. He scanned the room over Jemma's shoulder and caught Ian's eye.

  With an understanding nod, Ian moved across the floor and tapped Philip's shoulder. "Do you mind?"

  "No, not at all," he said, fabricating his response and his gracious smile.

  Jemma's expression knifed his heart. He'd insulted her by giving her away so easily. More thoughtlessness.

  Philip's hands trembled as he shoved them in his pockets and hurried across the room to the French doors that opened to the balcony. His date wouldn't miss him. He stepped through the opening, dragging air into his burning lungs.

  When he looked up, he realized he wasn't alone. A few couples were bracing their backs against the wall or leaning against the balustrade. In the dim light, he eyed his wristwatch and realized the time. They were waiting for the fireworks display from the waterfront grandstands—a magnificent sight from his apartment.

  Remembering his etiquette, he stepped back through the door and invited the others to join him outside. His guests followed his lead and drifted onto the terrace or stopped in the doorway. Philip waited as his date headed toward him, then he guided her to the railing with a vague excuse for his absence.

  Unable to concentrate, Philip gripped the balustrade until Ian's voice sounded behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Jemma, buried in the crowd, too short to view the display. Philip shifted sideways to make room, and Ian encouraged Jemma forward. Her perfume rose on the air and wrapped around Philip's heart.

  Silent, she stood with her hands clasped to the handrail until the first colorful shower lit the sky. She gasped, and he saw her face light as brilliantly as the heavens.

  One after another, the colors burst into the darkness, spiraling hissing tendrils and dazzling strands blossoming into shapes like red and orange chrysanthemums. Sprays of gold dust sprinkled from the sky.

  Philip's guests fluttered with pleasure, and his date captured his arm, murmuring her delight. But Philip's hearing and sight were mesmerized by the petite woman in front of him.

  With a quick apology, Philip edged away from his date and left the balcony. Inside the room, away from his guests and alone with his thoughts, he knew he needed to make a prayerful decision. Either stay away from Jemma or admit he loved her. He'd never known such deep longing as that which lured him to her side. Yet, a soft unwanted voice urged him to resist her charm…for her sake.

  Jemma tucked her notes inside her case and leaned back in Ian's luxury car. They'd been involved in Philip's research for nearly two weeks. How many more resorts would they visit? How many brochures and pamphlets would they scour for tidbits of information? But she had one more idea of her own.

  Turning to share her thought with Ian, she stopped herself. No, not Ian. She wanted to talk it over with Philip. He'd avoided her since the fireworks—since even before then. For a while the situation had roused her jealousy. She'd thought negative things, but then, she'd thought again. Even though he'd been with another woman, Jemma believed in her heart that he'd wished he were with her.

  Each day her mind drifted back to the music and to Philip's arms around her, his gentle touch against her back, the shiver of yearning in his eyes. He was fighting his feelings. She sensed it. Was it her lack of education and money? Whatever it was, his absence pressed against her mind and dampened her spirit. She could handle it no longer.

  "Let's stop for a drink and toss around some ideas," Ian suggested.

  Jemma grasped for an excuse—even a lame one. "It's been a long day. Aren't you tired?"

  "Not really. Are you? Coffee will give you a little oomph." He flashed her a friendly smile. "Work and no play isn't good. And you work too hard…for what?"

  "The same reason as you, Ian," she said, wanting to shift the focus of the conversation. "You should be out enjoying yourself instead of working so many hours."

  He chuckled. "I am trying to enjoy myself…if you'd let me."

  Surprised at his bluntness, she looked at him and noticed a flush of discomfort. Her guilt got the better of her. "Sure, that would be nice. I'd like some coffee."

  He pushed up his glasses and gave her a grateful smile.

  Jemma had seen it coming—Philip pushing her and Ian together, concocting team projects like this. Did he actually believe that he could dupe her into falling in love with his assistant? If so, Philip Somerville had another think coming.

  She was positive Ian had no idea what Philip had contrived. Though he was a good-looking man, Ian seemed somewhat of a loner. Not a recluse, but a man on the fringe of things. A thinker. A planner. Reading a book or browsing the Internet seemed more Ian's style.

  Jemma had watched him in action these past weeks. He hovered in the background, keeping a low profile. When they'd visited the other resorts, she'd been the one to step forward to interview the desk managers and rooms supervisors. Ian took notes and remained the quiet spectator.

  Now she feared Ian had deluded himself into thinking she might be interested in him—or that he was interested in her. Poor Ian didn't know his own mind.

  A despicable idea drifted into her mind. A shameful plan that might teach Philip a lesson. She wondered what God would think of her now? Since Philip had manipulated this pitiful attempt at a romance between her and Ian, what would he do if he thought his plan had been successful?

  Jemma was desperate, but she needed to think. Misleading Ian wasn't what she wanted to do, but may be… just maybe she could find a way to force Philip to realize how much she meant to him.

  Chapter Nine

  Mottled August sunlight flashed through the window as Ian drove along the tree-lined highway. On the outskirts of Spring Lake, Ian pulled into a restaurant parking lot. Exiting, he came around to open Jemma's door. She followed him inside, dragging along her notes since he'd suggested they talk.

  The menu listed the typical small-diner fare, but the desserts caught her fancy. One day she'd find herself too big for her sheath dresses and then she'd be in trouble, but until then, Jemma loved a good piece of cream pie.

  "Coconut cream," she said to the waitress, and Ian ordered chocolate cake. The woman returned in a moment with two steaming coffees.<
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  They sipped their drinks and chatted until the desserts appeared, then concentrated on eating.

  Finally Jemma pushed away her empty plate and pulled out her notes. "Do you want to go over this now?"

  Ian looked surprised and fingered the edge of his eyeglass frames before answering. "I forgot my notes, but go ahead. What are you thinking?"

  She rattled off her likes and dislikes. Eventually, they both agreed that nothing had crossed their paths but twists on what they'd already implemented.

  "I'm not sure what Philip is looking for," Ian admitted. "The only thing he told me was that the resort has to keep growing."

  "Why?"

  His head jerked upward. "I don't know."

  "I think the business is good. More clientele than we can handle most of the time," Jemma said. "You'd think Philip would want to enjoy a quiet winter. He could rev up for the busy summer."

  "You'd think," Ian agreed.

  "Does Philip travel?"

  "Sails once in a while."

  "That's not traveling," she said. "I meant to Europe or somewhere exotic."

  Ian shook his head. "Philip sticks close to home."

  "He should take a cruise to an exotic island. Run along a quiet stretch of sand, drink in the sun, get a tan." Her heart skipped as she envisioned Philip lolling on the beach beneath a stand of palm trees. She pictured herself cradled in a net hammock, swaying in a tropical breeze.

  "A cruise would be nice," Ian said.

  His comment jerked her from the enchanting fantasy, and he gave her a puzzled look.

  Embarrassed at being so distracted, she apologized. "I was daydreaming."

  "I figured," he said.

  "Has Philip dated much?" The words were out before she could stop herself. She peered at Ian's knowing face. She was being too obvious.