Philip smiled. He'd heard that sentiment many times, but wouldn't it be wonderful if the Lord gave him the opportunity to experience it himself.
Jemma skidded to a stop, and a high-pitched titter rose behind her. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. "What's so funny, Latrice?"
"Where are you going, girl?"
"I'm plodding today, Latrice. I'll never get finished. Judy is out, so I have to prep the baskets before I leave."
The woman slapped her leg. "Come on, now. You don't think the boss'll fire you?"
Jemma grinned. "Not fire me, but—"
"That man has eyes for you, girlfriend. Although I'm sure that's no surprise to you."
"Not anymore…but it took me a while to catch on."
She wrapped her arm around Jemma's shoulder. "I knew it the day he invented that job for you. He had love in his eyes."
Jemma froze to the spot. Reining in her shock, she monitored her voice. "What job?" She remembered thinking that he'd hired too many housekeepers. She'd told Philip that.
"Come on, girl…the one you're in now."
Icy tendrils gripped her heart. "You mean…" Her voice shook and she swallowed her panic. "Specialty Director."
Latrice nodded, her grin as wide as a rainbow. "We never had a position like that around here until you came along."
Jemma willed a lighthearted smile to her face, wanting to die.
"I remember when Carrie came gigglin' to me about that job. She and I had a good laugh. We figured he'd confess…or you'd just hear it through the grapevine."
"That old grapevine," Jemma sang out, her heart hammering until she thought her chest would explode. She gripped the cart handle for support.
"Well, I need to get moving. Even if I'm in cahoots with the boss, I don't want to spend the night here."
Latrice clasped her shoulder. "No, girl, you have better things to do with your time. You get along."
She sent Jemma a cheerful wave and hurried around the corner, leaving Jemma clinging to the cart with trembling hands and wondering what to do.
Anger sizzled inside her. She wanted to tear into Philip's office and toss a morning basket in his face. The grapevine would get a kick out of that! Even the thought tore at her, knifed her with pain. How could Philip have set her up to look like such a fool? Why did he think no one would ever tell her that she'd been another of his charity cases?
She'd gone on his research trips, raced around the hotel like she had a purpose, and all the while the staff was laughing behind her back.
And Philip? Even if that's how it had started, why hadn't he told her? She cringed, knowing the answer. If he had admitted it, she would have ripped and snorted like a wild bull. Tears welled in her eyes. But…they would have made up, and maybe laughed about it later.
But not now.
Avoiding Latrice, Jemma headed back to her workroom and called Ian. "I'm not feeling well, Ian. Can you replace me for the rest of the day? I really need to go home."
Ian sent her on her way, and Jemma slipped out of the building. When she reached the outside, tears streamed down her face while she hurried to her car, praying no one would see her. She had to get home.
Inside the car, she closed her eyes. Dear Lord, why? Why did he hurt me so badly? Philip isn't like Lyle, so why did he deceive me? Please help me.
Her hopes and dreams slipped away like sand beneath her feet—like the beautiful evening when they'd wandering along the shore in her stockinged feet. Washed away.
Philip sat with his face buried in his hands. What had happened and where had she gone? He'd called her apartment, he'd called Claire. He didn't understand.
Ian had said she came to him midway through the day, saying she was sick and needed to go home. But she wasn't there. Claire knew nothing. His only option was to go to Jemma's apartment. But why didn't she answer the telephone? A horrible fear filled his mind. No. He had to be wrong.
His hand clung to the telephone, his head pounding. Philip rose and, after making an excuse to his secretary, rushed from the building.
His mind flew as fast as he was driving, and when he pulled in front of her apartment, Jemma's car was there. He tried to calm himself. Maybe she'd only been sleeping when he called.
He hurried to the porch, opened the front door and climbed the stairs. Outside her door, he faltered, trying to calm himself. He was being foolish.
Philip tapped and called her name. He listened. Nothing. She had to be there. Her car was outside. This time he knocked louder and tried the doorknob. It was locked.
Mrs. Luddy. He glanced down the stairs, wondering if she was home and if she might know something. With another unanswered knock, he hurried down the stairs and tapped on the landlady's door. From inside, he heard footsteps and he waited.
"May I help you?" she said, peeking through the cranny of the half-opened door. "Oh, it's you." She swung the door open.
"I hate to bother you, but Jemma came home sick today and…she's not answering the telephone or her door. I'm afraid—"
Her face paled. "Let me get my key," she said, darting away from the door.
She returned in a moment, and he followed her up the stairs, fear gripping his heart. The woman gave a loud rap and waited. When Jemma didn't answer, she shot Philip a fearful look and pushed the key into the lock.
Philip held his breath while she inched open the door and called again.
This time, he heard Jemma's distant voice.
"You all right?" the landlady asked. "Can I come in?"
"Are you alone?" Her voice sounded weak.
Philip felt a shiver of fear. He couldn't imagine why she would ask that question. He grabbed the door and pushed it open.
"Please," the woman said, cautioning him with her scowl. "It's me…and Mr. Somerville. Can we come in?"
"No." Jemma's voice grew louder. "I don't feel like seeing anyone now."
"Jemma, please," Philip called. "Let me in."
"No. Just go. I'll feel better tomorrow. I don't want anyone seeing me like this."
Jeanette shot him a "don't you dare step one foot inside this apartment" look, and he released his hold on the door and stepped back.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked.
"Yes."
Jeanette shrugged and closed the door. She slipped in the key and turned the lock, then dropped the key in her pocket. "I'll check on her later. We'd better do as she asks."
Philip shook his head. "I've never seen her act like this. I don't understand."
"You never know about women, Mr. Somerville. We have our good and bad days, you know. Be patient."
Be patient. How could he?
Mrs. Luddy grasped his aim and turned him toward the stairs. "She asked to be alone. And that's what we're going to do. Leave her be."
"May I call you later?" Philip asked, his head pounding unmercifully.
"Sure, I'll give you my number."
He followed her down the stairs, wrapped in confusion and frustration. Waiting outside her door for the number, Philip looked up the staircase and longed to dash to the top, throw his weight against the door and break in to see what was wrong.
He heard the landlady's steps and turned back to her.
"Here you go," she said, handing him a slip of paper. "Wait a couple of hours. I'll check on her later."
He stared at the paper. "Thank you," he said before grabbing the doorknob and bolting from the house. Jemma had never been moody. Something was wrong. Something that he had or hadn't done. Something…
But what could it be?
Chapter Fifteen
"Thanks, Jeanette," Jemma said.
"Don't you worry. I'll tell him what you told me."
Jemma closed the door as the landlady's steps faded on the stairs. She felt terrible about putting poor Jeanette in the middle of the situation. She'd used a headache as the excuse for her earlier behavior, but it had been difficult to explain why to keep Philip away.
She needed time to think…altho
ugh she'd done some serious thinking already. After Jeanette and Philip had left earlier in the day, Jemma had telephoned Bay Breeze. She couldn't talk with Philip, and Ian wasn't at his desk, so she left her resignation on voice mail. Her absence would cause difficulty for her co-workers, and she regretted that. It wasn't them, but Philip who had hurt her so deeply.
After she'd left the message, she thought about what she would do now. Leave town? Work for another resort? Now that she'd gained confidence, she could do anything. Her chin rose with pride, then dropped with reality.
Philip. She loved him. She'd trusted him. How could he have neglected to tell her the truth about the position…especially after he'd said he loved her? Or had that been a lie, too?
Where would she go now? Philip would probably show up again and she didn't want to see him—yet she needed to talk. She eyed the telephone. Claire. If anyone understood and cared, it was Claire.
She punched in the familiar numbers and waited. When she heard Claire's voice, her throat constricted and she swallowed hard before she could speak.
"What's wrong?" Claire's voice rose with concern.
"Not on the telephone. Can I come there?"
"You don't have to ask, Jemma. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes, I just need to talk." Jemma's voice trembled with emotion.
"Then, I'll be waiting."
She hung up, grabbed her handbag and darted down the stairs. With a quick comment to Jeanette, she drove away from the house, looking behind her for Philip's car.
Jemma realized she might be acting foolishly, but she felt forsaken. Like a nightmare, Latrice's comments had dragged her into a whirlpool of humiliation, and no matter how hard Jemma tried, she couldn't wake up. The deception had been real.
She parked on the side street and walked through the alley to the boutique. When she closed the side door, Claire stood on the landing, waiting for her. Before Jemma reached her mother-in-law, a torrent of tears rolled down her cheeks.
"What is it?" Claire's generous arms embraced her, clasped Jemma's cheek against her bosom and patted her head as if Claire were a mother consoling her child.
"I'm sorry, Claire." She wiped the tears from her eyes and went ahead of her mother-in-law into the apartment.
"I made some tea," Claire said. "Go sit in the living room, and I'll bring in the pot."
She did as her mother-in-law said and dropped into the familiar sofa, hearing the clank and ting of Claire's movements in the kitchen.
Jemma's body ached almost as much as her heart did. She sorted through her thoughts, trying to decide where to begin.
Hearing a rustle, Jemma looked up as Claire swept into the room with the tea tray. Claire slipped it on the table, poured a mug for Jemma and sank into a chair with her own.
"Now, tell me what's wrong," Claire said.
With the details spinning in her head, Jemma told the story from beginning to end. Latrice's news, Philip's frantic visit and Jeanette's kind assistance.
"So I called Bay Breeze and left Ian a voice mail that I was leaving—that I wouldn't be back." Her voice caught.
"I can't believe you did that, Jemma. Time is a healer. I can understand that you're upset. Philip was wrong not to tell you. But you haven't heard his side of the story. You—"
"What side could there be, Claire?" Digging into every corner of her reasoning, Jemma could see no excuse for Philip's behavior. "I trusted him. I opened my heart to him…and I was being laughed at by my co-workers."
"Laughed at? Why do you say that?"
"Latrice said—"
"You told me Latrice said that she and that other woman—"
"Carrie," Jemma said.
"Yes. Carrie and Latrice had giggled. Giggling and laughing at someone aren't the same. And what had they found funny? Was it your position, or realizing that Philip had eyes for you?"
Claire's words knocked the wind out of Jemma's anger. Pride. She'd allowed it to overcome her wisdom. Jemma thought through the situation again, trying to remember exactly what Latrice had said.
"Am I right?" Claire's voice was gentle.
Brushing the tears from her chin, Jemma could only nod. "But it's too late. I resigned, and I'm not calling back to say I changed my mind."
Claire rose and lifted the teapot. "Now, I want you to stop talking and second-guessing. Thinking got you into this mess." She tilted the spout and filled Jemma's cup, then replaced the pot and sank back into the chair.
"Listen to me, Jemma. It's never too late."
Philip pressed his ear against the receiver, listened to the unanswered ring and dropped the telephone onto the cradle. Last night, he'd done what Jemma had asked. He'd called the landlady that evening, and she had said that Jemma would talk to him tomorrow. Tomorrow was here. But where was she?
He drummed his fingernails against the mahogany desk and stared through the window at the whitecaps rolling in to shore. No guests stood on the pier or lolled on the sand. Only a few hungry seagulls hopped along the deserted beach, looking through the washed-up shells and driftwood for a scrap of food.
"Philip."
Hearing Ian's voice coming out of nowhere, Philip jumped. He swung around at breakneck speed.
"Sorry," Ian said.
Looking at his assistant's face, Philip knew something was terribly wrong. "What is it?"
"It's Jemma."
Philip's heart kicked into passing gear. "What's wrong with her?"
Ian shook his head. "She resigned."
"Resigned?" Philip's mind reeled with confusion.
Ian stepped closer to the desk. "She's leaving Bay Breeze. She left a message on my voice mail last night. What happened? Why did she resign?"
Philip lifted his eyes to Ian's bewildered face. "Resigned? I can't believe it."
"You didn't know?"
"She was upset—but resign? Why would she do that?"
Ian sat across from him. "When she called, she sounded terrible. Her voice was trembling, and she said she needed to go home. She was sick." He paused. "I believed her, Philip."
Philip swiveled in the chair and looked out the window, feeling as desolate as the shore. "I'm not blaming you, Ian." Who had talked with Jemma yesterday? Who would know something? Carrie? La-trice?
"Would you ask Latrice if she talked with Jemma? Maybe she knows something." He rubbed his eyes. "Maybe she's in the hospital."
"Who? Latrice?" Ian asked.
Philip shook his head. "No, Jemma. If she's not home now, maybe she's in the hospital or seeing her doctor."
Ian rose. "I'll find Latrice for you." He stood up, then darted for the door.
Philip stared at the telephone. He hated to bother the landlady, but worry motivated him to pull the number from his wallet and pick up the receiver. He called, listened. No answer.
Fear sent his heartbeat on a gallop. He pushed the button and punched in Claire's number. He let it ring, knowing she might be with a customer.
"Loving Treasures." Claire's deep voice flowed through the line.
"Have you seen Jemma today, Claire?"
"No…I haven't, Philip," she said.
But he sensed something in her tone. "Did you talk with her? I'm in a panic here, Claire. Where is she?"
"I don't know, Philip. I thought she was home."
"Did you talk with her…yesterday?"
He heard an intake of breath. "Yes, she was here."
"There? What do you mean?" Philip's mind grasped at the shred of information.
Silence lengthened on the line.
"Claire! What do you mean?"
"Philip. Calm down. Jemma's fine. She was here. We talked."
"Fine? She was ill." He hit his fist against the desk.
"Well…yes, she looked terrible. But I'm sure she's better today." She drew in another lengthy breath. "If not today, then tomorrow."
"You're not making sense, Claire. Tell me what's wrong… please."
"Look, Philip. I can't share what we discussed. It's between Jemma
and…"
He waited. "And who? Me?"
"I've said enough. Be patient. She'll come around."
"Tell me what's wrong, Claire. I love her."
"You've gotten all you're getting from me. I know that's unusual, but it's the truth."
She covered the telephone and spoke to someone. "I have to go, Philip. I have customers."
Before he could say goodbye or thank you, she'd hung up, leaving him more confused than before.
He stared at the phone, wanting to call someone— someone who'd make sense out of it all. But no one came to mind.
The phone's ring sent his pulse charging through him. He nabbed the receiver.
"Claire?"
Silence.
Jemma. He closed his eyes. "Jemma?"
"Philip?"
Andrew. Philip's endurance was ebbing, and his problem-filled mind was too weary to deal with another situation, but he hadn't heard his brother's voice in months. "Andrew, how are you?"
"Is something wrong, Philip?" Andrew's quiet voice was tilled with concern.
"No…yes, well, I have a few problems here, but I'm fine."
More silence.
"Is something wrong with you?" Philip asked. He prayed not—he couldn't handle another thing.
"I'm thinking of coming home…that is, if you'll have me."
Coming home? "What do you mean, if I'll have you?" He ached for his brother. "You want to come back to Bay Breeze?"
"Not as a partner. I know that's impossible. But if I come home I'll need a job…something until I can get started again."
A mixture of irritation and compassion shuffled through Philip. He stared down at the mouthpiece, not sure what to say.
"I'm not destitute," Andrew said. "I have a little money, but I don't want to jump into anything. I need to make some long-term plans…get my thoughts together." He cleared his throat. "The one thought that has come together is…I'd like to come home."
Philip's irritation melted. "You're always welcome here, Andrew. I'll find something for you—if you want it."
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