Loving Treasures (3 page)

Philip halted. “I’m wearing you out,” he said, focusing on his cousin.

“A little,” she said, sinking into a canvas chair next to an umbrella table. “But don’t let me stop you.” She gave a swish of her hand, her fingers weighted with two garish rings. “You young ones finish the tour. Please. I’ll sit here and enjoy the sunset.”

“Are you sure?” Jemma asked, her focus shifting from Claire to Philip and back. “I hate to leave you—”

“It’s a gift,” Claire said. “I don’t often have a chance to sit in a lovely place like this. Please—” she motioned again toward the flower gardens
“—enjoy yourselves.”

Philip accepted her offer and, taking Jemma’s elbow, steered her toward the gardens and the path down to the water’s edge.

Even in dress pumps, Jemma seemed petite beside him. A thin strap hung over her shoulder and the small purse swung at her side like a pendulum. She was quiet, and he longed to ask questions, to pry, to learn more about her. Had she been brutally unhappy with Lyle? Why hadn’t she had children? Perhaps a little daughter with Jemma’s gentle smile and thoughtful green eyes… Where would Jemma live when she left Claire’s? And why wouldn’t she accept his offer of employment?

Jemma stopped and surveyed the gardens. “This is lovely,” she said. “Do you have a gardener?”

He chuckled, wondering if she thought he weeded and divided rhizomes in his free time. His smile faded, seeing her embarrassment.

“That was a dumb question. Obviously, someone takes care of all this property.” She swung her hand in a wide gesture, motioning to the spacious spread of grass and landscape.

“It wasn’t dumb,” he said, wishing he could retract his chuckle. “I have a groundskeeper and he has a crew. Their biggest job is the golf course. No one’s fussier than weekend golfers.”

Though she grinned, he imagined she didn’t know a thing about the game. Aware of Claire’s difficult
past, he could only guess that Jemma’s life wasn’t much better.

They followed the walkway toward the lake. In the setting sun, the summer rays danced on Jemma’s golden curls. A flaxen wisp of hair had blown loose in the breeze and coiled against her cheek. Philip longed to capture the strand and bury his face in the exotic fragrance he’d inhaled on their first meeting.

Confounded by his thoughts, he pointed toward the short pier where guests could toss out a line and catch a striped bass or lake trout. The white sand stretched along the shore where, later in the summer, guests would work on a tan, read a paperback or build castles with their children.

Children.
Jemma would be a perfect mother, he speculated. Again, he longed to probe, but didn’t.

They walked to the end of the empty pier and stood in silence as the sun spilled its flaming hues into the watery horizon.

“Philip, this is beautiful.” Jemma tilted her head and looked into his eyes.

He clamped his lips together to avoid speaking. Nothing was more beautiful than this woman. Without hesitation, he lifted his finger and pushed the curl from her cheek. Though her skin was cool, fire shot through his veins. He jerked back. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, as much to himself as in apology to Jemma.

“I can’t seem to control it,” she said. “Naturally curly hair has a mind of its own.”

She smiled, he clenched his jaw in an attempt to control the unbidden emotions that galloped through him.

Philip turned his attention to the horizon and hummed “Happy Birthday” inside his head. He was fifty. He had to keep reminding himself.

Jemma left the boutique through the front door. She’d told Claire she had a few errands to run, but guilt filled her, knowing she was on her way to speak with the Hartmann sisters about their rooming house.

With her mind jumping from one thought to another, she headed up the street, praying that God would help her make good decisions. The first thing she needed the Lord to handle was Philip. Trying to sleep was impossible. As soon as her head hit the pillow, Philip’s amused grin monopolized her mind—as did his thick thatch of graying hair, his probing eyes and his gentle manner.

Yet mingled in his kindness was a drive and industry that reminded her too much of Lyle. She knew the comparison was foolish. Lyle had lost every penny he invested. Obviously, Philip was a wealthy man. But Lyle had no time for God, and she assumed a man like Philip Somerville wouldn’t have time for God, either. Nor time for marriage and a family.

Feeling a rising heat, Jemma touched her cheeks. She hated her fair skin that always signaled her discomfort. Why would she even consider marriage and family in the same moment she thought of Philip?
Her pulse mounted as she walked, and she concentrated on her vanishing good sense, praying for self-control.

She slowed, checking the house numbers. When she spotted the address, she stopped. She stood on the sidewalk in front of a solid stone house, the sprawling front porch filled with pots of flowers and a glider swing.

Attached to the railing was an oval sign announcing the Hartmann’s residence, Loving Arms. Jemma grinned, remembering Sissy’s explanation—Jesus welcoming the little children. That’s what Jemma needed. Jesus’s open, loving arms waiting to shield her from hurt and ready to give her strength.

She bounded up the porch stairs and rang the bell. With the front door open, she heard a bustle from inside. Peering through the screen, she saw Abby Hartmann rush down the stairs as Sissy rounded the corner. They reached the door together.

“Hello,” Abby said, obviously the more outgoing of the two. “You’re Jemma from the boutique.”

“Yes, Jemma Dupre,” she said, stepping back as Abby pushed open the screen.

“Come in. Please.” With a flutter of arms, the woman sent Sissy on her way to make tea and ushered Jemma into the overburdened sitting room. Every inch of space was filled with antiques covered with doilies and bric-a-brac. Jemma’s memory soared back to her childhood, when she had visited her great-aunt Bernice’s home and was intrigued by the
abundant clutter of treasures. A deep longing washed over her.
Home.
She had none.

“Sit, please,” Abby said.

Since this wasn’t a social call, discomfort vied with Jemma’s innate sociability. Should she state her business or sink into the huge overstuffed chair covered by an orange-and-brown knitted afghan?

Finding the latter easier, she sank as a cloud of dust rose from the thick chair arms and danced in the sunlight.

Without a word, Abby scurried from the room, then returned followed by Sissy, who was carrying a silver tray discolored with tarnish but obviously an object of pride.

Sissy spread the tea things on the low table, then drew a chair so close to Jemma’s side that she felt the woman’s knees press against hers. Dumbfounded, she sipped tea and listened to the sisters banter and ply her with questions. Where had Jemma lived previously? Did she have a husband? Children? Why had she moved to Loving?

When they learned that Philip Somerville was Claire’s relative, they edged even closer, asked more questions—but Jemma couldn’t help them. She didn’t know how his wife died. In fact, she hadn’t realized he’d been married, at least not that she recalled. And where was his brother Andrew? That question tugged at her own curiosity.

Finally, Jemma sidestepped their questions with one of her own. “I was wondering about your
monthly rate…for a boarder,” she said, then thought better of it. “Not a boarder, exactly, but someone who might like to stay at the bed and breakfast for a while. A weekly fee, maybe.”

Two sets of eyebrows lifted above widened eyes. Sissy was the first to break her stare by turning to her sister. “What do we say, Abby?”

Abby paused, and Jemma could almost hear the sound of gears creaking in the woman’s head. Obviously, the question surprised her.

“We’ve had guests stay a week,” she said finally. “Our rate is usually fifty dollars a night, which includes breakfast. The rooms have fireplaces and—”

“Fifty.” Jemma crumbled against the chair back.

Sissy’s face shriveled with concern. “Oh, a weekly rate’s less. Much less. Isn’t it, sister?”

Abby straightened her back. “Certainly. I think two hundred and fifty—”

Sissy’s elbow swung out, nipping her sister’s arm. “I meant two hundred,” Abby corrected.

Two pairs of eyes latched to Jemma’s, as her hope fluttered into the air like the chair’s powdery dust particles. Even two hundred dollars a week was more than she could afford. Far more.

She’d been foolish to think that the Loving Arms might be a short-term haven until she found something else. A new job, first, then an apartment—that was what she needed. Jemma stared down at her feet. She needed to stand on them. Small feet, yes, but
they were sturdy and dependable. All she needed was faith.

When she lifted her head, an amusing reality settled into her mind. Living with the Hartmann sisters would be as jumbled and unpredictable as living with Claire. And she loved Claire.

In the momentary silence, Sissy let out a gasp.

Both women turned to her with concern.

“What about Mrs. Dorchester?” Sissy said.

Jemma waited, wondering where Sissy was headed. Who was Mrs. Dorchester?

Abby’s face registered interest. Her eyebrows lifted, followed by a slow nod. “It’s a possibility,” she said.

Like two sleuths solving a case, the sisters settled on a possible solution. Jemma wished she were in on the conversation. They seemed to have a connected thread of thought and their unspoken bond made Jemma feel like an interloper.

Sissy pressed her fingers against Jemma’s forearm. “The room is for you, am I correct, dear?”

Jemma nodded, wishing she could have been more subtle. She could almost picture the sisters darting from the house after she left and flying to the boutique to discuss the situation with Claire. No more delay. Jemma
had
to talk with Claire.

“We know of a position,” Abby said.

Jemma waited for a clue.

“It’s a live-in situation at the Dorchesters’,” Sissy added.

A live-in position.
Jemma tossed the thought through her mind. This could be what she needed. “What type of work is it?”

“Poor Mrs. Dorchester’s mother is ill,” Abby said, “and she needs someone to care for her.”

“I think there’s housework, too,” Sissy whispered as if she hated to mention the nasty word.

Jemma let the idea settle. A housekeeping job wasn’t exactly what she had in mind, but if it came with a room, it could work. At least, temporarily. She’d clung too long to Claire’s skirts. She needed to prove she could survive on her own.

The sisters’ chatter continued with stories about Mrs. Dorchester and her mother. With nonchalance, Jemma rose and inched her way to the door. When her feet hit the sidewalk, she had second thoughts about the Dorchesters and headed for the newsstand. Maybe today a suitable position would be in the want ads.

She had to be honest with Claire and tell her what she intended. No more sneaking around like a naughty child. Time she took control. Control? She lowered her eyelids and Philip’s handsome face rose behind them. Definitely, she needed control.

W
atching Claire’s forlorn face after she broke her news, Jemma had been prodded to call Philip. She had needed someone to talk with and he seemed the logical person. Since she’d told Claire about her plan, she’d felt her mother-in-law’s quiet withdrawal. She prayed that once Claire understood, she would know that Jemma’s move was for the best.

Jemma had struggled with indecision. Finally she called Mrs. Dorchester. After the interview, Jemma had more concerns, but she’d already accepted the position and didn’t want to disappoint the woman. Facing the new job, she needed reassurance that she’d done the right thing.

After telephoning Philip, Jemma tried to relax. Though he’d been slow to agree, he promised to meet her for coffee later in the day. She wondered about his hesitation but dismissed it, knowing he was busy.

To avoid Claire’s sad demeanor, Jemma pulled out the new boxes of stock and filled the shelves. She glanced periodically at the clock, watching the time drag.

By three o’clock Jemma was ready to leave. She’d winced, watching Claire drop the price on a leather handbag so low that she was sure it barely covered the cost. Besides that, Claire had given a customer a free brooch, one the customer had admired, with the sale of a silk scarf. Jemma could only shake her head.

Philip was waiting for her at the coffee shop as he’d promised. When she approached him, unbidden tears flooded her eyes. Blinking them back, Jemma caved into the chair beside him.

“What’s wrong?” Philip asked, his face filled with concern.

Jemma spilled out her story, a mixture of her new job and her concern for Claire.

“I wish you’d talked with me,” he said.

She lifted her head to his direct gaze. “What do you mean?”

He paused, running his fingers through his hair. “First, I think you’ll be unhappy with the Dorchesters.”

“Why,” she asked, “because I’m a housekeeper?” But she already guessed his answer. During the interview, Stacy Dorchester had seemed pompous and mildly demeaning.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a housekeeper if you’re working for people who value you and
think of you as family.” He lifted the coffee mug and took a sip before continuing. “I know Stacy and Rod Dorchester. I don’t think that will happen.”

Jemma didn’t think so, either. “But I’ve already accepted the position.”

He stared at his cup, pivoting it right then left against the saucer. “I know. I wish you’d talked with me first.” He raised his eyes. “I could have given you a good job, Jemma.”

“I know, but I’m tired of living off people.” Tears welled in her eyes again, and she brushed them with her fingertips to keep them from trailing down her cheeks. “Claire’s been so good to me. Now you. I have no self-respect or self-confidence. I need to stand on my own two feet.”

Philip caught her hand in his and brushed the moisture from her fingertips. “Employment at Bay Breeze is self-respecting. I didn’t plan to make you a manager, Jemma. I offered you a job. If it’s not you, I’ll hire someone else. I have a business to run.”

The warmth from his touch traveled up her arm. He didn’t release her fingers but held her there, his thumb brushing the back of her hand in a soothing caress.

“I’m sorry,” she said. A deep sigh shivered through her. “Maybe I’m feeling sorry for myself.”

“I doubt it. Everyone wants to be independent. Please understand that I’ll be here when and if you need me, Jemma…as a friend…or if you prefer, family. I care about you.”

“I’m a shirttail relative. You really don’t have to claim me.”

He tilted her chin upward with his free fingers. The look in his eyes sent gooseflesh down her arm.

“Would anyone avoid claiming someone so special?”

Someone so special.
The words rattled in her head.

He withdrew his hand from her face while his gaze again captured hers. “I don’t think you know how lovely you are.”

Confusion filled her. She couldn’t speak, unable to think of a proper response and fearful that she would infer too much meaning from his words. “Thank you,” she said finally.

She sounded weak and ungrateful, but she feared saying more. Hoping more.

“And don’t worry about Claire’s mood. She loves you. This is just part of her drama. Claire needs to be loved and needed, too.”

“I do love her. I’ll always be grateful.”

“Then, talk with her. Tell her that you need to stand on your own. Let her know that you love her and that you’ll be there for her no matter where you live. That’s all she wants to hear.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure.”

Jemma tendered his words against her heart. Hurting Claire was the last thing she wanted to do.

Philip fell back against the chair, his fingers slipping away from her hand. “Now the other busi
ness—” He released a puff of air and his chin dropped downward.

Jemma shifted gears. “You mean the boutique?”

He nodded. “I suppose I was naive to think that Claire had changed. She has a flair that could make the shop a success…that is, if she doesn’t give everything away. I need to talk with her.”

Jemma stiffened. “But she’ll know that I told you.”

“I can be subtle. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

He could handle about anything, she was sure. Jemma leaned back and studied him. He was fifty. She’d discovered his age at the birthday dinner. Fifty had seemed old a few years earlier, but seemed younger now. And maturity looked good—wonderful—on Philip.

His silver-flecked hair against his tanned skin made him the most handsome man she knew. The crinkle lines at his eyes gave him character. His amusement with her…and his gentleness kindled a warmth deep in her heart—like coming home.

A dart of fear shivered through Jemma. She had to stop her imagination from creating cozy, loving images. The man was being kind, just as he’d been kind to Claire. She straightened her back, pushing the warmer thoughts into the distant corners of her mind. Philip probably figured she was helpless and naive. Definitely not someone that he could respect or want to—

“Are you okay?” Philip asked.

She lifted her gaze and witnessed the gentle look in his eyes. She nodded. “A little frightened, I guess.”

“It’s time you learn to live, Jemma. Don’t be frightened. Be adventurous. Open your arms and fly.”

He’d put her thoughts into words. If she took one small step into the unknown, who knows what life might offer her?

Philip lay his hand against the clenched fist with which she hugged the table, then looked deeply into her eyes.

She wondered if he could read her mind.

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.