Loving Treasures Read online

  Philip rose, drawing her back to the conversation. "It looks like you have things under control," he said, sliding the chair into place. "But don't do too much, Claire, even if it takes two weeks before you open. And if you need anything at all…" His gaze drifted to Jemma. "Either of you, please let me know."

  A pinwheel whirled in Jemma's chest, taking her breath away. No one had ever given her that much kind attention, not even Lyle. She murmured her thanks and sat nailed to her seat, while Claire followed him to the side door. His rich, genial voice drifted from the hallway.

  Drawn to follow, Jemma rose and hovered behind them. Before he disappeared through the door, Philip gave her a summer-breeze smile, sending her internal pinwheel on another merry spin.

  Philip pulled open his car door and slid inside, his attention locked to the large boutique window. The petite outline of the charming young woman he'd just met shimmered behind the pane and through him like a flutter of fine silk. He closed the car door, turned the key and rolled down the window to enjoy the warm spring air. He wished he could recapture the alluring scent that had filled him when he rescued Jemma from the ladder. Leaning back in his seat, he focused through the windshield on Jemma in the shop's interior.

  Yet, much more than glass and space separated them. While he watched her, Jemma leaned into the large display window and adjusted the drape of a black shawl around a faceless, gold-painted mannequin's shoulders. When Jemma straightened her back, her trim, delicate figure looked fragile like spring grass…fresh and new. Lovely.

  He shook his head. "You old geezer," he muttered aloud, "she's probably two decades younger than you. You ought to be ashamed." Still, she'd rustled feelings in him that he hadn't felt in years— even before Susan died. He wondered if she had enjoyed his hands around her waist as much as he had.

  Shifting into reverse, he eased the luxury car around then rolled into a break in traffic. He was forty-nine. Fifty in a few weeks. Jemma was at the most thirty, he speculated. A child compared to him.

  He faltered. Was it attraction or pity he felt? Lyle rose in his mind. Lyle the wastrel, Claire's good-for-nothing son. How had he captured a beauty like Jemma? She seemed like a true gentlewoman.

  Philip thought back to Lyle's glib tongue—a way with words Philip had always wished for himself— and answered his own question. Lyle had been handsome and charming. Not until someone knew him well would they see the unpleasant side, the squandering playboy beneath the boyish smile. Lyle was like his father.

  Naive, trusting Jemma probably fell for his beguiling ways. And what did she have to show for her marriage? He was certain she had nothing.

  Nothing. The thought struck him. What did he have? Material things, yes. But no family. A wife who died far too young. A brother who'd walked away from the family. Who was he to judge Jemma's life?

  When he spotted Boyd's office building, Philip pulled into the strip parking area and turned off the motor. To help his cousin's finances, Philip had decided to have Boyd put Claire's bill on his account.

  He strode toward the entrance, hitting the remote to lock the car. Philip passed the list of doctors' names and room numbers, turned left and headed down the corridor. Dr. Boyd Barrow, DDS appeared on the brass doorplate. Inside, a lone patient flipped through a magazine.

  Philip stepped to the small counter, but before he spoke, the clerk acknowledged him by name. "The doctor should be free in a minute, Mr. Somerville."

  He gestured toward the waiting gentleman.

  "He's waiting for the hygienist," she whispered.

  Philip sank into the armless, vinyl chair and eyed the wall decor—plaster images of teeth before and after braces, posters of various stages of gum decay, and two seemingly out-of-place seascape prints.

  His first thoughts drifted to Claire's toothless grin, but in a heartbeat, Jemma's fragile face and generous smile filled his thoughts. Why was he tormenting himself? She was only a girl…no, she was a woman. Jemma was a lovely, young woman who deserved an equally handsome, virile and fit young man. She wouldn't want some gray-haired coot.

  Anyway, he'd messed up one woman's life. He was a bad husband. Why would he allow even fleeting thoughts of Jemma to puncture his world? She deserved better.

  "You can see the doctor now, Mr. Somerville."

  Philip's gaze shot up to the young woman in the doorway. She strode away, returning to the computer and telephone. He rose and followed the well-known path to Boyd's office. He'd been a miserable husband, but maybe being a generous cousin would help atone for his past neglect. Maybe, God would know he was sorry. More than sorry, he was penitent.

  Chapter Two

  Jemma massaged the tension in her neck and leaned back against Claire's sofa. She'd brought none of her own furniture with her. Most of it had been frayed and worn anyway. Today, she'd made her decision and knew that she had to talk with her mother-in-law. Independence was what Jemma needed.

  Though she was grateful to Claire, living with her for any length of time could only damage their loving relationship. Her mother-in-law had a surplus of eccentricity in dress and behavior, but her head for business was Jemma's major concern. Could Claire manage the shop without giving away the merchandise?

  Jemma cringed, recalling a day shortly after she'd met her mother-in-law when she'd expressed admiration for one of Claire's silk scarves. The woman had yanked it from her neck and flung it across Jemma's shoulders, insisting it was a gift. Nothing would change her mind. After another such display of generosity, Jemma had been afraid to compliment any accessory or clothing of her mother-in-law's. A guest could easily find himself leaving Claire's, carrying her sofa.

  Taking a sip of herbal tea, Jemma savored the soothing, subtle flavor. She swiveled her head from side to side to release the tension. Her gaze drifted around the cozy apartment—better for one than two—wondering what the future held for her.

  With the coming of summer and tourists, the local newspaper offered a list of sales positions, the only work experience she had, but all those that Jemma had phoned started at minimum wage. If she didn't earn a larger salary, she'd be forced to stay in the apartment.

  Although she guessed Claire would be satisfied with that, Claire wasn't the problem. It was Jemma. She had felt beholden far too long. Now that the shop was open, she needed to make her way in the world—stretch her wings and fly. She yearned to carve her own niche in Loving.

  Loving. The word triggered two intermingled thoughts: the friendly village where the postman already greeted her by name…and Philip's warm smile.

  Thinking of him, disappointment fluttered down Jemma's spine. She hadn't seen Philip since the day he saved her from the fallen ladder. He'd called once to see how Claire was doing, but not since. Each time the bell chimed on the boutique door, Jemma looked up nervously, hoping to see him saunter into the shop with his bright grin.

  She blocked the thought. Foolish dreams. Philip had a business—make that many businesses—to run. He had no time for an impoverished, secondhand relative. He was kind enough to take on Claire, but he owed Jemma nothing.

  She rose, rinsed the teacup, and placed it in the sink. Time she returned to the shop. Business often picked up in the late morning, especially on cloudy days when the spring tourists were less likely to head to the beach or to the pier for lake excursions. Drawing a deep breath, Jemma charged down the stairs to the boutique.

  At the counter, Claire appeared to have two elderly women spellbound. No one could gussy up a story or her attire like her mother-in-law, and today was no exception. She was draped in a red-and-gold Japanese print caftan with a large Fuji mum pinned in her wild, upswept hair.

  Claire turned Jemma's way and flagged her over. "Come meet Abby and Silva Hartmann. They own that pretty bed and breakfast farther down Washington."

  Jemma extended her hand as she approached. "The Loving Arms?" she asked.

  The taller woman responded. "Yes, don't you love the name. We thought of Jesus welcoming the little children.
" She took Jemma's hand. "I'm Abby."

  "How do you do?" Jemma said, trying not to smile at the woman's exuberance.

  "Silva here," the other one said, jutting her fingers forward. "Or call me Sissy. I answer to both."

  Jemma smiled and squeezed her hand. "Nice to meet you, Silva."

  The woman inched close to Jemma's ear. "We're really a boarding house, dear, but Abby thought 'bed and breakfast' sounded more charming. Don't you agree?"

  Jemma nodded, her curiosity growing, but another customer wandered into the shop and caught her attention.

  She made a polite retreat, as Claire drew them back with her sales pitch. "Now about this lovely handbag. I have an elegant scarf that picks up this rich burgundy shade."

  Jemma stifled a grin and headed toward the other customer, her mind tangled in the rooming-house news. She'd check later, in private, to ask the Hartmanns about their rates.

  The customer was "just looking," so Jemma gave her space and shifted to a disheveled display of leather goods: wallets, coin purses, picture holders. As she organized the items, a warm hand touched her arm.

  She turned, expecting Claire or the customer, but instead, her heart did a flip-flop when she saw the hand's owner. "Philip." She prayed her face hadn't flushed. "How are you?"

  "Fine, and you?" he asked.

  Her answer tripped over her tongue. She felt foolish, like a preteen experiencing her first amorous attraction.

  "You look well," he said, filling the silence.

  She swallowed her embarrassment. "Oh, ah, I'm just…I'm okay. Fine." She reined her uncontrolled thoughts. "Yes, I'm fine."

  His lopsided grin faded as he pivoted his head, viewing the completed displays. "Very nice. And Claire has some business, too, I see."

  Jemma found her voice. "Well, some. It's growing each day."

  "When the summer tourists arrive, she'll do fine. This is a good location." He turned from Claire. "So what are your plans? You've decided to stay here with Claire?"

  Jemma squirmed under his gaze. "No," she said, lowering her voice, "but I haven't talked with her yet. I'm hoping she won't be disappointed. I've been looking for a job, mainly in the newspaper, but haven't really found—"

  He touched her arm. "Did you forget my offer?"

  Unable to look at him without feeling addled, Jemma lowered her head. "No, but I thought I'd look around on my own."

  His hand dropped to his side. "The resort's large, Jemma. You'll have to see the place. In summer, we're busy. It's crazy."

  Not knowing what he wanted her to say, she didn't respond.

  He caught her chin and tilted it upward. "I hire new people all the time, Jemma. I'm not offering you a handout."

  "I know," she said, wishing he'd let her collect her thoughts.

  As if reading her mind, he lowered his fingers, gave her arm a squeeze and dropped his hand without further comment.

  When he turned toward Claire, Jemma breathed a relieved sigh. She followed Philip's lead, watching Claire ring up the Hartmann sisters' sale. The package was small, so Jemma concluded it wasn't the handbag but the scarf. Abby and Silva left the shop, with their small purchase.

  Claire closed the register, then noticed her company. "Philip," she said, coming from behind the counter. "You've been a stranger."

  "I know. I was out of town on business for a few days." He gave the shop an admiring once-over. "The store looks great."

  "It's not a madhouse, but we're doing okay, and I'm keeping an ear open to the customers' wants."

  "Good. Always tune in to the trends."

  "Within reason," Jemma added, wondering if Philip really knew Claire all that well.

  He eyed her, arching a brow. "Well, sure, within reason. I'd steer clear of elephants." He chuckled.

  Though Jemma laughed, she feared she saw a sparkle of interest in Claire's eyes.

  Philip tucked his hand into his pants pocket. "Now, let's get down to business."

  Claire's eyes widened.

  "My birthday is Saturday, and I wondered if you ladies would join me for dinner. I thought you might like to see the resort before the summer crowd."

  "We'd love it," Claire said. "I've been wanting to drop by."

  Without comment, Philip shifted his focus to Jemma and waited.

  Discomfort flooded through her, and when she spoke, her voice sounded muffled in her ears. "That would be nice." For a moment, she wondered if she'd really spoken the words.

  "Great," Philip said. "What time does the shop close Saturday?"

  "Seven," Claire answered. "We'll be ready."

  Jemma tuned out the final conversation, struggling with her ridiculous emotions. She'd been a widow for nearly two years and hadn't felt a smidgeon of longing for male companionship. So why now was her pulse tripping through her veins like that of a toddler enjoying her first spring day?

  Trying to look interested, Jemma nodded and smiled. She heard herself say goodbye as Philip headed toward the door, but her inner voice was louder, warning her to beware. All she would find was more heartache.

  A hand pressed against Philip's shoulder, and he drew back in irritation. This was the third interruption during his birthday dinner. When the first had occurred, he realized he should have invited Jemma and Claire to the Inn at Spring Lake. Though they wouldn't have seen the resort, they would have had privacy and solitude there.

  "Can't it wait?" he asked, trying to give the high sign to Ian, his executive assistant whom he'd coerced to work nights.

  "It's your brother."

  The filet Philip had eaten minutes earlier churned in his stomach. He hadn't heard from Andrew in a couple of years. "My brother?" He rose. "You're sure?"

  Ian Barry nodded, fingered the frame of his eyeglasses and stepped back.

  "I'm sorry," Philip said to the women, excusing himself and following Ian between the tables toward the office telephone.

  Why was Andrew calling him after all this time? Resentment reared its head. Even their father's funeral had done no more than motivate a floral bouquet and a briefly scrawled note of apology for not returning home. Philip swallowed the bile that rose to his throat. Civility—that's all he could muster.

  Inside the office he grasped the telephone, his clammy palm cooling to icy fingers. Before he dismissed his assistant, Ian stepped out of the room and closed the door.

  "Andrew," Philip said, struggling to keep his voice controlled.

  He listened to his brother's hesitant voice, apologizing for his detachment from the family.

  Philip waited for the plea he anticipated. He was sure Andrew had run out of money, that he needed a little help until his "ship came in," that he expected a windfall on Monday. He waited, but no plea came.

  "Why are you calling, Andrew?" Philip asked. He heard his voice take on an edge. "It's been over two years since we talked."

  "I know," Andrew said, "and I'm sorry. I've had a lot of time to think, Philip, and…ah, I wanted to wish you a happy birthday."

  Philip stared at the receiver unable to speak. Happy birthday? No. There had to be more.

  "Are you there, Philip?"

  Andrew's voice tugged him from his confused thoughts. "Yes, I'm here. You mean…that's it? You called to wish me a happy birthday?"

  This time Andrew was silent.

  "I'm sorry," Philip said. "What I said was uncalled for. Thanks. I'm pleased you remembered."

  "I do remember."

  Struggling to grasp the call, Philip pictured Jemma and Claire waiting for him to return. "It's good to hear from you, Andrew, but I really should get back to my guests. Cousin Claire is waiting for me…and Lyle's wife…er, widow, Jemma. Lyle died a while ago."

  As they spoke their goodbyes, Andrew's voice faded and left Philip feeling sadly empty. After he replaced the receiver, he stood a moment, calming his emotions and rousing his spirit. Today was his birthday—his fiftieth. That, in itself, was depressing enough.

  Jemma's lovely face drifted through his mind. So many y
ears had passed since a woman had yanked on the strings of his heart. But Jemma did. He had no idea why. He pondered the reason as he hurried back to the table.

  Seeing Jemma from a distance, his heartstrings received a firm tug. She looked lovely in a pale green sheath with a simple strand of pearls. Like dew on a summer morning: soft, delicate and intangible. Jemma was a secret place and he longed for the key to open the door to the wonderful surprises he might find there.

  The thought of his fiftieth birthday struck him like a sledgehammer. To calm his thoughts, he settled his gaze on Claire.

  He'd controlled a chuckle when he arrived at the apartment earlier. Claire had greeted him in a flurry of purplish chiffon that carried him back to the archives of early television: Donna Reed, Loretta Young, Lucille Ball. While Jemma was a spring flower, Claire had all the outlandish glitz of the New Orleans Mardi Gras.

  "Sorry," Philip said as he slipped into his chair. "I owe you both a quiet dinner somewhere else. I should have known better."

  "No problem," Claire said, waving away his apology. "So how's Andrew?"

  "Fine, I think. He called to wish me a happy birthday." Philip still hadn't sifted through the phone call. It had left him curious and concerned.

  "Andrew's been away a long time," Claire said.

  Philip nodded. "Over four years, I think. He didn't come back for Dad's funeral."

  "I know," she said. "It was a shame."

  Jemma only listened to the conversation, and Philip wondered if she were bored or distracted. If he didn't do something soon to liven the celebration, they'd go home thinking the evening was a disaster.

  Philip lifted his cup and sipped the unappealing lukewarm coffee. Sliding the drink onto the saucer, he placed his palms against the table edge and leaned forward. "How about a tour?"

  As if they'd heard their morning alarm clock, both women's heads shot up.

  "I've bored you long enough with untold interruptions. Would you like to see what we have to offer here?"

  He rose and his guests followed. He could hear the click of their heels hitting the wooden floor as they reached the resort lobby.