Loving Treasures Read online

  Ian scowled at the wad of keys and dropped them into his suit jacket pocket. "We're heading for the prime tourist season and—"

  "Have Personnel fill the slots, Ian. I hear you," Philip said, monitoring the stress in his voice.

  "If I understood why we've waited so long, I'd—"

  "Ian," Philip said, rising, "I said notify Personnel to process the applications. You'll have all the help you need in a couple of days."

  Ian adjusted his eyeglass frames and nodded. "All right, then." With a final puzzled look, he strode from the office and closed the door.

  Sinking into his chair, Philip shut his eyes. He had no other option. Now if Jemma wanted a job, he would have little to offer except a lower paying position like housekeeping. Why was Jemma so headstrong?

  Philip swiveled his high-backed chair to face the window and Lake Michigan glinting in the late afternoon sun. In the distance, he watched resort guests lolling on the beach or standing on the pier enjoying the scenery. The tennis courts and golf tee-times were booked throughout the day, and in the evening, the resort restaurants had nearly reached capacity seating. Philip was awed that God had blessed him so abundantly.

  But why him? What happened to God's blessings for his brother, Andrew? From the same parental seed, Philip and Andrew were so different. His brother had been bored with the resort and longed for adventure and freedom, while Philip had stayed by his father's side and learned the business. By the time his father retired and later died, Philip had been experienced and well-trained in handling the resort. But Andrew…?

  Guilt weighed heavily on Philip's shoulders. His brother had not faired as well—and now what? What would he do if Andrew returned? Philip had sensed something in their telephone conversation a few weeks earlier, as if Andrew wanted forgiveness for breaking his father's heart, for squandering his share of the family fortune, for walking away from everyone who loved him.

  Philip would never understand that driving need for independence. Take Jemma. She'd rejected his offer. But why? Was it really a desire for this freedom Philip didn't understand, or was she rejecting him? He wondered if she sensed he cared too much.

  Refocusing on the lake, Philip watched the waves roll in. Hitting the shore, they dragged the sand back to sea, leaving debris behind in their wake. The symbolism smacked him. Did Jemma see him as dashing into her life and knocking her off balance? I need to stand on my own two feet, she'd said. Did she fear he would leave her floundering in the debris of his helpfulness?

  Before he could think the question through, the telephone jolted him to action. He grabbed the receiver and, following his greeting, heard Claire's exuberant voice.

  "Philip, where have you been?"

  "Busy, Claire." He felt guilt over his neglect. "The first weeks of the tourist season are always like this." He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to dispel the tension. "How are things with you? No problems, I hope."

  "I'm great. Miss hearing from you, that's all. I wondered if you'd like to drop by tonight for dinner. I'm making something you like."

  Her offer sent a buzz of thoughts whirring through his mind. With so many nit-picking details, he'd planned to stay in the office late that evening. Still, how could he refuse? "Give me a hint? What would I miss?"

  "You'll have to come and see," she said, her voice teasing. "Any time that's good for you, Philip."

  Philip eyed the wall clock. "How about eight, Claire?" With the late hour, he hoped for a counteroffer, a rain check for another day.

  "Great," she said. "See you then."

  When he hung up, Philip accepted that his ploy hadn't worked. Yet, as well as a good meal, another positive side of the invitation came to him. Claire might tell him how Jemma had faired the past weeks. Was Jemma avoiding him?

  As she dressed for dinner, Jemma's cheeks burned with humiliation and anger. She'd willingly given up the past two evenings to stay with Agnes, but today when she had plans of her own, Rod Dorchester had upbraided her—using the Lord's name—for her unwillingness to spend another night caring for his mother-in-law. Had he asked her before Claire's call, Jemma would have honored his request.

  As Jemma slipped a knit top over her head, she wondered what God would have her do. Being in a subservient position, she felt unable to say anything about her employer's sinful language. How much longer could she bear it?

  Feeling no need to fuss over her appearance, Jemma splotched on fresh lipstick and clipped her unruly curls into a ponytail, Claire had seen her looking much worse, so what did it matter? She hurried down the back stairs, out the side gate and along the sidewalk toward Loving Treasures.

  In the back of her mind, Jemma wondered why Claire had called in the afternoon to invite her to dinner so late, but she tossed it off to Claire's incomprehensible abandon. In the blink of an eye, Claire reached out to whatever struck her fancy.

  When the telephone had rung earlier, Jemma hoped to hear Philip's voice. Weeks had passed since they'd been together and Jemma missed his warmth and good humor—even though seeing him made her pulse race. Why did she react so foolishly? Philip was a respected man. He didn't need a poor shop girl clinging to his side for support. Besides, she wanted independence.

  In the early evening breeze, Jemma breathed in a mixture of scents—summer flowers, dusty cement, and an occasional whiff of lake air drifting from the Grand River that emptied into Lake Michigan only a couple of miles away.

  Reaching Claire's shop, Jemma took the side entrance. As soon as she opened the outer door, the rich scent of roast beef roused her taste buds. Curious why Claire would choose a warm summer day to make a roast, Jemma hurried up the stairs and, with a single tap, pushed open the door.

  "Smells wonderful, Claire," she said, stepping into the kitchen and witnessing Claire's latest fashion statement: a floral magenta caftan.

  "It's the rosemary," Claire said. "Rosemary and pork, rosemary and beef—they go together like love and marriage." As the analogy left her mouth, a grin shot to Claire's face. "Bad example," she said. "How about Cupid and his arrows?"

  Puzzled, Jemma stood for a moment wondering about Claire's analogies. They both had a smattering of romance.

  "I'm curious, Claire," Jemma asked, "why are you making such a fancy dinner?"

  "It was an inspiration."

  Inspiration? Jemma narrowed her eyes, studying Claire as she busied herself at the stove. Without questioning further, Jemma shifted her focus to the small table and counted three plates.

  She understood. Claire had met someone.

  But that surprised her. Although Claire had been widowed for years, her mother-in-law had vowed she would never again allow a man in her life. Jemma had believed her. No man had ever appeared to catch Claire's eye. Yet, Jemma hoped someday Claire would find love. Single life could be lonely.

  Rather than ruin Claire's surprise, Jemma veered the conversation in another direction. "May I help you?"

  "No, I'm about finished," she said, her long, pointed sleeve barely escaping a simmering pan on the stove. "I put the Yorkshire pudding in the oven just before you arrived."

  Hearing her statement, Jemma realized that Claire meant business. Yorkshire pudding was one of Claire's specialities for important occasions. Puzzled, Jemma eyed the older woman. Why hadn't she heard about this romance before?

  Claire swung away from the stove, her caftan billowing around her ankles. "Let's sit in the living room and talk." She headed toward the doorway and beckoned Jemma to follow.

  Chuckling to herself, Jemma was sure the talk would be the older woman's romantic confession.

  Claire sat in an easy chair and gestured toward the sofa. Jemma sank into the soft cushions and waited.

  "Tell me about your work," Claire said.

  Her question threw Jemma off-kilter.

  "Are things any better?" Claire asked, a sincere look settling on her face.

  Not wanting to ruin the evening with her distress, Jemma gave Claire a sketchy picture of her week and dwelt o
n her enjoyment of spending time with the elderly Agnes. She sensed that Claire was bursting with questions, but before Claire could prod Jemma for more details, the doorbell rang and Jemma breathed a relieved sigh. Her mother-in-law had an amazing knack for dragging the truth out of her.

  Claire sent Jemma an unsettling look and rose, while the cat appeared out of nowhere to follow her. Without comment, she sailed toward the side door. Jemma listened and heard the murmur of a masculine voice drowned beneath Claire's exuberant welcome.

  Curious, Jemma watched the doorway for her first glimpse of Claire's friend. When the man strolled through the archway, Jemma gasped. "Philip!"

  "Jemma?"

  The simultaneous acknowledgments made it clear that neither had known of the other's attendance.

  "Claire didn't tell me," Philip said, hesitating in the middle of the room.

  His surprised face sent her heart sinking.

  "Sit, Philip," Claire said. "The sofa's most comfortable." She breezed past him and wafted her flowing sleeve in Jemma's direction.

  As Philip studied the empty space beside Jemma, Claire sank into the lone chair.

  Regaining her breath, Jemma shifted closer to the arm. Obviously Philip wouldn't have come had he known she'd been invited. Jemma noted the surprise in his voice and the discomfort in his expression.

  "Isn't this nice," Claire said, ignoring the tension that filled the room. "I'm pleased you could both come on such short notice."

  Philip edged forward. "I smelled the roast beef when I came in, Claire. Don't tell me you're making…"

  "Yorkshire pudding," she said, ending his question. "Your favorite."

  "It is," he said, settling onto the sofa beside Jemma. "I haven't had that in years."

  "You mentioned my pot roast one day in the shop," she said.

  "Yes, I did…and the Yorkshire pudding. It's been years since I had it."

  Claire laughed. "It will be years longer, unless I finish up." She rose and swept toward the kitchen.

  Jemma seized the moment and rose. "Let me help, Claire."

  But before she could take a step, Claire shooed her back. "You and Philip talk. Everything will be ready in a minute."

  As the command left Claire's mouth, Jemma saw the picture as clearly as a summer sky. The romance Claire was celebrating was one she'd contrived. Jemma and Philip's. No wonder Claire hadn't said a word about a new man in her life.

  Rattled by the awareness, Jemma pivoted to face Philip. "How have you been?" she asked, sitting as close as she could to the sofa arm.

  "Busy. Too busy," he said. "I've wanted to call and see how—"

  His excuse settled on Jemma's ear. "Don't apologize, please. I know your life is very complicated. Mine is, well, is quieter. Much more…" She couldn't find the word. Simple? No, it was horrible.

  Philip shifted and rested his hand on her arm. "To be honest, I'd hoped that you would call."

  She'd wished the same. But he hadn't. "Me?"

  He shrugged. "Well, besides missing your friendship, I hoped you'd change your mind about the job."

  Hearing his offer again, Jemma longed to give in and accept. Her heart thudded at the thought of telling him about Mr. Dorchester's language and her un-happiness. But as she gathered courage, Claire appeared in the doorway, calling them to dinner.

  Hearing Claire's invitation, Philip drew in a deep breath, savoring the appetizing aroma that followed her into the room. He rose, and before he could be a gentleman, Jemma popped up and darted away as if her life had been threatened. Her reaction set him on edge.

  Though the table was small, Claire filled it with roast beef and potatoes, boiled carrots, and great slabs of the pudding. Philip drenched the meal in thick, brown gravy.

  As they concentrated on their food, conversation dwindled, and when they'd finished, Philip congratulated Claire on her culinary skills. Before he or Jemma could volunteer to help with the clean-up, she directed them back to the living room, leaving Claire to deal with a meowing Bodkin.

  "Go. Go," Claire said, chasing them away. "When I'm finished here, I'll bring in coffee and dessert."

  Her eagerness aroused his curiosity, but now he could take advantage of his time alone with Jemma. In a rare quiet moment during the meal, Philip had pondered how he would question Jemma. He longed to know what had upset her, and decided a direct approach was necessary.

  Jemma left the kitchen, and Philip followed. Before she could sink into the farthest corner of the sofa, he captured her arm. "What is it, Jemma? Have I upset you in some way?"

  "No. No, you haven't done anything."

  Her arm stiffened beneath his hand.

  "You're not being truthful," Philip said. "Please tell me what I've done."

  A look of defeat settled on her face and she sank onto the sofa. "It's me, Philip. You've made me a job offer, and I've refused because I want to help myself instead of having everyone bail me out of my troubles. I already told you that." A look of panic filled her eyes. "But I'm very disturbed about my current job…and I really need some advice."

  Sitting beside her, he slipped his arm comfortingly around her shoulder. "What is it? Tell me."

  As if he'd opened the floodgates, Jemma poured out her story—her efforts to make the family happy, her pleasure in tending to Agnes, yet her overwhelming misery at Rod's scolding and cursing.

  Tears filled her eyes, and Philip glanced at the doorway, hoping he had time to respond before Claire flew into the room. "Look, Jemma, you have to speak your mind. Tell Rod that you're a Christian and you're offended by his cursing."

  "But I'm his employee and—"

  "Jemma, this isn't the dark ages. Employees have rights. Don't you think I'd be sitting in court if I harassed one of my workers?"

  She wiped the escaping tears from her eyes. "Yes, but—"

  "But nothing. Tomorrow, talk with him. I'm sure he'll understand and make an effort to control his language."

  Except that Philip wasn't sure, and the more he thought about the situation, the more he wondered if his advice might cause Jemma more problems. He'd had an occasional conversation with Rod that had left him amazed at the man's poor reasoning.

  When he focused on Jemma's calmed expression, Philip didn't have the heart to retract his suggestion. Beneath his embrace, the tension had left her shoulders and her posture seemed more relaxed. Now, all he could do was pray he hadn't misguided her.

  Jemma stood in her tiny bedroom and stared at her opened suitcase, amazed at how badly her request had been received. Rod Dorchester had given her no ultimatum. A housekeeper should not question his authority, he'd said, nor criticize his choice of words. She had resigned.

  Placing a blouse on the bed, Jemma smoothed it and folded each sleeve, wondering if she'd done the right thing. With Claire busy in the store, the only person she could think of to help her was Philip. When she called, he responded immediately and said he would be right there.

  Two boxes were piled by the door, and Jemma had one more suitcase to pack. If her possessions weren't so cumbersome, she would have called a taxi rather than ask Philip for help.

  Though Philip apologized and blamed himself for her situation, Jemma felt differently. His advice had been the only solution. Staying there and accepting Mr. Dorchester's vile language would have gone against Jemma's principles and her faith. She had to leave. God would have had her do the same, she was sure.

  From her open window, Jemma heard wheels crunch against the cement driveway. She glanced out the window and watched Philip exit the car and head toward the back door.

  Jemma hurried down the stairs. When she opened the door, her emotions took command and she fell into his arms. Philip's voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket on a cold night. He soothed her with his words and calmed her with his presence.

  When she gained control, she steered him up the staircase to her room, and together they toted her belongings to the car. Philip loaded his trunk while Jemma settled into the passenger seat. For the
first time in weeks, she felt a tremendous weight lift from her shoulders.

  "Jemma," Philip said, sliding in beside her. "I feel responsible for this. I had second thoughts after we talked, but I hoped Rod would use common sense and take your request to heart." He ran his hand along her cheek. "But I'm not sure he has one."

  Puzzled, Jemma turned her face to his. "Has one?"

  "A heart," Philip said, a tender grin curving his mouth. He released a sigh. "So where do we go from here?"

  Jemma's pulse lurched. "After I spoke with you, I called Claire. I'll go back there until I can find a small place. I've saved a little money. At least I'm walking away with that."

  "Good for you, and you know, if…"

  Philip faltered, and Jemma understood. "Thank you for not offering me money or a free room at the resort." She shook her head. "Philip, you have a good heart. A generous heart, but—"

  "Shush," he said, caressing the length of her hair. "You don't need to say a word. I'm trying to respect your wishes."

  She felt pleased that he seemed to understand.

  Philip sat bolt upright and smacked his palms against the steering wheel. "Let's celebrate."

  His suggestion came from nowhere, and Jemma looked at him curiously. "Celebrate what?'"

  "Your freedom from tyranny." He sent her a wry smile.

  "What did you have in mind? Apartment hunting?"

  "That's tomorrow," he said. "Have you ever sailed, Jemma?"

  "Sailed?"

  "In a boat? On the water?"

  She laughed. "I know what sailing is. I was just surprised."

  "Well…have you?"

  "No, I've never sailed. I've never done a lot of things that people take for granted. I'm embarrassed at my naiveté."

  He shook his head. "Don't be embarrassed. Your inexperience will give me the fun of sharing some new things with you."

  "Do you rent boats at the marina in town?"

  Philip released a full-bodied laugh. "No need to rent, Jemma. I own a sailboat. It's moored at the resort."

  Jemma felt a flush heat her face. Talk about naive—she'd win the prize. A man in Philip's shoes would own a sailboat. Possibly even a whole fleet of sailboats.