"You trusted Claire?" she asked, her voice playful. "This might be her way to get me out of her hair… permanently."
She stepped onto the ladder, pivoted to face the lake, and dove like a knife into the glinting blue water. Fascinated, a sigh escaped Philip's chest. Jemma was every man's dream.
When she bobbed to the surface, Philip climbed down and joined her in the chilly water.
Side by side, they swam and jackknifed below the surface, then rose again, playing like dolphins. Emerging from below, the sun warmed Philip's arms and his heart thumped with the exercise and exhilaration.
"Enough?" he asked, gripping the ladder.
Jemma gave an agreeing nod and swam toward him. He helped her up and waited until she reached the top, then followed. On deck, Philip reached beneath the bench and pulled out two large towels. He tossed one to Jemma and wrapped the other around his shoulders, then pulled up the ladder.
The breeze played against his damp suit, and a chill bristled down his back. "Cold?" Bathed in water and sunshine, she sparkled like the morning dew.
"No, it feels wonderful."
Philip held his breath. She looked wonderful.
Holding the towel in front of her, Jemma tossed forward her shoulder-length hair and wrapped it in the terry-cloth. "I hope you thought of food." She held her hand against her flat tummy. "I hear a rumble, and it's not thunder."
"I think of everything," he said, hoping she would never know the thoughts firing his emotions.
He darted to the safety of the cabin, cooling his wayward thoughts. In a moment, he carried up the picnic basket he'd brought along, and they sat together on the bench enjoying slices of roasted chicken, slabs of cheese, crusty rolls and a variety of fresh vegetables and fruit.
"You do think of everything," Jemma said, licking her fingers and sending him a coy smile.
Hiding his desire, he opened a bottle of chilled Chablis, pouring it into the stemmed glasses he'd thought to tuck inside the basket.
When he handed a glass to Jemma, she raised it. "A toast."
"To your birthday." He held his glass even with hers.
"To my birthday…and to us."
The link of crystal shivered in the air and in Philip's heart. To us. Her words bounced through his mind like a tennis ball. If his own fears would only let it be.
Jemma lowered her eyes, hearing her toast. To us. How could she have been so blatant? Sometimes she felt like a pendulum out of control. Her emotions swung back and forth, heading in wavering directions.
All day, she'd watched Philip at the helm, noticing his sunny smile, his attentiveness—just as he had been at the beginning. He'd mentioned his age so often since they met. Fifty. Why couldn't he see himself as he was? A handsome, vigorous man with more life than many men of thirty-three. What did he fear?
What did she fear? Her mind drifted back to the church concert that she and Claire had attended. Philip had said he was too busy. She'd been more than disappointed—she'd been uncertain and concerned. He'd said he was a Christian, but she truly wondered.
But today—right now—she felt wonderful. She pushed her concerns aside, praying that God would take care of her fear and find a way to make things right.
Sipping the Chablis, Jemma eyed him. "Why aren't you drinking your wine?"
"Boats and alcohol don't mix," he said. "I just wanted a sip to toast your birthday."
She was touched by his honest answer and concern for safety. She leaned back, other questions whirring in her head, and pondered if she should take a chance.
"Philip, why aren't we like this all the time?" she asked finally. "Being with you feels so good and natural. I couldn't ask for a better day."
Motionless, he studied her. "Do you want to know the truth?"
Her heart lurched, but she nodded.
"I don't want to lead you on, Jemma. Getting close and comfortable implies making promises. I don't know if the signals are different now than when I was—"
"Stop. I don't want to hear your young-old lecture again. Too many things are more important, Philip. Age is so minor." To her it was, but maybe for once she didn't understand him. "Is it more than age, Philip?"
Seeing the look on his face made her wonder if she'd made a mistake by asking, but she didn't stop. "Tell me what's bothering you."
He sat for a moment as if transfixed, then raised his head. "It's complex. Maybe it's not age so much as the ability to focus on what's important. It's being a husband and father. I ruined one woman's life and I won't do it again."
Jemma swallowed the gasp that had lodged in her throat. "Ruined? How? What do you mean?" Her mind soared with questions, with fears—she wanted to hear what he had to say, yet feared what he might say.
"You know how much time I spend in the office. Sometimes I'm there from morning to night." He dropped his napkin onto his lap. "I love my work, but a woman needs more. Young women need children. Susan needed more than I could give her. Sometimes I wonder…if God took her because I was doing such a pitiful job."
Jemma's head spun and color faded to black-and-white flashes. She gripped the railing. "Philip, you can't mean that. Men get even…not God. Do you hear what you're saying?"
"I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. I believed that once. Not anymore." He lowered his head and stared across the water.
"I don't want to hear that again. How can you say you don't give enough of yourself? Look at what you've done for Claire. And me. You helped Claire find a new fulfilled life for herself. You gave me a job and found that apartment for me. You're celebrating my birthday. You've taught me about sailing and…and living."
She saw his jaw flex with tension. His eyes remained distant.
"Maybe you were a workaholic once," Jemma continued. "Maybe you should have been a better husband for Susan." She clutched his arm until he raised his eyes to hers. "But it doesn't mean you can't be good for someone else."
He didn't speak, and Jemma didn't know what she would want him to say if he did. She swallowed a sob that shuddered in her throat.
She let go of his arm and her hand dropped to her lap. "Philip, if it's only friendship you want, then let's be friends. I enjoy your company. You've been kind to Claire and wonderful to me. I treasure you as a friend."
He pulled his gaze from the water, and his penetrating eyes sought hers. "I cherish you, Jemma. More than you'll ever know." His palm slid across the bench and captured her hand.
"Then, we've agreed," she said. "We're friends. Dear friends."
"The dearest."
With her hand in his, electricity rose up her arm, and she stopped breathing for a moment. Whatever Philip wanted to call it, Jemma would agree. He said they were the dearest friends. She called it love.
The candlelight twinkled in Philip's eyes, and Jemma struggled to keep her gaze from his. She tried to focus on Ian and Claire. Her mother-in-law's excitement bounced over the table, her mouth going a knot a minute. Jemma grinned inwardly at her play on words.
When she'd walked into the restaurant, Claire had sparkled in a floral sequin jacket covering her hot-pink gown. She glowed like a neon sign and with as much pizzazz.
Jemma's outfit was much more subdued. She gazed down at her plain white dress, thankful that Claire had used some discretion while packing for her surprise.
Claire had sent along a floral scarf, assuming, Jemma suspected, that she would wear it around her neck. Instead, Jemma had tied it around her waist like a sash, adding color without being too flamboyant.
Looking at the jewelry Claire had tossed in, Jemma had selected the large hoop earrings and a circular broach with colored stones that complemented the scarf. Despite Claire's wild taste, Jemma had made everything work well.
From the moment Philip had set sail back for shore, Jemma's head had been spinning. A damper had fallen on their conversation. If she'd been confused before about her relationship with Philip, she was doubly perplexed now.
Her mind drifted back to the table conversat
ion. Claire had occupied Philip with tales of the shop and ideas for expanding the merchandise. Though quiet most of the time, Ian added a comment now and then.
The meal had been delicious, and the lobster bib had saved her from disaster. As they talked—and Ian smiled—the waiter gathered their empty plates and took a coffee order.
"You've enjoyed your day?" Ian asked.
"Yes, wonderful," Jemma answered.
"How far did you sail?" He drew off his eyeglasses, rubbed his nose and slid them on again.
"I'm not sure where we were." She eyed Philip, who was engulfed in Claire's story. "Philip dropped anchor, and we swam for a while, then had a picnic before sailing back."
His eyes widened. "A picnic?"
"On board. Philip thought of everything. Chicken, fruit…and wine."
"Hmm. Sounds very romantic."
It had been, until their conversation. But she chose not to respond. Let Ian figure it out himself.
"Would you like to dance?" Without waiting for her answer, he rose and extended his hand.
Jemma stared at it, realizing she could hardly refuse, but she didn't want to dance with Ian. She sent a helpless look to Philip, but Claire had his total attention.
With no other excuse, Jemma rose and allowed Ian to escort her to the dance floor and guide her into the rhythm of the ballad. He was shorter than Philip, but much taller than she. To answer his probing questions, she had to tilt her head to look into his face. Ian seemed a man for details. He delved into everything, and Jemma found herself providing information she would have preferred to keep to herself.
When the music stopped, Ian led her back to the table, apparently satisfied with the information he'd gleaned.
The coffee had arrived, and when she sat and lifted her cup for a sip, waiters appeared from every direction with a rousing chorus of "Happy Birthday" and a cake with lighted candles.
Uncomfortable with the attention, Jemma covered her burning cheeks and, eager to get rid of the crowd, blew out her candles and volunteered to cut the cake. When the waiters had left, she looked from Philip to Claire, wondering which one had arranged for her embarrassment, "Which one of you—"
"It was Claire's idea," Philip said with a twinkle in his eyes, "but if she hadn't thought of it, I'm afraid I might have."
Giving a wry grin, Jemma slid the cake plate and knife toward Claire. "You started it, you finish it. Cut the cake."
During the quiet that accompanied Claire's concentration on the task, music drifted from the bandstand, and Jemma held her breath hoping that Ian wouldn't ask her to dance again. If he did, she'd tell him she didn't want to drink cold coffee.
"Philip, it's your turn," Claire said, using the knife as a pointer. "Dance with the birthday girl."
"Would you?" he asked, rising from his chair.
Cold coffee or not, Jemma didn't care. She stood and accepted his hand, and he walked her to the floor.
Always handsome, Philip was breathtaking tonight in his dark pinstriped suit. He drew her into his arms, and this time she allowed her body to meld with his, so close she could imagine the beating of his heart. He smelled of citrus and spice, and the aroma lured her into her old fantasy of a Caribbean grove of lemon and nutmeg trees. She closed her eyes, swaying like the island palms on a breezy afternoon, sun-warmed and unburdened.
Philip nestled her closer, his cheek against her hair, his hand caressing her back. Heat smoldered, then burst inside her chest and radiated through her limbs. She longed to raise on tiptoes and kiss his tempting mouth, to run her hand along his jaw and feel the growing stubble of his whiskers.
The music faded.
Philip slowed to a stop. Yet his arms kept her close, and Jemma feared he could feel the pulse of her blood racing through her veins. She tilted her head upward. His eyes glowed, and the dim light touched the silver in his hair.
"Thank you," he whispered.
I love you, her heart murmured in return, but her voice only whispered, "You're welcome."
Seventeen years meant nothing. Her heart thundered with conviction.
As if in slow motion, Philip guided her back to the table. Jemma nibbled on cake and sipped lukewarm coffee, her taste buds haunted by citrus trees and nutmeg.
When the bill was paid, they wandered back to Ian's luxury car. Though Philip insisted she slide into the front seat while he joined Claire in the back, Jemma didn't care. He was in her heart, no matter where she sat.
No one spoke until Ian stopped the car back at the marina.
Philip opened the door and spoke to her over the seat. "You can wait here while I get your things."
Jemma wasn't ready to say good-night. Her emotions cried for the night to go on forever. She flung open her door. "No, I'll go. I have things scattered all over." She gave a hurried look toward Ian. "Wait a minute. I'll be right back."
She darted through the parking lot with Philip be-hind her, her high-heeled sandals smacking the boards of the pier.
"What's the hurry?" Philip asked, grasping her arm.
She ignored him, afraid to look in his eyes, wanting to throw herself into his arms like a fool.
"Slow down before you get one of your heels caught between the planks. You'll be flat on your face."
She slowed.
Tenderly, Philip took her arm. When Ian's car had vanished from their sight, Philip slid his hand through hers, weaving their fingers together.
Her knees weakened as longing twined through her. She loved him.
Reaching the boat, Philip released her hand and took her elbow. "Careful in those shoes."
She stepped into the sailboat, slipped off her shoes and scurried down the steps into the cabin, hearing Philip behind her.
A hanging bag lay open on the bunk, and she opened the pockets and dropped her shorts and top inside, then went to the head for her wet bathing suit. Tugging it from the hook, she swung around—into Philip's arms.
The bathing suit dropped to the floor.
Music of the night filled her head. Swept with emotion, Jemma reached on tiptoe, wrapping her arms around Philip's strong neck, her mouth capturing his. Tenderly at first, he embraced her. Then his breath became gasps, and she felt him tremble.
Philip eased back, his lips moist and eager, and his eyes searched her face. He lowered his lips again, embracing her fully, lifting her. Mouth to mouth, yearning, joy beat through their veins.
He clung to her, and she to him—like swimmers drowning. Then, he eased her to the floor, and when she opened her eyes, his gaze looked misty and sad. "This isn't right, Jemma."
"What?" The word flew from her mouth. "This is beautiful, Philip. The day, the evening, and this."
"Beautiful, but…"
His reaction struck her like a slap. Why was it wrong? She'd already told him how she felt. Age meant nothing. She didn't understand. Humiliated, she backed away, grasped the bag and pushed past him toward the steps.
"Jemma, please, wait."
Maneuvering the bag through the narrow hatch, she bounded to the deck and onto the dock.
"Thank you for everything," she called over her shoulder.
"Jemma, please…"
Philip's voice faded with distance as her bare feet pounded against the pier.
She'd left her shoes—and her heart—behind.
Chapter Eleven
Philip watched her go, not knowing what to do to stop her. God knew he loved her, but he couldn't let go of his fear. How could he tell her he didn't want people to scorn her because of his age.
Cradle robber. He'd heard other men called that. Men who squired younger women. Married younger women. Jemma said seventeen years was nothing, but she was wrong. And he'd been a poor husband at thirty-three. Why would he be a better husband now?
Jemma needed a man with a future, and he'd told her so long ago that he was a man with an empty past. His life was in a horrible rut. Even before Susan died, he'd been there. One foot in the rut and the other on that banana peel?
H
e paused, his thoughts riddled with converging ideas. Could that banana peel be Jemma? Whenever she was near—even the thought sent longing coursing through him—he felt himself slipping. Out of control. Or was it only his heart?
Tonight when he'd watched her dancing with Ian, envy had torn through him. All day he'd been filled with longing. He'd avoided being too close to her, but Claire's suggestion that they dance left him little choice. How could he not dance with Jemma on her birthday? But once she was in his arms, he'd lost his grip—lost his senses. He'd felt himself slipping, sliding, falling…in love.
He'd fought it too long. Why should he care what others thought? If God had led him to Jemma, who was he to oppose the Lord's will. Tonight he'd allowed himself to face the truth. He'd fallen in love. And as much as he wished it didn't, it felt wonderful.
For three days Jemma dodged around corners at the resort and at home, avoided answering her telephone, fearful of seeing or talking with Philip. What would she do? He'd confused her beyond any hope of understanding. His kiss had been as rapturous as her own. Yet he had apologized. He'd said it was wrong. Why?
She'd been a widow for two years. He'd been a widower much longer. What would make a kiss wrong for two consenting adults? Or had she been the only one willing?
Reliving the moment, she remembered her arms around his neck, her lips moving against his. She'd been the first to embrace him, but he hadn't backed away. Instead, he'd swept her off the floor in his powerful arms. He'd felt what she had—she was sure of it. What would make that wrong?
In the back of her mind, she remembered something Philip had said that troubled her. What was it? She delved into the corners of her memory. My Lady. That was it.
A shiver had run down her back when he'd looked into her eyes and said that he figured after his wife's death the sailboat would be the only other "she" in his life. He'd even laughed at her. Was he that determined to remain alone? She didn't understand.
Jemma longed to talk with Claire, but she couldn't. Claire would get too involved, and she knew Jemma too well. When Jemma had returned to the car that night, Claire had seen her face and later wanted to know what was wrong. She'd pried for the past two days, but Jemma was determined to keep her feelings private. She wanted answers, but she needed time to struggle with the situation. Time to be alone.
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