Loving Treasures

by Gail Gaymer Martin

  Jemma stepped back from the polished table and scrutinized the flowers she'd placed in the pastel vase. She shifted a stem of daisies and eyed the mixed bouquet again, admiring how fresh and perky they looked. So full of life.

  When she was with Philip, she felt like fresh flowers. New and promising. But today, she was as wilted as the dying blossoms she'd tossed into her trash bag. Cheerless.

  A blast of air escaped her lungs. Today she had dragged herself through the guest rooms, time dragging along with her. She glanced at her wristwatch. "On to the next." Her voice sounded strange in the empty room. She grabbed the cart handle and swung toward the door. She came to an abrupt stop. "Philip."

  "I found you," he said, standing at the threshold. He pushed the door closed behind him and headed toward her, his steps muffled by the carpet.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I'm wrong," he said. "I came to apologize."

  "It's not necessary."

  He caught her hand. "I didn't mean to upset you, Jemma. You're the dearest friend I have…and I don't want to lose you. I need to explain."

  "You owe me nothing. I made a mistake." She tried to look into his eyes, but her focus remained on the floor.

  He slipped his finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. "I made the mistake, not you."

  She shook her head, unable to make sense out of what he was saying. "I don't understand."

  "Let's be friends, Jemma."

  Friends. Was that it? Philip truly thought of her as a friend. Dear friends. Nothing more? He could say it all he wanted; she didn't believe it. But even if he never realized how he felt, she'd never beg him to love her.

  Philip glanced over his shoulder toward the door.

  "We can't talk here," he said, swinging back to face her. "I'll pick you up tonight so we can sort things out. What do you say?"

  As far as Jemma was concerned, they could sort things out until kingdom come and he'd still make no sense. What was wrong with loving, when your heart told you it was right?

  "What do you say?" he repeated.

  "I have plans tonight, Philip." She'd told him a barefaced lie. She glanced at her wristwatch. "Look. Time's fleeting. These flowers will be dead if you don't let me get them into vases."

  "So be it. They'll die. You're more important."

  His comment shocked and pleased her.

  He captured her arm and pulled her close. "Forget your plans, please. Just say yes."

  She looked in his desperate eyes and her heart ached. "All right."

  He brushed her cheek with his fingers. "Thank you, Jemma." He took a step backward. "I'll pick you up around seven."

  Before she could respond, he'd vanished through the doorway.

  Philip bristled with determination. He refused to let things get out of hand tonight. Being in a restaurant would hopefully temper Jemma's irritation, and he could speak from his heart.

  When he picked her up she seemed tense, but by the time they'd pulled into Bil-Mar's parking lot, she'd begun to relax. Inside, the hostess seated them on the open porch overlooking the lake.

  "This is lovely," Jemma said, looking toward the diamond-studded ripples. "Must have cost you to get this table."

  He grinned. "I told them that it was for you. I had no problem."

  A soft flush highlighted her cheeks, and his spirit sparkled like the sun-speckled water.

  The waiter arrived and took their order. They talked about many things, but nothing of importance. When the excellent meal had ended and coffee had been poured, Philip took Jemma's hand.

  "Ready to talk?"

  "Sure."

  Her voice sounded tentative, and she lowered her eyes. With her free hand, she fiddled with her water glass, leaving damp rings on the tablecloth as she turned it. When she looked up, he saw concern in her eyes.

  Philip shifted the tumbler aside and clasped both of her hands in his. "I know I upset you the other night when I said that our kiss was wrong."

  She nodded.

  "You asked why it was wrong. How could a kiss…so wonderful…be wrong?"

  Her jaw tensed as she listened.

  "The kiss wasn't wrong, but…I felt that I was wrong…for you."

  "You're wrong for me?" Her face became distorted. "What are you telling me?"

  From the look on her face, the conversation wasn't going as he wanted, but it was too late to turn back. "I'm not the best man for you, Jemma."

  "You're telling me what's good for me?" Her back straightened as rigid as a post.

  He squeezed her hands. "I know what you've said about age. But…we're talking about seventeen years. You're a young woman. When you're fifty, I'll be sixty-seven. Can't you understand that? I want you to have a wonderful life with a younger man—" he began to panic "—who'll give you children and won't die before they're out of high school."

  She pulled her hands from his grasp and pressed them against the linen cloth. Clasping the table edge, Jemma lifted herself upward and jutted her face closer to his. "It's what I want, Philip, not what you want. Don't you understand?" Looking defeated, she sank back into the seat. "You can't decide my life for me."

  Had he done it again—tried to force his ideas on her? He closed his eyes, hoping to calm his throbbing heart.

  "Besides, I think you have that wrong. Are you talking about love and marriage?" she asked.

  His eyelids snapped open, but she continued before he could find a response.

  "I didn't ask you to love me…or marry me. A kiss is only a kiss."

  "It was more than that to me," Philip murmured.

  Jemma shook her head. "It's not a life commitment."

  Her comment shocked him, and he scrambled to express his feelings. "But maybe it should be."

  She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. "Under whose rules?"

  Philip opened his mouth, then closed it, wondering if again he was pushing his dogma on her. Like his father and Andrew, a fight to the finish. The comparison shot through him. But this was very different. Didn't Jemma hold the same beliefs that he did?

  "You see. You have no answer. It's only how you see it."

  A response tumbled from his mouth. "My rules…and God's."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't think God wants people to play with emotions. It's temptation."

  "My kiss? Temptation? I'm luring you to sin?"

  Her whisper hissed across the table, and he had no idea what to do or what to say. "I'm not accusing you. I'm blaming myself. I'm not perfect."

  "You've made too much out of it, Philip."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The kiss was a thank-you…for your friendship and kindness. For my birthday surprise. Nothing more."

  "Nothing more?" He remembered every detail, the sensations he'd felt, the look in her eyes. He fell back against the chair and peered at her. "No, Jemma, you're avoiding the truth."

  Jemma looked at his face, the hurt in his eyes. She had not been honest—just as he'd said. Her argument was dashed to the ground. "Yes, I'm avoiding the truth." Her heart fluttered at her admission, but she felt calmer telling the truth.

  The tension drained from his face and his mouth curved to a hesitant grin. "You're not saying that to make me happy, are you?"

  She grinned and felt her spirit rise for the first time since they'd begun the conversation. His words from the past filled her mind. "You don't need me to make you happy. I'm sure happiness finds you."

  His amused chuckle filled the air. "I deserved that," he said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Let's get out of here."

  She agreed. What they had to talk about needed to be finished in a different atmosphere.

  Philip flagged the waiter and settled the bill, then rose and held her chair. She stood and followed him through the restaurant and back outside into the evening breeze.

  "Come with me," he said, taking her hand as they passed through the parking lot and guiding her to the beach.

  Sand filled her shoes and Je
mma slipped them off, dropping them near the grass. In stockinged feet, she ran toward the water, letting the waves roll over her toes and drag the shifting earth back into the lake.

  Philip caught her hand and drew her to his side. His eyes sparkled in the dusky light, and she longed to kiss him as she had done the night on the boat. He broke the mood by sliding his arm around her shoulder and moving along the shoreline.

  With slow steps, they walked in silence along the sand, ignoring the water that spattered his pant legs and the hem of her dress.

  When they'd wandered beyond the view of the restaurant porch, he stopped and faced her.

  Jemma waited, her heart skipping like that of a child at recess. But she didn't move. Didn't give an inch.

  His face filled with emotion—hunger, desire, pain, grief. A mixture Jemma didn't understand. His eyes captured hers while he slid his hand up her shoulder, along her jaw to her cheek. His fingers caressed her skin, then tilted her chin upward, and she watched his lips part as he eased his mouth onto hers.

  She held her breath, enjoying the gentle touch, the eagerness of his mouth, his rapid breathing that filled her ears, louder than the rolling waves.

  She caught her own breath as he pressed her against his trembling chest, exploring her back and arms with gentle caresses.

  With a moan, Jemma yielded to his kiss, tossing her concerns aside and allowing her spirit to soar into the night sky.

  When his shoulders relaxed and he drew away with tiny kisses to each lip, she opened her eyes. His smile weakened her knees, and she clung to him for support.

  "This is right, Jemma. For all my fears and concerns, this must be right."

  His last words melted to a sigh, and he kissed her and sent her heavenward again, her feet washed by the waves, her heart bathed in love, and her mind flooded with hope.

  Philip stood outside the door, watching Jemma fill the new morning baskets. She lifted a checked gingham napkin and tucked it inside, slid in today's newspaper, two empty juice bottles, then stopped.

  He grinned when she pulled everything out and started again. She was practicing, he knew, for the baskets' debut, and he was touched by her serious approach to the task.

  Having made his decision after days of mental strain, Philip decided to test the waters of gossip. Always in the past, he'd avoided contact with Jemma at the resort, other than in the safety of his office. Only once, a few days ago in desperation, had he approached her as she worked.

  But the time had come. He'd protected her long enough from rumors and disdainful looks. Since admitting to her and to himself how he felt, he had to be open—candid with the resort staff.

  His explanation bothered him, and he wondered if he had been protecting more than Jemma. Had he feared the community's reaction to his December-

  May romance? Was his pride and reputation holding him back from admitting how he felt?

  The answer, in part, was yes. But now, he didn't care what anyone said. God was on his side, and if Jemma loved him, he wanted nothing more than to spend his life with her.

  He touched the doorknob, and Jemma's eyes shifted toward the sound. When she saw him, a gentle flush rose up her neck, and he saw her look past him beyond his shoulder, afraid, he was sure, that someone would see him.

  He pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. "Indecision or practicing?" He grinned at her expression.

  "I want this to be perfect. I told Latrice and the foods manager that I'd train someone to handle this…so I have to know what I'm doing."

  She draped the gingham over the basket edges again, tucked and poked the items, adding her imaginary sweet rolls, and topping the basket with two more colorful napkins. "There. What do you think?"

  "It's almost as pretty as you are," he said, sliding his arm around her shoulder.

  She pulled back and glanced toward the doorway. "Philip, please, someone will see you."

  "Do I care?"

  A puzzled look shot to her face. "I thought you did. Remember, discretion?"

  "That was years ago," he said. Though their dinner at Bil-Mar's had been only four days earlier, it seemed he'd wanted to shout his feelings from the housetops forever.

  She laughed and gave him a jab. "You have a warped sense of time."

  He did. How long would it have taken for him to face his feelings and admit his personal fears? He loved this woman, and he'd yet to say the words aloud.

  "I don't suppose you came in to watch me fill this basket, did you."

  "No, I came by to invite you upstairs."

  "Upstairs?" She tilted her head with a quizzical look. "Top floor?"

  "Penthouse." He gave her a wink, and his pulse did a two-step.

  "Now?"

  "Tonight."

  "Tonight?"

  "Having problems with your hearing?"

  "No, but…you mean in front of others. Should I stand at your private elevator? Or do you want me to take the emergency stairs?"

  He laughed at her caution; she was nearly as bad as him. "I want you to wear a sign."

  Her face brightened and his spirit soared. He backed away, his hand reaching for the doorknob. "I'll see you tonight."

  She nodded.

  "About seven?"

  "Okay."

  "And don't have dinner."

  Chapter Twelve

  Jemma felt shy standing in front of the bank of elevators. She could hardly believe that Philip had suggested she come up this evening. She'd only been in his apartment the night of the party. Never alone.

  Nervous, she glanced over her shoulder, wondering if someone she knew might ask her what she was doing. What would she say? And how would they react?

  The elevator chimed, and she entered, still not knowing the answers to her "what ifs." She pushed the top button. The door closed and the cage ascended, along with her jitters.

  The door slid open and she stepped into Philip's foyer. Through the archway, she saw his reflection in the broad window. He turned at her footfall and came toward her. Her heels clicked on the marble flooring, and then she stepped into his open arms.

  "Was it so bad?" he asked.

  "No, just a little…weird." She tilted her head upward, and he pressed a quick kiss on the tip of her nose.

  "Join me," he said, guiding her into the living room. "I poured some wine."

  He led her to a large sofa and she sank into its deep cushions. Philip handed her a stemmed glass filled with a crystal-clear wine. She sipped and allowed the tang to lay on her tongue.

  "Good?" Philip asked.

  She nodded, though truly her judgment of wine was poor. Her past had offered little occasion for celebrating. The thought brought a question to mind. What special occasion were they toasting tonight?

  Before she asked, a tantalizing aroma drifted into the room. She drew in the scent. "I smell something wonderful."

  "Dinner," he said.

  "It's here already?"

  "Already?" He looked puzzled.

  "From the kitchen. I assumed you have your meals sent up."

  "You assume wrong, my dear. Tonight, I prepared this myself."

  She fell against the sofa with a grin. "You?"

  "I left my chefs cap in the kitchen." He rose and beckoned her. "You haven't seen my kitchen."

  "I haven't," Jemma said, filled with curiosity. She had no idea if he was serious or teasing, but she followed, pattering behind him into a vast kitchen. Pure white cabinets, floor, walls, appliances.

  "I'd never have the courage," she said, imagining the damage she could do to the pristine room.

  "Soap and water works wonders," he said, grinning. "But you don't think I clean this place myself, do you?"

  The luxury of having a housekeeper and a chef, she could only fantasize about. "What smells so delicious?"

  "My specialty. Thick pork chops cooked in my own special sauce."

  She laughed. "Your own special sauce! It sounds like a fast-food ad."

  "Wait until you taste it."

&n
bsp; He sent her back to the living room while he remained in the kitchen to finish the meal.

  Jemma placed the goblet on a table and wandered through the open French doors. In the rosy glow of the setting sun, she saw the balcony for the first time unhampered by party-goers and darkness. She sat in a wrought-iron chair arranged beside a matching table, and looked out across the water. The view was beautiful—and so was the life, she imagined.

  A few minutes later, Philip's call roused her from her chair and she headed back inside, following the enticing aroma to the dining room. In candlelight, she slivered tender pieces of pork and tasted his rice pilaf mingled with herbs. The meal was delicious—the company, exquisite.

  "More Riesling?" he asked.

  She nodded, and when he filled her glass, she asked the question that had occurred to her earlier. "What are we toasting? Anything special?"

  His gentle smile warmed her more than the wine. "Very special." He lifted his glass.

  "Give me a hint," she said, following his salute.

  "To us."

  The crystal tinkled at their touch.

  Us. The sweet word fluttered through her chest. She recalled making that blatant toast on the boat, but this time the word wrapped around her heart. Still, she longed to know what he meant.

  Jemma finished the scrumptious food quickly on her plate. She placed her knife and fork on the rim and folded her hands. "My compliments to the chef. This was exceptional."

  "I'll give him your message, but we're not finished yet. Dessert and coffee will be served on the balcony."

  Ignoring his protests, she carried the dishes into the kitchen, then he shooed her off while he finished. She wandered outside again, leaning on the railing and enjoying the August breeze. In moments, he came through the doorway.

  "The coffee's on. I thought maybe you'd like to sit a while and watch the sunset."

  "Yes, I would."

  He slipped his arm around her waist and guided her to a cushioned bench.