Loving Treasures

by Gail Gaymer Martin

  She scurried to him. "The dog didn't bite you, did he?"

  Philip gave a lighthearted chuckle. "No, just distracted me." He glanced around at the young man. "I thought we ought to get going. I'm getting hungry, aren't you?"

  "Now that you mention it, yes." She wrapped her arm around his and headed across the grass.

  He wanted to uncouple his arm from hers, fearing the fellow was watching and wondering why a "father and daughter" looked so cozy. Shame rustled through Philip's mind. If Jemma wasn't ashamed, why should he be?

  Instead of finding an excuse to free himself, he squeezed her hand and sent up a prayer that God would teach him to be concerned about things of importance and enjoy the love that Jemma offered so openly.

  Jemma looked out the window, waiting for Philip. Tonight was the Chamber of Commerce icebreaker, and her nerve endings knotted with anxiety. For the past couple of days, Philip had been trying to hide something, but Jemma sensed something was wrong.

  Their day at the park had been wonderful, but when they stopped to eat, Philip became withdrawn, as if his thoughts were miles away. She'd asked, but as always he denied that he was troubled. He'd wasted his time trying to soothe her with denials. Jemma had gotten to know him better than he knew himself. He wasn't fooling her at all, and she planned to get to the bottom of his distress. She prayed it wasn't something she had done.

  Jemma glanced down at her outfit, tan slacks and jacket with a black silk tunic. It would do. Casual yet dressy. She hoped Philip approved. As always, a few wispy curls had escaped as she pulled back her hair with a black scrunchee.

  Hearing Philip's car pull into the driveway, she grabbed her shoulder bag and headed down the stairs, eager to begin the evening.

  When she opened the front door, Philip met her on the porch. He stepped back, a pleased look brightening his face. "You look great." He touched her shoulder and ran his finger along the collar of her jacket, then caught an unruly curl and tucked it behind her ear.

  She stepped back, brushing her hands down the jacket to the trousers. "Are you sure this is okay? I didn't know how casual was casual…if you know what I mean."

  His sweet smile sent her pulse jumping.

  "Perfect. Casual, but elegant. You always look good to me," he said.

  "You don't look too bad yourself." He looked perfect to her in his navy-blue slacks and a mock turtleneck under his carmel-colored sport coat.

  "Thanks. I accept all compliments." His warm smile burrowed through her chest while he slid his arm around her waist and guided her to the car.

  As they drove across town, Jemma longed to ask him about his problem—what was it that troubled him, but the time didn't seem right. Instead, she talked about Claire's latest antics and the wonderful comments she'd received from guests since launching the morning baskets.

  He listened and offered brief comments, but she knew he was distracted. Tonight would be stressful for Philip. The party was her debut on his arm. She was his date. His younger woman.

  She wanted to say she didn't care what people thought, but she did. Anything that wounded Philip tore at her, too. When his face flinched with concern and his tender eyes filled with hurt, the same emotions surged through Jemma, as if they were connected by a thin cord of shared emotions. She'd seen her own fear and despair in Philip's eyes too often not to acknowledge the phenomenon.

  In the parking lot, Philip turned off the motor, and Jemma stepped from the car with her most charming smile, prepared for the worst. Leers and snide comments she hoped she could handle. Sticks and stones can break my bones—the childhood rhyme bounced through her mind. But could she handle Philip's stress tonight?

  When he opened the hall door and she stepped inside, determination pushed Jemma forward. With a smile plastered on her face, she captured Philip's arm and marched into the room.

  Philip paused for a moment, then gave a wave and moved forward, nodding to individuals as he passed. "Don," Philip said, extended his hand, "it's good to see you."

  "It's been too long," the man said, his eyes focused on Jemma. "And who is this lovely young lady?"

  "This is my friend, Jemma Dupre."

  "Don Bratten," he said, shaking Jemma's hand. "It's nice you could come. You have a new business in town?"

  His question ruffled Jemma. "No, Philip and I are friends."

  "Ooh." He flashed Philip a devious smile. "My wife couldn't make it. She's the president of the PTA." He shrugged. "Their meeting is tonight."

  "You have children, then," Jemma said, trying to think of something to shift the conversation.

  "Two kids. Son and daughter. Elementary school. And you?" Don asked.

  "None." She wanted to say none yet, but the comment was too presumptuous and far too intimate.

  "Someday, I hope," he said, his gaze shifting from Jemma to Philip. He grabbed Philip's arm, giving it a good-old-boy shake. "You look great, Philip. What have you been up to?" He shifted his focus again to Jemma and back to Philip.

  Jemma wanted to crawl away. Had she heard an innuendo in his tone, or was it her imagination? She moved back a couple of steps and braced herself against an empty chair.

  Philip glanced her way before answering Don. "Listen, I need to take care of the lady here. We'll talk later." He gripped the man's shoulder and turned to Jemma.

  "Let's get a drink, and I'll introduce you to some of the others."

  Jemma followed, but wanted to run out the door and save him the emotional trauma of introductions. No matter how she took Don's comments and looks, she felt on display. And she was sure Philip felt more miserable than she.

  At the bar, she asked for a tonic with lime, and took a sip while Philip ordered his drink. When they walked away, she caught his sleeve. "Listen, I could say I'm ill and we can leave. I don't want to put you through this."

  Philip saw the reeling emotions on her face— panic, hurt, confusion—and his frustration rose. He had been as guilty as Don. Why hadn't he said, "This is my lady friend?" My lady. She was his lady not his "lady friend," and he wasn't going to let a stranger in the park or an associate with his mind in the sewer ruin a relationship that he'd nearly destroyed himself.

  Her concerned expression powered his resolve. "Absolutely not. I've looked forward to this day."

  Though he'd exaggerated, at the moment Philip meant every word. He slipped his arm around her waist and guided her across the room to a small cluster of businesspeople he'd known for years.

  This time he did it right. "This is my lady, Jemma Dupre," he said to the group in general, and then introduced Jemma one by one.

  Maybe their looks of acceptance were only wishful thinking on his part, but he didn't believe so. Each seemed gracious. When he introduced Jemma to the owner of the town bookstore, Gracie Dobson extended her hand with a lovely smile.

  "Jemma, how nice to meet you. I've wondered why this handsome man never had a beautiful woman on his arm. Today I can stop asking." She leaned over and gave Jemma a hug.

  A sweet flush bathed Jemma's creamy complexion, and her smile seemed as natural as a spring rain.

  The rest of the evening passed with laughs and welcomes to the guests, and no one said a word, until Don cornered Philip again when he was alone getting a soft drink.

  "You old so-and-so," Don said, a leering grin on his face. "Where'd you pick up that young chick?" Don squeezed his upper arm again with an irritating shake. "You enjoying the young stuff?"

  Slowly, Philip shifted his eyes from the man's grip to his face. "I didn't pick her up, Don. God sent her to me. She's terrific."

  "I'll bet she is."

  Tension shot up Philip's back and he knotted his fist.

  Don dropped his hand and closed his gaping mouth. "Listen, buddy, I didn't mean to offend—"

  "And enjoying isn't the word," Philip said. "I cherish her, and I'd like her to be my wife…only I haven't asked her yet."

  "Hey, man," Don said, his face sheet white, "I'm sorry, and I wish you both the best. She's
beautiful, and I was a slob to say anything."

  "You were, Don, but I have to forgive a man who recognizes a beautiful woman when he sees one." He turned away, not wanting to waste his breath to explain that Jemma was even more lovely on the inside.

  Heading back to Jemma, Philip's pulse surged as he realized what he had said. I'd like her to be my wife. Tonight was the first time he'd allowed his heart to speak what he'd felt for so long. His mind whirred with thoughts. He'd propose, but when? What was the right place and time? And Claire. He should talk with Claire. He had many questions and concerns to sort out. She was Jemma's closest family, and it seemed only right.

  He headed back to Jemma feeling on top of the world.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A warm sunny breeze turned the September afternoon into an Indian summer evening. Philip entered the boutique from the front, hoping that Claire was ready to close the shop. He wanted to talk in private, uninterrupted by customers.

  When he opened the door, the bell's tinkle brought Claire in from the back room. "Philip, it's you. Good. I was afraid it was a customer. I'm getting ready to close."

  "Then, I timed it right." He gave her a hug. "Do you have time to talk?"

  "Sure. What's up?" She looked into his eyes, then clutched the doorjamb. Her face filled with worry. "It's not Andrew, is it? Did something happen—?"

  "No, it's not Andrew. I haven't heard from him since my birthday dinner. I just want to talk."

  "Whew, you scared me." She arched a penciled brow and grinned. "I hope I haven't missed a loan payment."

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "We're not talking about you. It's about me…and Jemma."

  She spun around, her hands clasped near her chest and an eager smile on her lips. "You and Jemma? Well, praise the Lord. Maybe he does listen to this old gal."

  He didn't comment. Instead, he walked to the front door, turned the lock and flipped over the Closed sign.

  Claire gave the shop a once-over, and when he reached her by the side door, she snapped off the light and he followed her up the stairs.

  "So what's this about?" she asked, huffing as she climbed the steps, peeking occasionally over her shoulder as if he were a fish she feared might escape.

  "From that grin on your face, you know what it's about," Philip said, springing up the steps behind her and feeling younger than he had in years.

  At the top, she swung around. "Does Jemma know you're here?"

  He shook his head. "No. But she will soon."

  Her look lifted his spirits. Though he had assumed Claire would be pleased, his old inner fear nagged at him, and once in a while his confidence flagged. Sometimes Philip wondered if God was really guiding his path or if it was his desire.

  "Sit," Claire said as they entered the kitchen. "How about some coffee?"

  "Sounds good, but nothing to eat. I'm taking Jemma out to dinner."

  Filling the coffeemaker, Claire fluttered at the counter, her arms and mouth racing like thoroughbreds in a derby.

  "This has been my dream, Philip." She flashed him a smile. "I tried to drop hints to Jemma that you'd make a good husband, but you know Jemma."

  He did, and he nodded, but Claire rattled on.

  "She had this need to be independent. I guess I can't blame her when I think back…"

  Philip's mind drifted to the first day he had laid eyes on Jemma. She had been standing on the ladder, her face turned away, but from behind he had seen her delicate figure and her quaking knees.

  He'd climbed up behind Jenna and grabbed her waist, and his heart had turned to jelly when she spun around. He'd tried not to laugh at the determination in her eyes as she pushed him away with one hand while clinging to the rung with the other.

  "What's so funny?" Claire asked.

  Philip jumped at her question. "Jemma. Your description tickled me."

  "Oh," she said, "I thought you weren't listening."

  He knew he'd better tune in before she gave him a quiz.

  Claire rested her elbows on the table and folded her hands together as if in prayer. "So now…tell me about you and Jemma."

  He realized she'd slid a cup of black coffee in front of him and another with milk for herself. Philip picked up the mug and took a sip.

  "First, I came for your blessing, Claire, but…to be honest it's more than that." He stared at the cup, afraid to see the look in her eyes. "No matter how you cut it, I'm old enough to be Jemma's father."

  "Philip, don't be ridiculous. There's age, and then there's age. You're young at heart. You're a handsome, virile, generous man, whether you think it or not. Did you ever take look at yourself? If not, you should. You might be pleasantly surprised."

  Her comment had a ring of familiarity. Ian had said something similar. But he needed more than a compliment. When he focused on Claire's face, he recognized sincerity. She wasn't just trying to make him feel better. He lowered his head.

  "I suppose I ought to take a gander."

  When he lifted his eyes, her face had darkened, and she gripped his forearm. "Philip…you're not telling me…that you have, uh, problems, are you? I mean are you worried that you…can't—"

  Philip loosed a loud, shocked guffaw. "Oh, Claire, no." Heat flew to his face. Why would she think such a thing?

  "I'm sorry, but you've moped about old age since I came to Loving. I thought maybe that's what was worrying you." She swept her hands toward the ceiling. "How was I to know?"

  Nervous laughter punctuated his sentence. "When you come right down to it, Claire, you shouldn't know…but I'm telling you that all of me functions well. I'm only fifty."

  "Ah-ha," she exclaimed, "I'm glad you finally realize that."

  Philip gaped at her, letting her words sink in. "You got me, Claire. I had no idea where you were leading me."

  "I'm leading you home, Philip. Home to a young woman's arms."

  Her face glowed like an angel's. She might be an exotic angel, but she was one just the same. "I'm hoping she'll accept me. I'd be lost if she—"

  Claire's face filled with understanding. "She's nearly as dumb as you are, but I think when you ask the question you'll hear the answer you want." She lifted her cup and took a lengthy sip of coffee, watching him over the rim of the cup. "I think her fear was your faith. Never your age. And now she knows you're a Christian."

  Philip nodded. "I hope she does."

  "She does. Lyle Junior was a con-artist…like his father, I'm sorry to say. Jemma and I were both duped, but we stuck with them, hoping for change, hoping for some intangible fluke to make things right. We ladies don't give up easy."

  Philip prayed Claire was correct. How could he go on if Jemma gave up on him?

  "Jemma's as stubborn as a mule, but she's also very faithful," Claire said. "And you can't say that about all women."

  "Or men." His memory drifted back to men he knew who had cheated on their wives. He'd cheated on his wife, but with his work and ambition, not with another woman.

  "So what else bothers you? I see it on your face."

  Philip moved the mug around on the table, his mind organizing his thoughts, trying to put his finger on the fears that had come so close to harnessing his feelings for Jemma.

  Finally he opened his mouth and revealed his list of fears—being a good husband, showing Jemma the love and attention she deserved, fathering children that he would be able to see grow into adults.

  When he finished, Claire didn't respond. She rose and left the room, leaving Philip to stare after her, concerned and speechless.

  In a heartbeat, she came through the doorway with a Bible in her hand. "I never read this much until recently," she said, "but since it's fresh in my mind, I'd like to read you something."

  Philip blew out a slow stream of breath and leaned back against the chair, chiding himself for the thought that Claire had turned her back on him.

  "This doesn't answer every question, but it does a pretty good." She flipped through the crisp pages until she jammed her f
inger against one. "Right here in First Corinthians—the most beautiful words I've ever read. 'Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.'"

  She paused and gave him a long knowing look before she continued. '"It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. When perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.'"

  Philip gasped and dragged in a deep breath.

  "Ever hear that before?" Claire asked.

  "At weddings, I suppose."

  "Couples should read this every night before going to bed and before going to work in the morning. Love has nothing to do with age or fears. It has to do with actions," she pressed her palm against her chest, "and what's in your heart."

  His thoughts drifted over the words. Patient, kind, protects, trusts. He'd tried to show all those things to Jemma and more. He pictured their laughter, their love of nature, their tender looks and gentle touches.

  "And here's the crux, Philip. 'When perfection comes, the imperfect disappears.'"

  Claire had nailed it. When Jemma came into his life, God had given him another chance at perfection. Though his humanness had clung to his flaws and faults, he didn't have to face those anymore. Not with Jemma…and not with God.

  He took Claire's hand. "Thank you. This talk is worth a million dollars to me. That loan of yours is paid in full."

  Her eyes widened and her head shook like a weather vane in a gale. "No, Philip, I wouldn't think of it."

  "Yes. Claire, and I won't hear another word. I'll tear up your checks if you send them. Trust me."

  She lifted her eyes. "Okay…but then let me add another two cents' worth…about the children."

  Philip chuckled. "Two cents? I suppose you want change?"

  She shooed away his comment. "Your father was eighty when he died. Now, if that's any sign, you'll have plenty of time to watch those little ones grow into adulthood." A deep laugh rumbled from her chest "In fact, about the time they're teenagers, you'll probably wish God hadn't granted you quite so many years."