Always and Forever (12 page)

Wynton Marsalis streamed through her CD player. Jamal’s gut clenched at the memory of that song playing just two nights ago as they’d made love in her bed. He stopped a few feet behind her and waited until she’d stripped a smooth, uniform band of old varnish from the armoire before tapping her on the shoulder.

She gasped and turned, the putty knife slipping from her fingers.

“Good God.” She covered her chest with both hands. “What is it with you sneaking up on me?”

“Why didn’t you show up this morning?” Jamal asked.

She jutted her chin in the air. “Professional emergency,” she answered. “The guy who owns this called me last night and asked if I could get it done right away. He found a buyer for it. He agreed to pay an extra twenty percent for the rush job. I couldn’t pass it up.”

“And it didn’t occur to you to call and let me know you wouldn’t be working at Belle Maison today?”

She shrugged. “Guess I forgot. You know how that is, don’t you?”

His entire body tensed. He forced himself to swallow the temper that flared at her flippant jab.

“I’m sorry,” Phylicia said with a slight grimace. “That was uncalled for. I’m usually not this petty. And definitely not this unprofessional.”

He didn’t want her apology; he just wanted to know where they stood.

“Be straight with me, Phylicia. Are you pulling out of the job?” Jamal asked, his chest tightening painfully as he anticipated her answer.

“No,” she said. “I agreed to work on the house.” She stooped to pick up the putty knife that had fallen when he’d startled her, then stood and faced him again. “However, I am requesting a couple of days off so I can get this armoire done. I usually wouldn’t leave in the middle of one job to work on another, but this antiques dealer is new to the area. If I can make a good impression on this job, there’s potential for more work.”

Jamal crossed his arms over his chest. “And you’re not going to just find another project to work on after you’re done with the armoire?”

“No,” she stated. “That’s not how I operate. And frankly, I need the money you’re paying me.”

“So that’s the only reason you’re staying on?” he asked. “Because of the money?”

She looked up at him, the indifference in her expression slicing through him. “Isn’t that why we all work?” she asked.

“Not everyone.”

“Unlike some people, I don’t have the luxury of picking and choosing when I want to work. Now, do you have a problem with me taking a few days off?”

“What if I do?” he challenged.

Her lips thinned into a tight, angry line. “Then I guess I’ll have to tell my other client that he’ll have to wait. I don’t want word getting out that Phillips’ Home Restoration doesn’t complete a job. My reputation is everything to me.”

Jamal nearly choked on the anger climbing up his throat. “You know I would never say anything to hurt your business,” he bit out.

“You also said you wouldn’t tear down my mother’s room. I’m not sure I’m willing to risk my professional reputation on your word.”

Jamal clamped down on the retort that nearly spewed from his mouth. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.

Then again, there was nothing left to say. The damage was done, and likely irreparable.

He stared at her for several long moments, his chest developing a painful ache as she stared back with more animosity in her brown eyes than he’d ever been subjected to. Maybe her staying away for a few days was a good thing. He couldn’t take her looking at him with such bitter resentment.

“Finish your armoire,” he said. “I can take care of the Victorian.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just nodded and turned back to the piece of furniture.

Jamal stood in the shop several moments longer, deciding whether he should apologize yet again. But what had his previous apologies gotten him but more of her extremely cold shoulder? She was still too raw. Maybe after a few days, after she’d had time to move past her anger over the room, he could get her to see reason.

Chapter 11

F
or the next two days Jamal poured everything he had into working on the B&B. He arrived at Belle Maison an hour earlier than usual and stayed well after the contractors departed. By the end of the day he was too exhausted to do anything but shower and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The quicker he got the work done on the house, the less time he’d have to deal with Phylicia’s stony attitude when she returned.
If
she returned. He fully expected her to come up with another excuse to stay away.

He was installing the new fixtures in the downstairs bathroom when he heard a truck pulling into the driveway. He was instantly ashamed for thinking she would back out of the job. When it came to her work, Phylicia kept her word.

He was the one who hadn’t. But, dammit, it wasn’t his fault!

Jamal walked out onto the porch to find Phylicia getting her tools out of the back of her truck. He’d try for a bit of civility; maybe then he could smooth things over and regain some ground with her.

“Good morning,” Jamal said.

“Good morning,” she answered, and moved right past him.

Jamal closed his eyes and let his chin fall to his chest.
So much for that.

The rest of the day inched by in an excruciating stretch of long hours that were peppered with awkward silences and the occasional monosyllabic response whenever he asked her a question. The only time she spoke more than one word to him was when he asked her if she wanted to stop for lunch.

“I didn’t bring my lunch with me,” she told him.

“You want to go to Jessie’s? My treat,” Jamal offered.

“No, thanks. I’ll just go home.” She turned away from him and went back to work. Twenty minutes later, she climbed into her pickup truck and left him to eat alone.

Jamal sat on his truck’s lowered tailgate, eating the ham sandwich he’d packed. He tried not to think of the lunches he and Phylicia had shared in this very spot, but that was like asking the sun not to come up. He thought about her constantly. But it was the things they had done together sans clothing that occupied his mind more than anything else.

“Damn, this is messed up,” Jamal said. He forced himself to swallow several more bites of his sandwich, purely for sustenance. His appetite had been nonexistent these past couple of days.

He couldn’t go on like this much longer. Something had to give.

Maybe once they were no longer occupying the same uncomfortable space his life could regain a semblance of normalcy. With that goal in mind, Jamal gathered the remnants of his lunch and headed for the house. The sooner the bed-and-breakfast was finished, the better off he’d be. He cranked up the volume on his iPod speaker deck and returned to working on the downstairs bathroom.

He heard Phylicia’s truck pull into the driveway, but he didn’t bother to acknowledge her return from lunch. He had his work; she had hers. If this was how she wanted it, they could get their jobs done without speaking for the duration of this project.

* * *

Using her smallest chisel, Phil carved the dirt that had built up in the crevices of the ornately carved banister with painstaking gentleness. This would be, by far, the most time-consuming aspect of her work on the Victorian, and unlike the wainscoting, unfortunately, it was immovable.

Over the past three weeks, she’d hauled whatever she could back to her workshop, preferring to work there instead of suffering under the weight of Jamal’s brooding stares. The air between them was thick with tension, the silences louder than she could have ever thought possible.

Phil had come to the conclusion that the destruction of her mother’s painting room had, more than likely, been a mistake. But it didn’t change anything between them. Jamal was, first and foremost, a client. Getting involved with him had been foolhardy and dangerous. She was a professional, and professionals could not make such colossal errors in judgment if they wanted their businesses to succeed.

Of course, if she was a
real
professional, she never would have put herself in such an awkward work situation in the first place.

Phil heard the footsteps seconds before Jamal arrived in the foyer. She studied him through the slim balusters of the banister from her vantage point at the top of the stairs. His shoulders were rigid, as they had been for the past few weeks. Neither of them had been able to relax much.

She watched him lay out his tools on the floor, then drop to his haunches to shuffle through them.

Despite all the reasons she shouldn’t, she had the strongest urge to walk downstairs, wrap her arms around his waist and beg him to come home with her right now. She missed the banter they shared. She missed the feel of his naked skin against hers.

“You are pathetic,” she whispered.

Her cell phone rang, startling her. Jamal’s head turned sharply, and he caught her staring down at him. Phil quickly pulled back from the banister, her phone nearly falling out of her hands as she clumsily pulled it from her pocket.

“Hello,” she answered in a rushed breath.

As the person on the other side of the line spoke, Phil felt the blood drain from her face.

“I’ll be right there,” she said. Dropping everything, she raced down the stairs. “I have to go,” she called over her shoulder as she jerked open the front door.

“Wait! What’s going on?” Jamal grabbed her by the arm. “What’s wrong?”

“It was Mossy Oaks. There’s been some type of incident with my mom. I need to get over there.” Phil realized she was shaking from head to toe, but she couldn’t help it.

“I’ll come with you,” Jamal said.

She shook her head. “No, that’s okay.”

“You’re not driving like this, Phylicia. Don’t waste time arguing with me.”

“Fine,” Phil said. “Hurry.”

While he closed and locked the front door, Phil ran to her truck, cranking over the ignition with a violent turn.

“Move to the other side,” Jamal said, opening the driver’s side door.

She started to protest again, but Phil knew he was right. Her shaking hands would probably steer them clear off the road if she tried to drive. She scooted over to the passenger side and leaned her head back against the headrest as Jamal backed out of the driveway. She closed her eyes and concentrated on taking deep breaths as they headed south on Highway 21 toward Slidell.

“What did the person on the phone say?” Jamal asked.

“Just that she had a violent episode,” Phil answered. “She’s never done that before.”

“Didn’t you tell me once before that the facility she’s in is one of the best for treating her form of dementia?”

“Yes, they are.”
Thank goodness,
Phil thought.

“Which means you should stop worrying,” Jamal interjected. “Your mother is in good hands, right?”

“Right,” Phil said.

He reached over and held out his right hand. Phil hesitated for a moment before clasping it, and she was overwhelmed by the sense of relief that engulfed her. She held on to Jamal’s hand like the lifeline it was, finding strength in his solid, comforting grip.

They made the drive in just under twenty minutes. Phil hopped out of the truck and half walked, half jogged to the entrance, leaving Jamal to follow. The receptionist’s usually cheerful greeting had a layer of concern draped over it.

“Evelyn, where is she?” Phil asked the receptionist.

“She’s in the infirmary,” she said. “Have a seat and I’ll call Dr. Beckman. He asked to be informed as soon as you arrived.”

“Is she okay?” Phil asked.

“She’s better.” Evelyn nodded. “Just wait here.”

Phil wrapped her arms around her waist. It took everything she had within her to keep from doubling over in fear. Her mother was all she had left, and on most days all Sabina Phillips had was her body. Her mind had long ago recessed to places that Phil rarely reached.

She could not stomach the thought of anything happening to her mother. She was shouldering so much already. Life could not be this cruel.

Phil’s body hummed with awareness seconds before a set of warm arms surrounded her. She didn’t even try to pull away. She just closed her eyes and soaked in the strength and security that enveloped her.

“Do you want to sit down?” Jamal whispered in her ear.

She shook her head, her throat too filled with emotion to utter a single word. They stood in the lobby for several minutes, the soft blue, green and light brown decor calming her, the refuge she found in Jamal’s embrace bringing her an overwhelming peace. But when she spotted Dr. Timothy Beckman striding down the hallway, Phil tore away from Jamal’s hold and headed for the facility’s young director.

“Hello, Ms. Phillips,” the man greeted, his slim, serene face looking less worried than she’d anticipated. Phil took that as a good sign.

“What happened with my mom?” she asked.

“She had a bit of an episode,” Dr. Beckman said. “Can we talk about this in my office?”

“Can’t I see her first?”

“Soon,” he said. “The nurses are helping her change her clothing. They’ll call my office as soon as they are done. Shall we go there to discuss what happened?”

Phil nodded. Dr. Beckman hesitated for a moment, looking beyond her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she said. “He can come with me.” She turned to Jamal. “That is, if you want to.”

“Of course,” he said, taking her hand and threading their fingers together. He gave her a firm squeeze, and Phil nearly crumbled to the ground in gratitude.

How could she have ever compared this man to Kevin, who would change the subject whenever Phil even mentioned her mother? Kevin didn’t even know the name of this place, nor had he ever shown any interest in joining her when Phil had visited. Jamal Johnson was nothing like Kevin Winters.

Studying his profile, she realized he was unlike any of the men she’d dated in the past. Phil latched on to the comfort he offered, grateful she didn’t have to go through this alone.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He glanced her way, and with a nod and an understanding smile, he simply said, “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Jamal held Phylicia’s hand while the director of Mossy Oaks explained how her mother had violently pitched a glass vase against the wall in the residents’ common area and disrupted a food cart laden with hot lunches. Dr. Beckman saw it as a sign that her mother’s dementia was worsening.

“Patients become more aggressive as the disease progresses,” he remarked.

“But this is so unlike her.” Phylicia pressed a balled fist to her lips. “My mother has the gentlest soul of anyone I know.”

“Remember we talked about this?” Dr. Beckman asked. “As the disease worsens, she will become less and less like her old self.”

“I knew it was inevitable. I’ve read every article I could find on early-onset dementia.” She shook her head. “It’s just so hard to see it happening and know there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

The slight tremble in her voice hit Jamal’s chest like the sharp point of a javelin to his heart. He had to fight the urge to bring her hand to his lips and press a gentle kiss to her fingers. He settled for giving it another reassuring squeeze.

Dr. Beckman’s desk phone rang. He picked it up, listened for a moment and said, “Thank you, Rebecca,” before hanging up.

“Mrs. Phillips is back in her room. You still want to see her?”

“Of course,” Phylicia said, springing up from the chair and leading the way out of the office. Jamal had to lengthen his stride just to keep up with her. As they approached the door to what he assumed was her mother’s room, she glanced down at their joined hands then at him.

“Do you want to stay out here?” she asked.

“Only if you want me to,” he answered.

She remained silent for several heartbeats before she said, “I’d like you to come in.”

A strange feeling blossomed in Jamal’s chest—a mixture of gladness, relief and a hint of fear that he couldn’t fully describe. He swallowed, nodded and gripped her hand tighter as he followed her into the room.

Phylicia gave the door two sharp raps with her knuckle before easing it open.

“Mom?” she called with a soft voice.

They entered a comfortable-size room with a bed, television, two nightstands done in dark wood and a small seating area set up in front of a large window.

A woman, who looked so much like Phylicia that there could be no mistaking they were mother and daughter, sat in one of the high-backed chairs.

“Agatha?” the woman asked.

“Yes, Sabina, it’s me,” Phylicia said. She let go of his hand and made it to her mother’s side in three strides.

Jamal held himself back, stopping just inside the door. The nurse who had been hovering next to Phylicia’s mother walked toward where Jamal and Dr. Beckman stood.

“Is she okay?” Jamal asked.

The nurse nodded. “Especially now that Phylicia is here. Mrs. Phillips loves it when she visits, even though she mistakes her for her baby sister.”

“Good work, Rebecca,” Dr. Beckman said. He addressed Jamal. “I’ll leave you all to visit. Use the call button next to the bed if you need anything.”

Jamal nodded his thanks and shut the door behind the two as they exited, but he didn’t move closer to Phylicia. He stood sentry at the door while she and her mother spoke in soft tones. Their closeness was evident in the way Phylicia gently caressed her mother’s hand and the older woman smoothed the stray locks of hair away from Phylicia’s face.

The ache that had pulsed in Jamal’s chest grew tighter as he observed the mother and daughter. Unsurprisingly, his mind drifted to his own mother and how much he’d missed seeing her this past year.

The closeness he once shared with his mother and younger sister was, by far, the greatest casualty in this fallout between him and his dad. Not a single day went by that he didn’t think about them.

Pride wouldn’t allow him to admit to missing anything about his dad. As a father he had been sufficient but mostly missing in action, sacrificing time with his family in order to build his empire. As a boss he had been barely tolerable.

Jamal had always had a hard time separating the father from the CEO. His mother’s unwavering support was given without question, but his father’s approval had always had strings attached. It required blind allegiance to his ideals, and any opposition to his way of thinking was considered insurrection.