Chapter 11
For the next two days, Jamal poured everything he had into working on the B maybe then he could smooth things over and regain some ground with her.
“Good morning,” he 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. It 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,” he 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 Bluetooth speaker 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 were 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 cellphone 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,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, that’s okay.”
“You’re not driving like this, Phylicia. Don’t waste time arguing with me.”
“Fine,” she said. “Hurry.”
While he closed and locked the front door, Phil ran to her truck, cranking 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?” he 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, it is.” Thank goodness, she thought.
“Which means you should stop worrying,” he replied. “Your mother is in good hands, right?”
“Right,” Phil said.
He reached over and held out his right hand. She hesitated for a moment before clasping it, and 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 a half-hour. 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.
“She’s in the infirmary,” the receptionist 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 décor 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 her, his slim, serene face looking less worried than she’d anticipated. She 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 she mentioned her mother? Kevin didn’t even know the name of this place, nor had he ever shown any interest in joining her when she 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.”