And Kevin had said, “I saw a picture of you in a book” not, as she had thought and wondered at, a magazine in which Gypsy had appeared as a model, but a photo album in which Catherine was pictured. Of course! She rocked back and forth with pain, clenching her jaws until they ached along with her heart. And that, too, was why Kevin Saunders so closely resembled Kevin Gaynor.
Kevin Gaynor and his sister had looked very much alike. Kevin Saunders resembled them both, so did not follow that Gypsy, too, might well be the image of Catherine, mother of Lance’s son?
Shivering with cold and reaction, Gypsy slipped under the covers and buried her face in the thin pillow, knowing she was going to weep, and trying not to. No matter what it cost her she must put a stop to all the tears until she was completely alone and far from Lance. That thought brought added pain and she bit her knuckles until the blood ran warm and salty into her mouth.
Oh, lord! I have to sleep! I have to stop all this thinking and wondering and aching. Gypsy slipped from her bed and took one of Lance’s pills, washing it down with the remains of the water she had pumped for him.
But it took time for the drug to release its sedation into her system and in that time the tears she had been unable to control took their toll and when at last she slept, it was with a puffy face pressed into a damp pillow and a soggy blanket pulled up around her shoulders, which ached from weeping.
~ * ~
Lance emerged slowly from his drugged sleep and inched his eyes open to the gray light of dawn. He lay quietly thinking for some time as, now and then an incredibly happy smile crossed his face until, at length, he climbed silently from his bunk and lit the fire to boil the kettle, working stealthily. Kevin, who’d had an unaccustomed late night, lay curled in a small, tight ball, his back to the room, and all was still and silent behind Gypsy’s curtain. Somewhere nearby a bird trilled, to be joined by others until the dawn chorus was at full swing.
When the coffee was ready, with a smile, Lance carried a cup toward the curtain and then, with a quick, flashing grin, set it on the floor and went out into the damp morning, paused for a moment to look at the dismal gray fog which hung like dirty sheets round the treetops. So much for the squall having blown in better weather. He bent and picked a handful of delicate, pinky purple wild geraniums, added a few sprigs of wild grasses and returned to the cabin.
Pushing the curtain aside, he bent, and would’ve dropped a kiss on the sleeping face half obscured by the pillow, but was stopped by the sight of swollen eye-lids, a tear-stained, puffy cheek, the scar more prominent than it should be, and the shuddering sobs which even yet disturbed Gypsy’s breathing. Drawing in a breath over suddenly bared teeth, a frown creasing his brow, Lance backed away, letting the curtain fall. He poured the mug of coffee back into the pot and walked outside to sit on the steps under the watery sun which was just breaking through the shrouds of fog. He covered his face with his hands.
What went wrong? he asked himself. What made his Gypsy spend the night weeping? Was it all a mistake on her part? Did she did she weep from guilt, from remorse? Was it simply a case of getting carried away by passion? If that was all it was for her… And the thought cut through him sharply, if that’s all it was and she doesn’t know how to tell me… But I was so sure! So sure!
He got up then, returned his cup to the cabin and strode away, hands in pockets, head down, deep in gloomy thoughts.
When Gypsy arose sometime later there was no sign of Lance beyond a dirty mug on the table and some wilted blossoms on the floor. These last she attributed to Kevin, who had been up and out long before she awoke. She put them in water, hoping he wouldn’t notice how bedraggled they were, and that they’d revive.
She was tidying the kitchen area when Lance returned to stand hesitantly in the doorway, outlined by the thin sunlight. “Oh!” she said, her heart coming to an abrupt stop and starting again with slow, painful throbs she looked up from her task of wiping the top of the counter adjacent to the stove. “Want more coffee? How’s the head?”
He doesn’t remember! she thought, while her head went light with relief and heart tore and shredded at the knowledge he had forgotten something as earth-shaking as what she’d discovered about herself and her feelings for him.
“Thanks,” he said huskily, accepting the cup which she offered him and slumping to a chair, one bare foot up on the rung of the chair opposite him. “Where’s Kevin?”
“Oh, out and around,” Gypsy replied as breezily as she could, flipping the dishcloth over the rail by the sink. “I went to find him and called him in for breakfast half an hour ago. After he finished, I told him I’d be out as soon as I finished up in here, so I better get going.”
Lance regarded her unhappily for a moment, pulling at his bottom lip. “No. Have a coffee with me. I think we should talk.”
Gypsy gave him a wary look, but poured herself a cup and perched on the edge of the table, one long leg swinging, giving her an attitude of relaxation belied by the grip her fingers had on the hot mug in her two hands. She watched him obliquely, through curtain of shining hair. “Go ahead,” she told him presently.
“About last night… First an apology for the way I spoke to you when you came out looking for me, and second…” He swallowed hard, reached out and flicked the hair back from her face, exposing the scar to the cruel light of morning,. He did not like the stubborn set of her mouth which had been so sweet, the downcast eyes which only a few hours before had glowed into his with what seemed to be so much truth and love.
Oh, my God! Gypsy thought, he does remember and he does regret it. He’s going to apologize for the rest of it, too. This, she knew she would be unable to bear. With a half bitter little laugh and a deprecatory shake of her head, she brought the concealing hair down around her face again. “Heavens! Don’t worry about last night. You weren’t responsible.” She slipped off the table and dumped her coffee in the sink, pumping furiously to rinse out the mug, splashing water on the floor. This gave her an opportunity for more activity. She stooped lithely and began to mop it up. “In my line of work I’ve been forced to cope with more than my share of amorous drunks, and really, Lance, that’s exactly what happened to you. What with pain and exhaustion, your pills reacted on you the way five or six stiff drinks might have. It certainly wasn’t your fault and don’t think for a minute I’m angry, or that I blame you. It was really rather… sweet. And funny.”
When she stood, Lance was also on his feet, cornering her between the sink and the stove, blocking off any avenue of escape while his eyes, more gray than green, looked intently into hers, causing, as did his voice when he next spoke, tremors to run along her bones
“Then why did you cry half the night?” he shot at her, not touching, but giving her the distinct feeling that she was surrounded by a power she could not hope to escape. Or to understand.
“How did… What are you talking about?” she asked, startled. “I mean—what gave you that idea?” He had been deeply asleep. She knew he had.
“How do I know? I looked in on you when I first got up and while I may be a lot of things, Gypsy, I’m neither stupid nor blind, and can recognize the traces of tears on a woman’s face when I see them. Now, why?”
She tilted her chin to a hostile angle. “I can’t see that’s any of your business.”
“Gypsy…” She heard a distinct warning in his tone. “It is my business. What happened between us last night makes it my business.”
“Nothing of any importance happened between us.”
“Nothing?” He raised his brows.
“I said ‘nothing of importance’.” Gypsy stressed the last word strongly and when his fingers bit into her shoulders, she trembled.
Lance, feeling her shudder, knew then why she had wept, and let his hands fall to his sides, thinking she had shuddered from revulsion, believing that her lowered eyes concealed the shame she must be feeling.
Gypsy, through her lashes, saw the look of deep sadness on his face and thought it
was caused by the pity she had not wanted from him, and knew it when he spoke, slowly and patiently, as if explaining something it was vital for her to understand.
“Most people, even while loving someone else—perhaps even the one person in the world who was meant for them—can feel a strong sexual attraction to another, especially if the one they love is absent. Believe me, Gypsy, that doesn’t mean the first and only love has died, only that the one who is loved is sorely missed. Do you understand?”
Gypsy nodded, unable to speak for the pain which was pushing at her throat, and he stepped aside to allow her to slip away from him, in search of his son, hoping that he had been able to give her some comfort, and that his loving her had not ruined what she had with her fiancé.
Gypsy walked disconsolately towards the trout pool where she was to meet Kevin, but stopped just out of sight, to sit and contemplate silver water dancing under the mottled light which dripped through the trees, gilding some leaves, leaving others dark and gloomy. Kevin’s shrill voice, singing, reminded of her she’d told him she’d come play with him soon, and the reminder pained her when she realized how short a time she had left it here, but lethargy overcome her and she could not go to him just yet.
Some people, even while loving… Can feel a strong sexual attraction to another. That doesn’t mean love has died… Only that it is sorely missed. And Catherine had gone away with someone named Greg. Lance had had a breakdown some sort. His voice echoed through her ears. I can’t ask you to be my wife… No, he couldn’t do that, she reasoned, for that position belonged exclusively to his Catherine. If nothing else, he’s fair and won’t offer that which he doesn’t have to give. And he looked so sad when he felt me trembling at his touch and knew that for all my brave and empty words I had done the one thing against which had been severely warned… Fallen for him.
Jumping to her feet, Gypsy flung her head back and drew in a few deep breaths until she felt slightly less bone-weary, if a trifle light-headed, and called out to the singing child. “Hi, Kevin!” She pushed aside a still damp bush. “Want to go beachcombing and see what the storm drove in?”
Keep it light, keep it bright. That became her silent mantra for the rest of the day as she burbled and bubbled outwardly, while inwardly she shrank each time she saw Lance, and even when he was out of sight, for she could never tell when he might be within hearing distance.
She and Kevin scoured the silver sickle of sand, and, finding nothing, scrambled over the rocks and cliff tops until they came to the next little bight, a narrow, rock strewn strand. In there they discovered three more green glass balls, one as big as “the biggest pumpkin” as Kevin had said before and now said again. Of the other two both were the same size as the original find, and one was badly scratched, with a chipped sharp neck. They left that one, carrying only the other two up and over the bluff to the next gap in the jagged, broken shoreline. They paused, looked for clams to feed to the seagulls, but found none, and moved on.
The tide was far out, the exposed boulders covered in thick, brown seaweed and sharp, white barnacles. Spotting a waving sea anemone in the clear water, Gypsy lay down on the large rock, pulling Kevin with her to show him the wonderful colorful, waving tentacles like slender ribbons of silk.
“Is it a flower?” he asked. “How can it live underwater?” He poked it with an exploratory fingertip and its “flower” immediately sucked right back inside, startling him. He jerked his hand from the water.
“No,” Gypsy said. Her face was nearly touching the water and as she shook her head, her long hair came untucked from behind her ears and floated, waving like the anemone, in the gentle current. “It’s an animal of sorts. It’s fishing for its lunch. Those pretty strings are its fishing lines.”
“That’s the funniest looking animal,” he said. “Why does it flutter around like your hair to have its lunch?” As she finished explaining what she could remember of the lifestyle of the sea anemone, Gypsy spotted a dull brown shape, partly covered in barnacles, growing tightly to the rock just below the dining anemone.
“Hey!” she cried, reaching down, “an abalone. I haven’t had abalone for years.” She plucked at it, breaking a fingernail, and withdrew her dripping arm.
“A baloney?” said Kevin, wrinkling his nose. “I thought baloney was lunch meat. How come it grows on rocks?”
Gypsy laughed “No, no! Not baloney. It’s called an abalone. It’s shellfish… Food… Food for our dinner. Come on! We have to find something to pry it loose with.”
“It doesn’t look big enough,” Kevin remarked, still peering into the water.
“Not just one. There’ll be lots more, even if I have to go overboard for them.” She shivered at the idea. The ocean water was frigid, but after a rushed trip back to the cabin for a strong knife and a bucket, and an even speedier one to where they’d found the abalone, she was warm enough to appreciate the cold swim.
Later, Kevin, examining the largest of the shells, said, “Look, it has portholes like the round windows on Mr. Hopkins’s boat. Do we have to boil these like the clams to get them out of their shells?”
“No,” Gypsy said, lifting one and showing him. “See? They only have one shell. We cut them out of it with a knife. They taste very good. Something like oysters.”
“I’ve had oysters, but a man brought them and Auntie cooked them and they didn’t have shells. Why don’t we find some of them?”
“They don’t seem to grow on this island. At least, I’ve never seen any here,” she replied, hauling him bodily up the steep incline and lowering him, and the bucket down the other side, so they could repeat the process and return to the sandy beach. Walking homeward, she added, “I wish we had a fishing line… There might even be something swimming out there that we could catch, surf casting.”
“Daddy has one,” Kevin offered tentatively. “But we don’t ever touch his stuff so I guess we’ll just have to eat these porthole-shell things.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’d mind,” Gypsy responded absently, half in a dream about serving Lance with a large, juicy baked salmon, stuffed with an aromatic dressing and seeing him smile at her as he had over the clam chowder.
“Yes, he would,” Kevin said positively. “Remember the thumbtacks?”
Gypsy did not. “Thumbtacks?” she asked mystified.
“Yes!” He said impatiently. “For my rocket ships.”
“Oh, those thumbtacks. Yes I remember you told me about them, hon.”
Again, something he had said about those rocket ships tickled at the back of her mind and for a moment she almost had it but it slipped away. Kevin sighed. Gypsy sighed. She would dearly love to be able to produce that baked salmon, but not for the world would she ask Lance for his fishing gear.
Kevin went talking on about his rocket ships and Gypsy could almost see them, three rockets, one large because it was closest, the other two… Hey! Wait a minute! She stopped in her tracks so fast the following child bumped into the backs of her legs.
Choosing at convenient moss covered log, she sat down and pulled Kevin close beside her. “I’m tired. Let’s rest a minute you can tell me more about your rocket ships again.” Her heart thumped wildly with excitement.
He reiterated what he had originally said, and Gypsy nodded. “I’d like to see them. Think you could do them again?”
“Not without pencil and paper,” came the logical reply. “I could if I had that stuff.”
“Oh, you could use some of your… No, I guess you couldn’t, could you?” But her eyes, ranging up and around the trees while she avoided looking at him so he wouldn’t see the avid interest she was trying to conceal, fell upon some large, hard fungi growing like shelves on the tree trunks. Gypsy reached as high she could and knocked one fungus down, retrieving it from its perch in a thimble berry bush where it had landed, and passed it to Kevin. She made a small mark on the white underside of it and said, “See? You can draw on that, and when you’re finished, we’ll pick some more and you can make me
all sorts of pictures.”
She gazed with barely concealed amazement at his depiction of the rocket ships, and then, in case this was just a fluke, she said without emphasis, “Very nice. But I miss the city. Draw me a picture of your street, the way it looks when you go to school in the morning.”
Kevin looked at her as if she were crazy. “How can I draw it if I can’t see it?”
“Could you see the rocket ships when you drew them?” Gypsy countered, smiling.
“No, but that’s different. They’re there just pretend. Our street is real.”
“Just pretend you’re looking at it then, pretend you’ve just got to the corner and Auntie called you to wave goodbye and you looked back.” She knew from his chatter his school was just at the end of his block.
“She never calls me. When I go to school, she goes back to bed.”
“Well, pretend!”
“Can I pretend you just called me?”
“Yes, Kevin, you may. But draw me the street.” She was losing her cool, and might scare him off so, breathing deeply to calm herself, Gypsy looked off into the forest while Kevin worked earnestly for ten minutes before putting the second fungus on her knees.
“That’s what it looks like,” he said without much interest and her heart leapt inside her, nearly knocking her over. He had it! He had it so well she could hardly believe it! No six-year-old, unless greatly talented, would have this marvelous sense of perspective. The street narrowed as it traveled away, the houses grew progressively smaller. And even the cars, all the way down the street, were in direct proportion to their distances from the foreground. Lawns were neatly squared off and gable ends of houses, while crude, carried out the correct angles. A born draftsmen… A born artist, like his father?
Keeping her wild excitement at bay, or at least out of her voice, Gypsy told him she liked his pictures and kept him busy drawing more and more, almost as fast as she could knock down fungi from the tree trunks. At length, however, he tired of this new game, and began to lose interest. Gathering up each of his fungus drawings and positioning it gently atop the abalones in her bucket, for even fingerprints could smudge the white undersides, she led the way home to where she waited impatiently for Lance to return.
Gypsy Magic (The Little Matchmakers) Page 15
