Gypsy Magic (The Little Matchmakers)

by Judy Griffith Gill

  He lifted the child down with ease and surveyed Gypsy, smiling. “So you’re the one, are you?” She wondered why he had not reacted to her appearance as had his wife. Lance must have warned him. “And to think we stayed away just so Lance and Kevin could have an undisturbed vacation. I bet you were pretty disturbed hey, boy?” He leered at Lance and patted his wife’s apple-rosy cheek. “Not that I’d trade, mind, I’ve got this one trained just the way I want her.”

  “Away with you,” Mary snorted, with a smile and a push which sent him staggering to the table. “Come on, come on,” she bade the other three. “Sit you down and get busy.”

  As she sat Gypsy caught Lance’s gaze. The warmth of his smile sent her heart sailing high like a kite, dipping and diving then soaring again on the winds of emotion. She dropped her gaze, focusing on the bacon and eggs on her plate.

  “Gypsy!” She looked up, startled by the sound of Lance’s voice. “Jim’s talking to you.”

  “Oh, sorry, Mr. Hopkins. I was woolgathering.”

  “Oh, what a lovely, old-fashioned phrase,” Mary said. “Are you an old-fashioned girl, dear? You must be, to be able to bake bread.”

  Jim concurred. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “From my grandmother.”

  “She’s to be congratulated.” He turned then to Lance, saying, “Hold on to this one, my boy. Any girl who was taught how to bake bread is worth having today.”

  “I would, but…” Lance said quietly, not looking at Jim, but at Gypsy.

  She gazed back at him, felt the reply he’d asked her withhold hovering on her lips, wanting to give it to him right then. But not on this island,” he’d said. “I’ll be coming back here and want no bad memories, if that’s what you’re going to give me. How she wanted to tell him she planned no bad memories for him, but moments like that were not to be shared. She’d wait, as he’d asked.

  Lance caught his breath. Before Gypsy had averted her gaze, he’d caught something in the luminous blue depths of her eyes. They shimmered with… with what? The beginnings of love? His spirits soared. Never, in his life, had anything been so important as what he now felt sure was his future. His, and Kevin’s and Gypsy’s. Together. He slid a hand toward hers under the table and gripped her fingers, rubbing his thumb over the backs of them and— His heart leapt. She hadn’t put on her engagement ring again, despite knowing there’d be no more “construction laborer” tasks. He squeezed and felt her tremble.

  Later, packing boxes, Lance picked up a newspaper from the top of the stack. It was lying, folded opened to the society pages, as it had been since Mary had carried it in when she first arrived. His eyes were struck by the singular beauty of a blonde bride beside a slim, handsome man in formal dress. He recognized the man at once and read the caption: Anthony Peirce weds fashion model Vanessa Whitomb Shock slammed into his chest like a powerful fist.

  That luminous glow in Gypsy’s eyes had been, not as he’d hoped, the beginnings of love for him, emotion she wanted to hide from others, but… tears! Unshed tears she’d wanted to hide from him, and now he knew why! He crumpled that sheet of paper in his fist and stuffed it into the stove, slamming the lid down hard. The clang brought Gypsy’s head swinging around. She paused in the act of rolling Kevin’s sleeping bag. He struggled to keep his face expressionless, but had to look away from her. He wheeled and strode from the cabin, brushing past Mary as she returned from a trip down to the boat.

  Gypsy jerked around as Lance slammed the stove lid. Never had she seen him look so grim, apart from the first day she had met him. His eyes, far from being warm and filled with hope as they had at breakfast now looked hard and cold and full of accusation she was at a loss to understand. Her hand went to her mouth as the full power of his contempt burned into her and she took a step backward.

  “What… what’s wrong?” she whispered, but he strode from the cabin.

  That something was terribly wrong, was obvious, for from then on, Lance avoided her with a grim determination, turning his back when she approached him, and soon escaping, laden, toward the boat. Heart heavy, Gypsy, who longed to follow him and beg for an explanation, was forced to stay and help the old lady who, after all, was helping clear up after a vacation in which she had not shared.

  “When did you cut your face, dear?” Mary asked, kindly and sympathetic.

  “When the helicopter crashed. I think I fell or jumped from a rock. I knocked myself out. Is… Is it very bad?” she asked, running a finger along it. “Lance didn’t have a mirror and he says things like that always feel worse than they look.”

  “I’m sure he’s right, dear. It’s not really that bad at all. I just wondered when you’d been injured. Because of this.”

  She handed Gypsy a paper and she stared at it, her eyes widening. For there, depicted clearly, were a woman and a boy, staring enthralled up into the night as sparks flew from a fire. The flames highlighted and enhanced the planes and angles of the two faces, giving the eyes a glow as alive as that of the fire reflected in them. I would sketch you in sepia, Gypsy, blends of charcoal and sepia… On the left profile of the woman was not one hint of a scar to mar the perfect beauty of the face, the face that was echoed in shape and form and expression, by that of the child.

  Suddenly Gypsy new what Lance had seen that night. He had seen Kevin and sketched him, and he had seen beside his son… Beside her son… Catherine.

  She placed the picture atop the wrapped mink cape and tucked a corner of the sheet up over it. “I guess maybe the scar didn’t show up much at night,” she said, trying to sound casual. “I’ll keep this. It’s the only picture I’ll have of Kevin.” She turned away and lifted the box, carrying it down the path to the boat, deep in thought.

  She knew now why Lance had looked at her the way he had this morning. He was beginning to see her through the eyes of others, beginning to compare her face with that of Catherine’s, now that there were other people around to remind him of the outside world. He knew how people would react to her resemblance to his wife, and a resemblance marred by a scar would be…

  She looked up. He stood before her there on the path, blocking her way.

  “Is that heavy?” he asked, his face expressionless.

  “No,” Gypsy replied, trying to sound unconcerned, trying to understand the change in him, but knowing that it was all finished between them before it had even begun. “I can manage,” she said, and swung around past him, walking fast.

  Later, standing on the deck and watching the wake lead back to the island, Gypsy felt Kevin’s hand slip into hers. She smiled down at him, blinking back the tears that had been in her eyes.

  “Why are you sad? He asked. “Don’t you want to go home?”

  Unaware of Lance, who had approached and was standing close behind them, she said, “Not really, Kev.” She spoke truthfully.

  “Then why don’t you come home with us?”

  “I can’t do that, honey. You know I can’t!” Why did he have to keep reminding her?

  “Because you going to marry that man?” He didn’t like that idea at all.

  “No. I won’t be marrying him, Kevin,” Gypsy said, again speaking truth, for she had told him once that she would never lie to him and anyway, what would be the point in lying… even to herself? “I won’t be marrying anybody. But I do have a job to go back to.”

  “Mr. Hopkins told his wife it would be a long time before you’d be modeling again so why don’t you marry my—”

  “Kevin!” Lance roared and jerked Kevin right off his feet. “Keep quiet!” Kevin began to cry and Lance set him down. “Go see Mrs. Hopkins.” To Gypsy, he said, not quite looking at her, “Gypsy… Oh, Gypsy, I’m so sorry!”

  “Don’t be, Lance. I understand. Second best would never be any good, would it?”

  “I thought it would, but when it came right down to it, I found it was no go.” When she would’ve left, he stopped her. “What will you do now? I mean when you get back to the city?”

&nbs
p; “I hadn’t really thought about it,” she said, shaking her head to bring her hair down over the scar which she now knew to be offensive to him. “I’ll be all right. The only thing that worries me is getting from Weldon Harbor back to Vancouver. All my identification and credit cards were in my wallet, which disappeared with my makeup case when it was lost.”

  Lance was silent for a long moment. “No,” he said at last on a long breath. “No, Gypsy. It wasn’t. I have it. But I didn’t want you worrying about that scar on your face when there was nothing could be done about. It’s down below, under my sketch pads in a Pacific milk box.”

  He let her go then and Gypsy rushed into the cabin found the right box and carefully lifted his sketch pads and unearthed her makeup case. In the clear bright ocean light shining through a porthole she stared in horror at her image in the mirror. Her left cheek was bisected by a wide, irregular red line, puckered at both ends, the top end pulling her lower eyelid down so that she looked like a drunken clown. She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the image of her devastated face, knowing that no amount of makeup would ever cover that horrible disfigurement. Slamming the lid shut she bent over and put her head on top of her knees, too sick with grief even to weep.

  When the boat docked, Gypsy arose white faced and outwardly composed, joined Kevin on deck, and chatted with the Hopkinses while Lance made arrangements for a plane to take them to Victoria. When that had been done she reluctantly accompanied him and Kevin to a small store at the top of the wharf, keeping a curtain of hair over her marred face.

  The chartered seaplane rose with frenetic speed out of the water and sped toward a steep hillside, clearing it by what seemed to be a dangerously narrow margin. Gypsy sat holding Kevin’s hand and staring at the back of Lance’s neck, wishing the interminable trip was over, pleating and unpleating the fabric of the skirt which Lance had bought for her in Weldon Harbor

  “Call it a babysitting fee,” he had said over her protest that she had credit cards to use. The same went for her airfare from Weldon Harbor to Victoria. A babysitting fee! Can one ever be paid for loving a child?

  The plane slid toward the water and landed with a bump to bounce its way across Victoria Harbor and nudge in against a float where two men in bright yellow jackets waited to assist the passengers ashore. One, reaching out help Gypsy, smiled admiringly until she inadvertently turned her left side to him, whereupon the smile froze in place until it finally died sickly away.

  It happened again in the hotel where she was to spend the night, and in the dining room at the same hotel where Kevin and Lance joined her for a farewell dinner before returning to their home in the suburbs… and Lorraine.

  They had steaks, beautiful juicy and red, something Gypsy had not realized she’d had missed until it was placed in front of her and the delicious aroma wafted up. All three ate in silence for a while, Gypsy aware of the bittersweet pleasure of this, her last meal with Lance and Kevin. The child nibbled a French fry, looked at Gypsy for a time and then his eyes flooded with tears. “Do you fry the bacon first?” he asked his chin trembling

  “What?”

  “For the clam chowder. I’m going to make it when I’m big.”

  Gypsy nodded, too overcome to speak while Lance said with great gentleness, “We’ll ask Auntie to make it, okay?”

  “No. She won’t make it if she knows it’s something I ’specially like.”

  “Of course she will!” Lance said heartily, rubbing Kevin’s head affectionately. “You just ask politely, and you’ll see.”

  “Yes, Daddy.” Kevin hung his head.

  Lance turned to Gypsy. “I need to get him home soon. Would you be all right?” His voice, his eyes were full of sympathy, compassion, and what might’ve been subdued pain.

  “Of course. I won’t keep you any longer. Thank you, Lance, for… for everything, and good luck.”

  They both stood, Gypsy longing to run but knowing she must see this through. He took her hand and held it wordlessly until she pulled it back and then crouched to hold Kevin close for a moment. As she knelt by the child, Lance’s hand rested for a brief, heart stopping moment against her cheek. The right side. The unmarred side.

  “Goodbye, Kevin,” she whispered around a throat almost too full of tears to form words. “I have my two green glass net floats and all my clamshells, and my biggest abalone shell with all the lovely rainbows inside.” She swallowed hard. He’d insisted she have the biggest one. “When it’s raining I’ll think of you and know you’re thinking of me. Be a good boy and grow up to be a fine man, just like your dad.” And then quietly, quickly before she could burst into tears Gypsy whirled and fled to the shelter of her room three floors above.

  ~ * ~

  The publicity engendered by her return from “the grave”, as one reporter put it, was mercifully short-lived and Gypsy was left with the business of trying to straighten out her tangled affairs.

  Frederick Halliburton was delighted to see her back, but as he explained, until she had her face looked after, of course Gypsy would have to take a leave of absence. With pay, he assured her, since she had been injured in the line of duty, so to speak.

  “Of course, I understand,” Gypsy said, meaning it. She, herself, would not want to be photographed with her face in this condition, although, as one of the other models pointed out, there was nothing wrong with her right profile. “And you do have Vanessa for the Skippy Togs deal,” she added, standing from her chair across from Halliburton’s desk. “I always thought she was far more suited to those sporty clothes than I am.”

  Halliburton gave her a startled look. “But no! She isn’t coming back,” he said bewilderingly. This was the first Gypsy had heard the Vanessa leaving.

  “Why not? Where she gone?”

  Frederick Halliburton looked desperately uncomfortable. “On her honeymoon. She said he didn’t want her to go on working.”

  “She’s married?” Gypsy sat back down. “I didn’t know. How nice for her.” Gypsy’s voice was flat. It was hard to be enthusiastic about someone else’s happiness when she was so far from happy herself.

  Halliburton sat up straighter in his chair, bald head reflected upside down in the shining surface of his desk, as he regarded her very solemnly. “Have you talked to Tony since you got back?”

  Gypsy frowned. She had reluctantly called him the first day she returned, but there’d been no answer at his home and he hadn’t returned her call. The next morning, she’d called his office had been told by a receptionist, who obviously didn’t recognize her voice—or, it seemed her name—vacation replacement, she assumed, he was away. With a sigh of relief she had hung up without leaving a message. Breaking her engagement was not something she wanted to do, for she did not dislike him, she simply did not love him and therefore had to call it off, and she certainly had no intention of doing it over the phone, even if he had been in his office.

  “When I called, I was told he was away,” she told Halliburton.

  “He is, Gypsy, darling, and I don’t want to be the one to have to tell you. He’s… with Vanessa.”

  “But she’s on her”—the truth smacked her in the face. “Tony married Vanessa?” Before I was cold in my “grave”?

  He nodded, offered sympathy which she brushed aside, uncaring. With a brief word of thanks she stood and strode from his office.

  ~ * ~

  The plastic surgeon’s news encouraged her. “It may take a few months and more than one operation, Ms. Gaynor, but will have your face almost as good as new before too long. I’d like to be able to promise that there will be no scar all, but I don’t lie to my patients. That word, patients Ms. Gaynor, has a homonym—patience, and I will want you to bear that in mind. We will both require a good deal of it, you, far more than I, but I think by Christmas you’ll be much happier with your appearance.

  It was a day in early September when Gypsy was released from the hospital. She was amazed to find how large and green the world looked, how noisy the children’s
voices, the traffic, as she walked, suitcase in hand to her little rented home a few blocks away from the hospital. Her former apartment, upon her “death” had been rented to someone else, and her furniture put in storage for her mother to deal with later. Her mother, of course, was still away, still unaware, so Gypsy reclaimed her belongings and moved into a condo she didn’t much care for. It would do for the moment, however because of its proximity to the hospital and her surgeon’s office. He required frequent follow-up visits.

  She opened the door and went at once to the mirror in the hallway to examine her face away from the harsh light of the treatment room in which the dressing had been removed. Here, in the more subdued lighting, it looked even better, and the thing which had most pleased her at first was still evident—her eyelid was back in place.

  Gypsy went to check her mailbox and found it stuffed full of circulars and addressed to “Occupant.” She threw them on the coffee table and as they scattered, a postcard fell out from between the sheets. Picking it up she saw a small, shaggy puppy on the front and turned over to see the scratched out address above the one at which she now lived. She read it with an aching heart.

  “Dear Gypsy. I miss you. I wish I had a puppy just like this one. Mickey’s mother is writing this for me. She found out where you live from a big book. Love… And neatly printed, all lines straight and even, except for the e, which was a little out of whack “Kevin.”

  First Gypsy smiled a smile forbidden by her doctor and then she sat down and wept equally forbidden tears, using the muscles which he had said must be used as little as possible until she was fully healed.

  The next day she searched pet shops, then animal shelters, until she at last found a replica of the puppy on the postcard and installed him in her bedroom, spending three nights on the floor beside his basket to keep him from crying before, on the fourth night, she gave up and let him share the mat by her bed with her slippers. When the strata council learned she had a pet, she received polite notice to rid herself of same or vacate the premises. She vacated.