Gypsy Magic (The Little Matchmakers) (22 page)

“So you didn’t build the dam to make the pool big enough to swim in? You built it for a pair of little fish?”

“Little fish need room to grow,” Gypsy said just as Lance began to dance wildly on the slippery grass, sliding toward the edge, trying to catch his balance which had been badly disturbed by the struggle going on the submerged end of his line.

“I’ve got something!” he bellowed as Gypsy rushed to help him stand firm. She tugged on him while Kevin held her, and the three of them, laughing and shouting with excitement finally edged back up from the brink where Lance began to play the fish for all he was worth.

And it was worth the time it took to bring it in, Lance later admitted, accepting another portion of the salmon, lamenting again the lack of lemon juice to add to the flavor.

Kevin, spluttering, his mouth full, said, “I like clams and abalone’s better. They don’t have these…” He extracted a bone from between his teeth and put it with the pile on his plate. “But it tastes good.”

“It tastes good because your dad caught it,” Gypsy claimed, smiling across the table at him.

“It tastes good because Gypsy cooked it,” Lance said, also smiling at the child.

“That’s what Mickey’s dad said about the cake his mommy made.” Kevin beamed his smile around the table. “Gypsy, I think you should really be my mother. Not just for pretend.”

Gypsy looked down at her plate. Lance shifted his gaze to the open doorway. Kevin added, “If you cooked nice things for me, I don’t think my tummy would hurt anymore.”

~ * ~

“There are two days left, Gypsy. Maybe three. I don’t want an answer now, but I’d like you to think about an offer I once made and then rescinded almost immediately. Before we say goodbye, I want you to think about what Kevin said at dinner time and consider what it would mean to him if we were to become a family. We both love him and the fact that we don’t both love each other could be overcome by that. I know it’s not the recommended way to start a marriage, but I’m willing to take the chance, if you are.”

Gypsy looked around the cabin, at the reflection of the two lanterns shining in the window over the crooked pump, at the double shadows, hers and Lance’s, and in their own two shadows, cast by the twin lanterns, she fancied she could see two different shapes… her own… and Catherine’s. Could she live with the shadow of another woman? Could she live without Lance, now that she was being offered a chance to accept a life that included him?

When she would’ve spoken, he laid his fingers across her lips and was all she could do to prevent herself kissing them. “No,” he said. “Don’t even try to answer now. Think about it and then when Mary and Jim come to pick us up, you can tell me your answer. But not on this island. I’ll be coming back here and want no bad memories, if that’s what you’re going to give me. Tell me your decisions sometime during the trip back to the harbor. Goodnight Gypsy.”

Chapter Nine

There were not three days, two, nor even one during which Gypsy could think and make a decision. For, when she awoke, it was to the sound of bacon frying, and eggs being cracked into a pan. Eggs? she thought groggily… Eggs? We ran out of eggs ages ago. When the import of what she was hearing struck her, Gypsy scrambled from her bunk and dressed, suddenly wishing she had something other than her scruffy, cut down jeans and this old shirt of Lance’s. With a quirk of humor, she briefly considered making yet another entrance in the red bikini and mink cape, with the now shabby silk scarf around her hair, instead of her waist as a makeshift belt, but second thought decided for her that it might not be politic.

She tugged a comb through her hair, tied the long mass back with a piece of shoelace, pulled ineffectually at the shirt and jeans trying to make them look less disreputable, slipped on her dirty sandals and emerged from behind her curtain. A stout, elderly lady, dark gray streaked hair pulled into a bun behind her head, stood at the stove wearing a print cotton dress and a cardigan sweater, looking quite at home as she flipped the eggs over, one by one so intent on her task she did not at first see Gypsy.

When she did, however, she started. Her face went blank for a moment, then took on an expression of disbelief. “Oh!” She patted her ample bosom with the flat of one hand. “You gave me such a start! For a moment, I thought your were—” She gave her head a quick shake.

“Catherine?” Gypsy asked.

“Well… yes, but I know, of course, you aren’t. I’ve been hearing a good deal about you, my dear. I’m Mary Hopkins. Jim and I have known Lance for many years. He worked as a deckhand on our seine-boat three summers running during his teens. He put himself through college that way, you know.”

“I… No. I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, yes. We do love and admire that young man and were thrilled when he wanted to buy the island from us. I know we’re a few days early for the pickup, but just last night, my Jim found the flare pistol Lance was to have used if he needed us to come over with the boat. My, my, I can tell you that worried us, because what if there had been an emergency? We wouldn’t have known. It must have fallen when we were carting his and Kevin’s things over here last month.”

She suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth. “Well, bless my soul. There was an emergency, wasn’t there? I’m so sorry, my dear, about the way you came to arrive. What a terrible time for you, and with Lance having no way to contact us, he must have suffered, too. Not that he’s complained, mind.”

She smiled and slid eggs from the pan onto a platter. “Butter that toast, will you, dear?” She gestured at the browned slices on a rack over the hottest part of the stove. Gypsy grabbed them up and dropped them to another plate and began to spread butter on them.

“Of course,” Mary Hopkins went on, “he didn’t need to buy the island. All he had to do was wait and he’d have inherited it from us. We never had children of our own, but Lance is like the son—well, grandson, I suppose—we never had. He came to us when he was ill. After the crash when his mother died.” She clucked her tongue. “To think they put him in a hospital and kept him there all that time when what he needed was someone to look after him. When we heard about that, we went and got him. I gave him lots of TLC, I can tell you. Poor lamb. But at least he got his little one back from that terrible woman, the grandmother, even if he didn’t get his business back. Tsk! That’s such a shame, and he’d been doing so well, too, with it.”

She put the plate of eggs into the oven, where a large platter of crisp bacon lay, emitting the odor Gypsy had awakened to. “Better turn the rest of that toast before it burns.”

Gypsy hadn’t noticed the woman put more bread on the rack. Quickly, she flipped each slice over to brown the untoasted side. She’d learned more about Lance’s life in two minutes from this woman than she had from Lance in a month.

“I’ll call those boys in,” Mary said. “The table’s all set. When the toast is done, just put it on the table and then we’ll get the rest of the food out.” She bustled to the door, shouted “Grub’s up!” and returned.

“That’s quite an adventure, you’ve had, isn’t it?”

Gypsy produced, with difficulty, an answering smile. “Yes,” she agreed. “You might call it that.”

I wonder if all Lance’s friends are going to react this way. Will I be able to stand it, seeing the initial shock, followed by the growing understanding, accompanied by pity when they meet the one he has chosen to replace his Catherine? Yes. If I want the life he’s offering me, I’ll have to accept being second best.

The sound of footsteps, loud and multiple on the porch broke her out of her dismal thoughts and she looked around to see Lance come in followed by rotund little man with twinkling blue eyes and strong sinewy arms holding Kevin’s knees. Kevin perched happily on top of the old man shoulders. His fingers clinging to the sparse gray hair.

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.