Something Different/Pepper's Way (17 page)

“I’m not quite sure.” He paused, then went on firmly, “Yes, I am sure, dammit. I was jealous.”

“Jealous?” Gypsy was startled. “Of what?”

“The book. The typewriter. The desk. Everything standing between you and me. I was lying here in bed—alone, I might add—and suddenly decided that enough was enough.”

Gypsy frowned uneasily, and he immediately understood her worry.

“Honey, I really don’t think that your writing will get between us. It only happened tonight because… because you’re still so
new
to me.” His voice deepened, roughened. “You’re like a treasure I stumbled on by accident—I want to keep you
to myself for a while. I want to—to hoard my riches until I’m sure I won’t lose them.”

She tried to speak past the lump in her throat, but found it impossible.

“Still…” He was suddenly rueful, obviously trying to lighten the atmosphere. “The White Knight wouldn’t have approved.”

Tightening her arms around his neck, Gypsy swallowed the lump and said huskily, “The White Knight doesn’t know what he’s missing. And neither does his lady.”

“Hey…” He smiled down at her. “I win out over the White Knight too?”

“He’s not even in the same race.”

Chase kissed her gently, murmuring, “You’re running out of heroes, Gypsy mine.”

“I hadn’t noticed….”

nine

DUE TO ONE THING OR ANOTHER—AND
chase fit into both categories—Gypsy didn’t finish her book until late the next day. As always, the book was too fresh in her mind for her to be objective about it. She only knew that she was satisfied.

She woke the next morning with the disquieting sensation that something was wrong, and it took only seconds for her to realize what it was. Chase wasn’t in bed with her. She listened to the silent house for a moment, then slid out of bed and put on one of his T-shirts. By this time both their wardrobes were pretty equally divided between the two houses.

She padded soundlessly through the house until she reached the doorway of the living room. There she stopped, leaning against the wall and watching him with quiet eyes.

He was sitting at her desk, the chair pushed back to accommodate his long legs. Dressed only in cutoff jeans, hair still tousled from sleep, his head was bent over the last few pages of Gypsy’s manuscript. He’d obviously been there for some time.

When he’d read the last page, Chase turned it facedown with the others in a stack on the corner of the desk, his expression
thoughtful. He looked up suddenly a moment later, as though sensing her presence. Gazing at her, he murmured, “I think it’s the best thing you’ve ever written.”

Gypsy came across to him, sinking down on the carpet at his feet with her folded hands resting across his thigh. “Why?” she asked, her voice as soft as his in the early-morning hush.

Chase reached out to stroke her tumbled curls absently, frowning slightly in thought. “Certain things haven’t changed— from your other books, I mean. It’s ruthlessly logical, neatly plotted, with unexpected twists and turns. But your
characters
are different. Especially the hero.” Chase smiled suddenly. “He’s the type you want to stand up and cheer for. Not an
anti
hero like the others, but a human hero with strengths and weaknesses. He’s smart but not cynical, idealistic without being a fool. And he has a flendish sense of humor. You’ll have to make him a continuing character, sweetheart—readers will love him.”

Gypsy smiled, more than content with the critique. “I’m glad you think it’s good.”

“It’s more than good, Gypsy mine. It’s terrific. A sure bestseller.” He leaned forward to kiss her lightly, remaining in that position as he gazed into her eyes and asked casually, “Want to go to Virginia with me?”

“Virginia?” She was still smiling. “What’s in Virginia?”

He seemed to hesitate for an instant. “A project they want me to do.”

Her smile faded slightly. “They?”

“The city fathers in Richmond. The project I worked on for two months was for them. Now they want a big shopping mall.”

Dimly Gypsy realized that it would be a professional feather in Chase’s cap. “When do you have to be there?”

“I’m supposed to meet with them Friday afternoon.”

“That’s tomorrow,” she said slowly. “How long—I mean, will you have to be there for months?”

“Not at this early stage. We’ll be talking about budgets and designs—that sort of thing. Guidelines have to be ironed out before they commit themselves, and before I commit myself. It’ll take days. Weeks, if they’re as slow as last time.”

He was still smiling, but there was a curiously blank look in his eyes, as if he were deliberately hiding his thoughts. “Come with me?”

“I can’t.”

“Jake and Sarah’ll watch the houses for us.” He was still casual.

She shook her head. “That’s not it. The book’s finished, Chase, but the manuscript isn’t. I have days of retyping to do.”

“I see.” His eyes remained blank. “Can’t type in Richmond, I guess?”

Gypsy felt strangely shaken by his light tone, disturbed by the shuttered gaze. “Would it be worth the bother to carry all my stuff out there?” she asked uncertainly. “You said it might just be days, and—”

“You’re right, of course.” He sat back, looking down at her with a glinting smile. “Then I go alone.” Softly he added, “You’re still not sure about us, are you, Gypsy?”

Before she could answer, he rose to his feet and pulled her gently to hers. “I’ll catch an afternoon plane today; I’ll need time to check out the proposed site tomorrow before the meeting. And since I have a few things to take care of in Portland before I leave— I’d better get a move on, I guess. Want to help me pack?”

“You’re leaving right away?” she asked weakly

“After breakfast. I’ll cook if you’ll pack for me. Deal?”

Two hours later he was gone, leaving Gypsy at the door with a light kiss and a cheerful wave.

His eyes had still been blank.

“Well, dammit….” Gypsy muttered miserably to herself, watching the Mercedes disappear from sight.

Days passed, while Gypsy worked to retype her manuscript. She worked long hours, but not because the story drove her; she worked because something else was driving her.

Chase called every evening around eight to report progress (none, from the sound of it). He was casual, cheerful. He didn’t once call her Gypsy mine or sweetheart or honey. He didn’t talk about heroes.

So Gypsy threw herself into her work. She worked so fiercely that the manuscript was retyped and on its way to her editor by the middle of that week. And then she was at loose ends, struggling to find things to do. She gardened. She washed Daisy three times in two days. She used the key Chase had left her to let herself into his house and take care of Angel and the kittens. She watched television. She read poetry.

Poetry. If it hadn’t been for her “night lover,” Gypsy didn’t know what she would have done. He called every night around midnight. Gypsy always listened intently, trying to pin down the voice, trying to convince herself it was Chase. But she just wasn’t sure. And she was too fearful of a negative answer to ask if it was him.

“‘Come live with me and be my love,’” he invited softly one night.

Lying in bed in darkness, Gypsy smiled to herself. “Will you show me ‘golden sands and crystal brooks’?” she murmured.

“I’ll show you… the ones inside myself,” he vowed. “I’ll show you all the things you have to
believe
in before you can see them. Will you let me do that, love?”

She laughed unsteadily. “You haven’t shown
me you.”

“I’m one of those things that has to be believed first, love. If you believe in me, then I’m real.”

“Like unicorns?” she whispered.

“Like unicorns. And heroes.”

Gypsy tried desperately to deny the emotions welling up inside of her. “I can’t believe in you,” she told him shakily “I—”

“You must believe in me, love. Without you I can’t exist.” “Don’t say that….” “Dream of me, love.”

Gypsy found herself pacing the next night. Pacing restlessly, endlessly. She had talked to Chase only an hour before; a casual, meaningless conversation. Why was he doing this to her? He was deliberately holding back a part of himself, and—

She stopped dead in the center of the room, her lips twisting suddenly as the realization slammed at her. “Idiot!” she breathed softly to her usual audience of Corsair and Bucephalus. “Of course, that’s what he’s doing. He’s showing you what it’s like, you fool! You’ve spent weeks huddled inside your own stupid uncertainties, while he waited patiently for you to—to grow up.”

What was she
really
afraid of? Gypsy asked herself. Not that they couldn’t live together—they could. Not that her writing would come between them—because, dammit, she wouldn’t let it.

“Drag out the cliché, Gypsy,” she told herself softly. “You’re really afraid of getting hurt. You told yourself for years that you didn’t want to get involved, and when it finally happened, it scared you to death. For the first time in your life, you let someone close enough to see you. And now… ?”

Facing the fear squarely for the first time, she realized slowly, gladly that it was fading into nothingness. Chase would never hurt her—not intentionally. And being seen by him was a very special thing indeed. She only hoped that it wasn’t too late to tell him.

Gypsy’s heart thudded abruptly as a sudden painful question presented itself. It pounded in her head, slammed at walls already crumbling, leaving panic in its wake.

What if she lost him?

Not the vague, elusive worry of “someday,” but the concrete realization that life was uncertain at best. What if he never came back? What if she never saw him again, was never given the chance to say…

One glance at the clock and Gypsy was sitting on the edge of her bed and reaching for the phone. It was midnight in the East; he’d be at his hotel. She placed the call and listened as his phone rang, her only thought that “tomorrow” was sometimes too late.

“Hello?”

“I miss you,” she said starkly.

“Do you?” He was guarded, his voice still and waiting.

“Chase…”

“You sound upset.” It was a question.

“I’m lonely.” She laughed shakily. “For the first time in my life, I’m lonely. Are you— When are you coming home?”

He sighed. “Looks like another few days.”

Gypsy closed her eyes, knuckles showing white as she gripped the receiver. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“Gypsy?”

“Nothing’s right.” Her voice was hurried, half blocked by the lump in her throat. “Nothing’s the same. The house seems empty…. Bucephalus isn’t eating…. I can’t find my glasses…. The Buddha fell off my desk, and he’s shattered, just shattered….
Corsair goes from room to room, and he can’t seem to find what he’s looking for—”

“Gypsy—”

“Angel moved her kittens back to your bedroom,” she went on disjointedly “And some kind of bug’s attacking the roses. I washed dishes last night because I didn’t want to be messy, and I picked up all the clothes on the floor…. It rained all day…. My bed’s so big… so empty….”

“I’m catching the first plane home,” he told her, his voice oddly unsteady.

“But your work—”

“Never mind my work. You’re more important. I’ll be home tomorrow, honey.”

“I’ll be waiting,” she promised huskily

“Good night, Gypsy mine.”

“Good night.”

Gypsy cradled the receiver gently, staring across the room blindly.

“You’re more important.”

Her mind flashed back to an earlier inner resolution not to let her writing come between them, and she felt a sort of wonder. Somehow, without her being consciously aware of it, the two most important things in her life had softly changed places. From now on, she knew, nothing would ever be as important as Chase.

As for her writing… Gypsy shook her head ruefully. It had been right there in front of her all the time, and she’d never seen it. But Chase had. He’d told her that her fictional hero was “the kind you want to stand up and cheer for,” and she hadn’t realized the importance of that.

She could imagine heroes now. Human heroes; fallible, but heroes nonetheless. And Chase had given her that. Chase and her “night lover.”

Gypsy frowned suddenly. It was Chase. Period. She’d go on playing the game as long as he did, and just stop questioning. And one day, when they were old and gray and rocking side by side on a vine-covered porch, she’d ask him. And if he didn’t say yes … she’d hit him with her cane.

“Do you believe in unicorns, love.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“And heroes?”

“And heroes.”

“And…me?”

“And you.” Her voice was tender.

“We’ll find those ‘golden sands and crystal brooks,’” he told her with impossible sweetness. “We’ll follow rainbows until we find the pot of gold. And when it storms outside, when the world goes crazy, we’ll have each other.”

“Never alone,” she murmured wonderingly

“Never alone. Sweet dreams, love….”

Gypsy was restless, on edge. She was bursting to tell Chase how she felt, and the morning dragged by with no sign of him. She washed Daisy again and cultivated two flower beds, and
still
he didn’t come.