Gypsy Magic (The Little Matchmakers) (11 page)

The lid on the kettle finally began to rattle and Gypsy jerked her face away from his touch, his intent gaze.

“Got our cups ready, Kevin?” Their cups, three battered enameled tin mugs she thought must have come with the cabin, were stuffed into the bottom of the backpack she’d carried. Kevin dug for them, knocking an apple to the rocky cavern floor. It rolled and bounced to the edge of the fire.

She reached for it at the same moment as Lance dove after it. Their heads collided with an audible crack. “Ouch!” Gypsy said. “That’s one hard head you have there, Saunders.”

He helped her stand erect, ran a gentle thumb over the small lump already rising on her forehead, and looked into her eyes for longer than she felt comfortable allowing him to hold her gaze. “You okay?”

She nodded and realized she was still clutching in one hand the apple she’d managed to nab, and in the other, Lance’s wrist, which she must have grabbed to steady herself. His pulse under her fingertips raced, as did the lid of the rapidly boiling kettle.

“Kev”—Her voice came ragged, breathless. “The cups and the cocoa mix. Got ’em ready?”

She heard a small, distressed sound and turned. Two of the three tin mugs stood on a flat piece of driftwood they’d been using as a table. Three opened envelopes lay crumpled beside them. The third cup, however, had tumbled to the floor spilling its hot-chocolate powder and Kevin stared miserably at it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered, his eyes wide and guilt-filled. “I spilled one. I didn’t mean to. I was looking at you and I thought Daddy was going to kiss you like Mickey’s dad kisses his mom and—”

“I was not going to kiss Gypsy.” Lance’s voice sounded overly loud, brusque, even angry and Kevin winced visibly.

“That’s okay, honey,” Gypsy said, picking up the empty mug when Lance just shrugged. “Accidents happen. Look, we can share what’s left.”

She was about to shake a portion of the mix from the two cups that hadn’t spilled, into the one that had, when Lance stayed her hand, nothing more than the brush of his fingertips across the back of her wrist. It was enough to lock her into immobility, still on the outside, but whirling with slowly abating excitement on the inside. “No need,” he said. “I don’t want any.”

“But—”

“I said I don’t want any.” He lifted the kettle, filled the two mugs and left them sitting on the flat-sided log. “Thanks for the picnic, Gypsy.” With that, he zipped up his jacket, pulled up his hood, and strode out.

She and Kevin drank their hot cocoa, neither speaking, and then with a heavy heart Gypsy began to pack up and stow away the left-over food, wishing she had never left the warmth and comfort the cabin in this futile attempt at building amity between father and son. It was impossible! Completely and absolutely impossible. But… something, she couldn’t even begin to name it, had built—maybe had been building all along—between her and Lance Saunders. She knew it, for, in the moment they stood by the fire, even Kevin had been aware of the sexual tension in the air. If a little child had caught the essence of the heightened man-woman awareness, it must have been as obvious to Lance as it had been to her. He’d wanted to kiss her, all right. And she had wanted the same.

At the top of the cliff-trail, Lance stood, looking as if undecided about moving on to a different location with his camera, or maybe just flinging himself off.

“Oh, hi,” she said. “Were you waiting for us?”

“I wanted to be sure you could get up the trail as easily as we got down.”

“As you can see, we did. We helped each other over the rough spots.” She fixed him with a pointed look. “People do that, you know.”

“Not in my experience,” he said, leaving her feeling as if she’d been slapped.

It must have showed. Lance huffed out what might have been a laugh. With one long finger he tapped the back of her hand, which she had wrapped around the strap of her backpack “Cheer up,” he said. “It’s not your fault. You just didn’t understand how hopeless it is.” The defeat in his tone stung her like an elastic band snapped against bare skin and she jerked her head up to glare at him.

“Hopeless! I don’t agree. This was just the beginning, Lance Saunders, and if you think I’m going to give up you’re nuts.”

She reached for Kevin’s hand and towed him along behind her. The kettle, now empty, banged and clattered along with them. When they were well clear of Lance, and halfway across the sheep-meadow, she stopped for a breather.

Kevin looked at her sadly and said, “Are you mad at me, Mother?”

“Well,” she replied, looking stern, “I’m not really mad, but I’m not happy about the way you behaved, either. You weren’t very polite or nice to Daddy, were you? When he asked if you liked having a picnic in a cave, you barely even answered him. And when he offered you another sandwich you just shook your head, didn’t even say ‘No, thank you.’

His lower lip trembled and Gypsy hugged him. “Kevin, picnics are times for being nice to other people and for having fun and we didn’t really have fun at all, did we?”

“No. ’Cause I spilled the chocolate.”

“No, no, no!” She stood and took his hand again. “Kev, no one was mad at you for that. I told you, accidents happen. Your daddy wasn’t mad about it, either. Did he look mad?”

He chewed on his lip, “No, but he sounded mad, and he didn’t want to share.”

“I know, honey. But did you ever see him drink hot cocoa before? Maybe he doesn’t like it.”
Maybe he dislikes it as much as he does the idea of kissing me. Of wanting to kiss me. As much, as, in that insane moment, I wanted him to. And I don’t think I’d have hated it at all
.

Kevin thought that one over, then shrugged. “Maybe.” Then, rapidly, as if to justify his actions, he blurted, “He wasn’t very nice to me, either. You said carrying the kettle was my job and he took it away like he thought I couldn’t do it.”

“Kevin, Kevin, he was trying to help you when he took the kettle. And he let you get the firewood, didn’t he? That was supposed to be his job.”

Kevin nodded slowly and began walking again. “But then he had to get other pieces because the ones I found were too wet.”

Gypsy sighed.

~ * ~

After a couple of pleasant, sunny days, the weather closed in again, bringing clouds and intermittent rain showers again. On the third of those, Gypsy tried again, this time with a party.

“What kind of a party?” Kevin dropped his spoon into his cereal bowl and looked at her with suspicion. “I don’t think Daddy likes stuff like that.” He hadn’t forgotten the picnic.

“This won’t be like the picnic. It’ll just be a regular party with decorations and a cake and stuff like that.” She’d found a couple of cake mixes in one of the cupboards. Though the instructions on the back called for a quarter cup of vegetable oil, which they didn’t have, Gypsy concluded oil was mostly moisture, so she’d simply add a little more water and maybe some powdered milk to the mix. After all, how bad could it be? Cake was cake, wasn’t it?

“A regular party? Who’s birthday is it?” Kevin’s expression brightened.

“Must be someone’s,” she laughed, realizing that to him a birthday was the only occasion for party. “But we have to hurry. We have lots to do before your daddy comes home for lunch.”

~ * ~

Lance, upon nearing the hut, wondered at the unnatural silence surrounding the place. Surely they hadn’t gone out. He hardly expected Gypsy to try in another picnic after the abortive attempt of before.

When he pushed on the door, it met with resistance. The harder he pushed, the firmer the resistance became until a choked-off giggle was followed by an urgent shushing and then a whisper, “Okay, let him in. I’m ready now.”

The door swung open and Lance stood still, his jaw dropping as he stared at the rear of the cabin in the area between his bunk and Gypsy’s.

By dint of what effort he couldn’t begin to imagine, the entire aisle between bunks had been transformed into a forest bower by branches, raindrops still sparkling on them. They hung from the walls and rafters. Every spare can and bottle had been filled with great fronds of sword ferns and set about a tent made from two sheets, a blanket and Gypsy’s canvas curtain. Gypsy herself, barely recognizable, sat on the mink cape in the middle of this tent.

Wrapped around her body was a blanket, and in one swift glance Lance knew why she was a successful model. Although the blanket was old and gray, rough and coarse and likely itchy, she wore it with an air, with a sense of pride which cried out to the beholder, “Look at me!” And Lance looked, suddenly wishing he could see her in a gown which would do justice to her face and form, wanting to see her bedecked the rich jewelry her looks demanded, instead of an old gray blanket, a dangling diamond pendant—fake, of course—and an engagement ring someone else had given her.

The red silk scarf he’d found near her sandals, and which she’d used as a belt to hold up the jeans he’d loaned her, now wrapped around her head, holding back her hair. She’d taped twists of silver paper to her ear lobes to make large rings to dangle above her shoulders, just touching the shawl made from two tea towels. Her hair flowed loose below the scarf, its curling and dampness testifying to the fact that she had recently been rain soaked while gathering the material for her bower. Her blue eyes laughed delightedly at his obvious amazement.

One long, slender hand, fingers bedecked in more rings—all but one of them made from aluminum foil—beckoned him nearer and he stepped toward her while, in sepulchral tones, she chanted, “Come forth, O unbeliever. Learn your fortune or your fate. Be it good or be it ill, the crystal ball lies not and Belinda of the magic gypsy realm tells all.”

Blinking, completely unable to resist, he ducked into the tent of Belinda of the magic gypsy realm and saw, on a low box that had undoubtedly once held cereal, but now gleamed with a covering of foil, spread smooth enough to reflect it, the green glass ball Kevin had found on the beach. Sapphire eyes, dark in the dimness of the tent, held fast to his face. Did he see a hint of trepidation? Did she expect him to turn and stomp away? Of course she did. Precedents had been set. Oh, hell, why did the woman keep trying? Well, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of saying once again that he didn’t care enough to make an effort. One way or another he’d would play her game.

“Kneel before me, O unbeliever. The picture in the crystal is murky, dark. Cross my palm with silver…” Belinda paused while a small gypsy boy, until this moment unnoticed by Lance, came forward with a tentative smile just hovering on his lips and behind worried eyes, to timidly offer Lance a quarter.

He took it and passed it into the white hand of the woman before him. “Ah,” she intoned, “the silver causes the picture to cease its restless roiling, to steady, grow clear… Kneel, I said!” Lance, feeling foolish knelt. “Today is your day, O unbeliever, today is the day when every wish of yours could well be granted if you will listen to the words of ancient wisdom which the crystal ball sets forth for the eyes Belinda alone.”

Gypsy paused, drawing in a long breath, her downcast eyes half closed as she wondered frantically how far she dared go.
All the way!
“The ball tells me you have journeyed afar, that you have come to this place in search of a miracle.

“The miracle is at hand, O unbeliever, on this day of yours, this special day during which you will be granted your every wish. If you reach out and take that which you most desire, your future will be one of joy and prosperity… Of good health… Good fortune. The ball shows a scene… A man… Tall and standing alone on a wind tossed hillside… Around him circle birds of the forest, birds of the ocean. At his feet cluster small animals. He smiles. He reaches down to touch, offer gentle caresses and…
Oh!
The picture fades… Clouds form. This cannot be the true picture of his deepest desires.”

Belinda of the magic gypsy realm wrung her hands before writhing them sinuously over the ball.

“Ah…” softly, triumphantly, “the picture clears. The fog wisps away. Another figure enters the picture. It is the same shape as the man, but smaller, much smaller, again he smiles, and he reaches down to touch, to offer a gentle caress. Oh! How sharp, how clear the picture now! This, O unbeliever, must be the true picture of your future, if you will only reach out and take it, to allow yourself to believe, today, this special day which has been given to you for a new beginning.”

Slowly Gypsy raised her head to look at Lance expecting a quick flash of anger, or worse, a dull expression of hopelessness, his usual refusal to listen. She was pleasantly surprised. Instead, he looked totally stunned.

“But… How did you know? I had no idea he even knew adults had birthdays, let alone that today was mine.”

Oh joy
! caroled Gypsy inside as she leapt to her feet. “Keno, the prince of the magic gypsy realm knows much, O unbeliever! Keno! Bring on the dancing girl!”

Keno, Lance noticed, wore one of his most disreputable T-shirts, one he’d torn while playing since they came to the island, and a pair of cutoff jeans—jeans that had not been cut off before.
Lorraine would not be hap—
But to hell with Lorraine! She wasn’t there.

Dangling from one of “Keno’s” ears was a ring similar to those Gypsy wore, and around his head was tied, gypsy style, one of Lance’s own paint-cloths. With the sidelong glance at his father, he stepped past where Lance still knelt on the floor at the entrance to the tent and jerked the blanket from Gypsy.

The dancing girl was revealed in a skirt made from two of Lance shirts, the sleeves tied around her waist. Her feet were bare, and when she removed the shawl of tea towels with a flourish he saw she was wearing the red bikini top. With snapping fingers she became the dancing girl as Kevin kept up an unmusical beat, hammering on a pot with a spoon. The tail ends of her silk scarf flew and leaped about her head and shoulders, looking as alive and vivid as she did.

Gypsy spun into the finale of her dance and dropped to the floor in front of Lance, panting and laughing. “Are you a believer? Do you believe in gypsy magic?” she demanded, her face close to his, her laughing eyes willing him to soften, to relax. “Are you willing to throw off the chains of the world, to become one with the gypsies? Are you a believer?”