Once More With Feeling (36 page)

But she wasn't anyone else. Not exactly.

She searched for Gypsy, screamed for her to
come to her rescue. His hand inched a little higher up her arm.
"Aren't I a little old for you?" Her voice sounded like it was
coming from the depths of the subway.

"That's pretty retro, don't you think?"

"Aren't I a little wild?"

"I don't know." He smiled and the room was
ten watts brighter. "Are you?"

She searched frantically for a way out of
this. "Grant, I'm bad news. I'm the kind of woman your mother
warned you about."

"You didn't know my mother. She was
convinced that everyone could turn over a new leaf."

"But I don't want to."

He stepped a little closer. "Good."

She adored this Don-Juan-in-training. She
would no more hurt him than she would take a rush hour stroll down
the right lane of the George Washington Bridge. But she wasn't
about to act out the New Age rewrite of Oedipus Rex.

Like a gift from above, an obvious out
occurred to her. "I have a firm rule. I never date anybody I'm
involved with on stories, no matter how tempted I am. I have to
maintain a certain distance or my work suffers. And there has to be
some journalistic integrity at
The Whole Truth
, or this show
would be a complete sham."

"Never?"

"No matter how tempted I am." She moved a
little closer and her voice dropped half an octave. "And I am
sorely tempted."

He didn't blink an eye. Her baby boy was no
egotist, but he knew his effect on women. He wasn't embarrassed at
her rejection; he wasn't uncomfortable. He was completely sure that
she should be attracted to him, so he believed every word she'd
said. "You're a lot more than you seem."

His father had said something similar at the
cafe. This time the observation didn't throw her. Gypsy gave him a
harlot's steamy smile and a mother's best advice. "Find yourself a
nice girl, and make sure she knows just how lucky she is."

"Does the offer still stand to watch you
tape?"

"You bet it does. There's nothing in my set
of rules about not being friends."

In the studio he struck up a conversation
with one of the new assistants, a recent UCLA graduate named Holly
who aspired to television greatness. She was a slender blond who
was probably prettier in person than she would ever be on camera.
She reminded Gypsy of Elisabeth at the same age, gracious and
womanly, intelligent as well as perceptive about people. But like
Elisabeth she didn't have the hard edges she would need to head for
the top. She was too polite, too considerate. Gypsy determined to
take her aside one day soon and build a fire under her.

For old time's sake.

Holly and Grant left together after the
taping, and Gypsy was left alone to take care of post-taping
details. She felt empty inside, and today, despite a thousand
things to be done, her job didn't fill the hole. She was living in
another woman's body, but she had systematically destroyed that
woman's personal life. She had halted her relationship with Casey,
helped Perry get a promotion, and gracefully rejected Grant. She
knew enough about her past to realize that there were a number of
men she could call tonight who would take her to dinner or
somewhere distinctively more intimate. But she had proved that sex
for sex's sake was not her cup of tea, and she had no energy for
fending off would-be lovers.

She wondered what she would do with the rest
of her life. She loved her job, but the job wasn't enough. What had
she planned before the accident? At the peak of their marriage
Elisabeth and Owen had talked endlessly about what they would do
when Grant was gone and Owen had enough talented architects in his
firm to relieve him of the most burdensome projects. Owen was not a
man who would ever retire; he loved what he did far too much. But
Elisabeth had looked forward to a time when he would slow down,
take only the challenges that really appealed to him and find more
time to travel for pleasure. They had talked about building a house
on Martha's Vineyard for long, wicked weekends.

What had Gypsy planned?

Early in the evening she was still at her
desk, elbows propped on the desktop and fingertips massaging her
forehead. Somehow everything always came back to Owen. It had been
easier when she believed that he didn't love Elisabeth at all. She
still didn't know exactly what he felt, but she couldn't ignore his
loyalty to his comatose wife. The word "devotion" came to mind. The
word "guilt" did, as well. She wondered if his constant attendance
at Elisabeth's bedside was one or the other or a murky combination
that even he didn't understand.

"Gypsy?"

She looked up to find Kendra in the doorway.
She straightened. "Got something interesting for me?"

Kendra shook her head. "I wish. I really
wish. But that bootlegging Missouri sheriff is as happy as a clam
living in the wilds of Idaho with a new wife, twin baby boys, and
right-wing survivalists. He trains weekend warriors to live off the
land."

"Corn liquor 101." Gypsy put her head in her
hands again.

"And the bank president who was funding the
cathouse in downtown Des Moines has a new job in California as the
owner of a topless bar. He's making money hand over fist, and he
just married his star dancer, who by all accounts has the biggest
hooters on that side of the Mississippi."

"Well, it sounds like he's got his hands
full."

Kendra rolled her eyes. "Jeez, you've been
at your desk too long. Go home."

Gypsy stood. It was good advice. "I don't
suppose you'd like to go somewhere for dinner?"

"Love to, but I'm meeting someone for
drinks. I answered a singles ad. Nothing like a little danger to
spice up a life, huh?"

"Any bets about what the guy looks
like?"

"You know, I really don't care? I'll settle
for fat, bald, and toothless if he treats me right. I'm sick of the
come on, the groping, the posturing. I want somebody who's still
going to be there when I wake up the next morning. Somebody I can
talk to."

"You deserve somebody like that." Gypsy
smiled. "But preferably somebody with teeth."

"I hardly even notice anymore when you do
that."

"Do what?"

"Get all warm and cuddly."

"It's a miracle. In the blink of an eye I
was transformed into everybody's favorite maiden aunt."

Kendra clapped her on the back before
heading for the door. "Go home, order Chinese, then get some sleep.
Things will look better in the morning."

Gypsy gathered the notes she planned to work
on at home that night and called downstairs to have security notify
today's resident Billy Boy that she was on her way out.

"There's a guy here to see you," the
security guard said. "No credentials on file. No appointment, and
he's not on your list. Billy's talking to him now."

"Billy himself, huh? What's the guy's
name?"

"Owen Whitfield."

She stood with the receiver in her hand and
stared into the newsroom.

"Miss Dugan?"

She gripped the receiver tighter. "Ask him
to wait. I'll be right down."

"Sure thing."

She hung up. Her hands were trembling.

Kendra poked her head back into the office.
"You know, I could postpone this guy, Gypsy. If you'd like me
to."

"It's okay. It looks like I've got plans
after all."

"Hey, maybe your plan has teeth, too."

Gypsy smiled wanly. "He sure does. All of
them except one pesky back molar."

She wasn't dressed up. She had changed after
the taping into black cuffed trousers and a sequined designer
T-shirt that sported a picture of Chairman Mao with a bee stinging
his nose. She had scrubbed her face, and now her street makeup
consisted of lipstick, most of which she had chewed off halfway
through the afternoon and a quick slash of eyeliner that only
emphasized how tired her eyes were.

She took enough time to reapply the lipstick
and comb her hair, but she knew Owen couldn't be trusted to wait.
He wasn't particularly impatient, but like most creative people,
his mind, and often his feet, would drift to another location if he
was left alone too long. Elisabeth had often found him blocks from
the place where she'd agreed to meet him, ogling rusticated stone
joints or juggling Ionic and Corinthian columns in his head.

She took the elevator to the bottom floor
and went in search of him. She found him in an animated
conversation with Billy.

"Owen?" Her heels tapped an exuberant
welcome on the polished marble floor as she covered the distance
between them. He looked up, and his eyes warmed appreciably.

"I wondered if you would still be here," he
said.

"I'm surprised to see you." She held out her
hand.

"I'm surprised to be here."

"I'll bet."

Each regarded the other for a long moment.
He looked tired, too, as if the whirlwind schedule that had once
been his greatest joy was too much for him now. His wool
suit--Brooks Brothers fall of 2005--hung from his once sturdier
frame.

"Elisabeth?" she asked at last. "Is she. .
.?"

"Just the same. No changes."

"I don't know what to say."

"There's nothing you could. I got up early
this morning and went in to be with her for a while. I knew I'd be
too late getting back tonight." He realized he was still holding
her hand. She could see it in his eyes. He dropped it immediately,
almost rudely. "I didn't hear what had happened to you until this
afternoon."

"Happened?" She was so busy drinking in the
sight of him she was having trouble thinking logically.

"At the café. My God, Gypsy, you were almost
killed."

"It's a familiar sensation."

"It's my fault. I should have taken you to
the station. No, I should have driven you back to the city."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm a big girl, and I
told you I wanted to walk. I should have been perfectly safe. It
didn't have anything to do with you. The guy probably would have
gone after me on the train or--"

"Gone after you?" His eyes narrowed. "You
mean you don't think this was a random mugging?"

She was silent. Trained newsperson or not,
she had been indiscreet. The shooting was common knowledge, but the
possible motivation behind it was not.

"This guy's protecting you?" Owen nodded his
head toward Billy.

"And doing a very good job of it, too. You
don't need to worry about me."

"Gypsy . . ."

He looked so tormented, her heart went out
to him. "It's really okay. I'm okay. You don't have to worry about
me. You have enough to worry about."

"I want to do something. What can I do?"

She started to repeat herself. There was
nothing he could do. But she couldn't say the words. There was so
much she wanted from him.

"Would you like to go somewhere and talk?"
he asked.

She knew better than this. She knew what she
should say.

"Miss Dugan, you'll need to go somewhere
that I can secure," Billy said.

"I keep an apartment in the city, not too
far away," Owen said. "It would be safe, and I was on my way over
there before I stopped here."

She knew the apartment well, although it had
been almost a year since she'd crossed the threshold. Owen kept it
for the multitude of nights he worked too late to make the drive
home, as well as for out-of-town guests and clients. She had
decorated it herself. Many times since, she had wondered how Anna
and Owen enjoyed her handiwork, particularly the beautifully
crafted wedding ring quilt and pillow shams that graced the master
bedroom.

She shook her head. "You don't have
to--"

"Please come."

She didn't have the strength to say no.
"Maybe for a little while."

"Good. I have friends stopping by later.
You'll enjoy meeting them."

"Friends?"

"Just some friends of mine and Elisabeth's.
They're coming by to check on me, I suppose. They worry." He
shrugged.

"I'm glad. They should." Her palms began to
sweat. She wondered who would be coming and how she would handle
meeting people she had known forever.

"I'll have the doorman send out for
something. Just tell me what you like."

She liked him, despite his infidelity during
their marriage. She liked knowing that despite all the absurdities,
all the incongruities and universal mysteries that had brought them
to this point, they were going to spend the evening together. And
she disliked herself for falling prey to all those feelings so
easily.

"I'll need to run upstairs and get my coat
and purse."

"I'll be happy to wait."

She nodded. Where were the words that should
be rising to her tongue? Where were the excuses that would keep her
from spending another evening with him?

She turned away and blindly headed for the
elevators again. There were no words and no excuses. Because
despite all the ways she had grown stronger from living Gypsy's
life, she still could not refuse Owen Whitfield anything.

They ordered Indian food, one of the few
cuisines Elisabeth hadn't enjoyed but Gypsy relished. Owen stripped
off his jacket and tie and reheated the fragrant coconut soup which
they ate with parchment-thin papadoms. They swilled ice-cold beer
and plates of basmati rice to offset the spiciest chicken vindaloo
Gypsy had ever encountered and finished with raspberry ice he
retrieved from the farthest depths of the freezer.

She had been starving. For a substantial
meal instead of yogurt and corned beef sandwiches. For conversation
instead of another episode of
The Whole Truth
plucked from
the show's archives. For the sight of Owen Whitfield across the
table from her, his gaze warm on her face and his laughter rumbling
across the space between them.