“Oh.” Gypsy thought that over for a while.
“I hope you like lobster.”
“Love it. You’re never going to get the dent taken out?”
“That Mercedes will go to its grave with the dent.”
Gypsy helped Chase put away groceries. “I bet Freud could have had a field day with that,” she murmured finally.
“I wouldn’t doubt it. Through for the day?”
She blinked, remembered her writing, and nodded. “With the book. But I got a set of galleys in the mail, and I have to proof them. They have to go back in the mail tomorrow.”
“Without fail?”
“Without fail.”
“How long will it take you to proof them?”
“Couple of hours. Give or take.”
“Ah! Then we’ll have plenty of time.”
“Time for what?” she asked innocently.
“To cook lobster, of course,” he replied, totally deadpan.
“Let a girl down, why don’t you.”
“Never.”
“Besides, I don’t cook. Remember?”
“I’ll cook. You’ll keep me company. What is this?” He was holding up a covered plastic bowl taken from the refrigerator.
Gypsy crossed her arms and leaned back against the counter. “I don’t remember what it started out to be. Now it’s a whatisit.”
“Come again?”
“A whatisit.” She smiled gently at his bafflement.
“Is it alive?” he wondered, prudently not lifting the lid to find out.
“Probably.” Gypsy choked back a giggle. “I warned you that I wasn’t a housekeeper.”
“I seem to remember that you did.” Chase stared at the mysterious bowl for a moment, then placed it back in the refrigerator.
“Lack of courage?” she queried mockingly.
“Common sense. No telling how long that thing’s been growing in there; it might bite by now.”
“Superman would have looked.”
“Superman would have thrown it into outer space.”
Gypsy sighed mournfully. “They just don’t make heroes like they used to.”
“Pity, isn’t it?” He lifted an eyebrow at her.
She crossed the room suddenly and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging fiercely.
“Hey!” He was surprised, but clearly pleased. “What did I do?”
“You made Daisy beautiful.” She hugged harder, rubbing her cheek against his chest. “Thank you.”
“Superman would have gotten you a new Daisy,” he said gruffly, returning the hug with interest.
“Superman wouldn’t have known I wanted my Daisy. You did.”
“I won out over Superman?” he asked hopefully.
“Hands down. Let Lois have him.”
Chase turned her face up gently, gazing down into misty gray eyes. “I think the lobster will wait awhile,” he murmured.
“Lobsters are tactful souls….”
Gypsy didn’t get around to proofing the galleys until nearly midnight. And she only managed to get started then because she flatly refused to share Chase’s shower.
“You’ll be sorry….”
“And you’re a menace!” Gypsy carelessly discarded the caftan she’d been wearing all evening and climbed into bed. Ignoring her audience, she pulled the covers up, arranged them neatly, and drew the galleys forward. “I absolutely have to read these. Go take your shower.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Chase said in a laughing voice, “I’d much rather watch you.”
Gypsy was hanging half out of bed, fumbling beneath it and muttering to herself. “Ah!” She righted herself, rescued the sliding galleys, and held up a pair of her reading glasses in one triumphant hand. “I knew they were there somewhere.”
“You keep a pair under the bed?” Chase asked politely.
“Where do—”
“I know,” he interrupted ruefully. “Where do I keep glasses?”
“Am I in a rut?” she wondered innocently.
“No, sweetheart.” He bent over the bed to kiss her lightly. “You’re the last person in the world who could ever be in a rut.”
“Close the door,” she called after him, polishing her glasses on the sheet. “I don’t need steamy galleys.”
“If it’s steamy you want—”
“Don’t say it!”
The closing bathroom door cut off his laugh.
Smiling to herself, Gypsy began to read the galleys. She was vaguely aware of the shower going on in the bathroom, but concentrated completely on the job at hand. Until the phone rang.
Gypsy quickly picked up the receiver, only half her mind on the action. “Hello?”
“You were gone again last night.”
She cast a baffled, harrassed look toward the bathroom door. Dammit, it had to be Chase. “I told you to stop calling me!” she said fiercely.
“‘I am two fools, I know, for loving, and for saying so,’” he breathed sadly.
He was quoting Donne again.
Gypsy pushed the glasses to the top of her head and tried to think. “Don’t call me again—and I mean it this time!”
“I dream of you,” he whispered. “I dream of a voice like honey, of sweetness and gentleness. I believe in unicorns and heroes, and I wish on stars.”
“Quit it,” she said weakly.
“I created a dream-love, and she’s you. She’s the first flower of spring, the first star at night, the sun’s first ray in the morning. She’s a song I can’t forget, a light in the darkness, and I love her.”
“Please, quit it,” Gypsy moaned desperately.
“Dream of me, love.” The phone clicked softly.
Gypsy cradled the receiver. She nudged Corsair off her foot, not even noticing when he immediately resumed his favorite sleeping place. Undecided, she looked toward the bathroom door, then shook her head.
“No,” she murmured to Corsair, or to Bucephalus beside the bed. “If I went and looked, he’d be there. And I don’t think I could take it.” She gazed into Corsair’s china-blue eyes be-musedly “I might well be in love with two men—and one of them’s faceless, nameless, and probably a nut!”
When Chase came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, she was chewing on the earpiece of her glasses and staring into space.
Chase, a towel knotted around his waist, came over to the bed. He picked up Corsair, got Bucephalus by the collar, and escorted both to the door, shutting them out in the hall. When he turned around, he looked at Gypsy for a moment, then asked politely, “You’d rather they slept in here?”
“Hmmm?” She blinked at him.
“The pets.” He crossed to sit on the foot of the bed, adding, “You were frowning at me.”
“Cheshire cat,” she murmured absently.
It was his turn to blink. “Earth to Gypsy?”
She stirred, finally giving him her full attention. “I wasn’t frowning at you—I was just frowning.”
“Why?”
Gypsy looked at him for a moment. “Seemed the thing to do.”
Chase gave up. He shed the towel and climbed into bed beside her. “About finished up?” he asked seductively.
“About at the end of my rope,” she confided seriously.
He propped himself up on an elbow and stared at her for a long moment. “You’re just full of cryptic comments tonight, Gypsy mine.”
“Uh-huh.” Gypsy dumped the galleys on the floor beside the bed, dropping her glasses on top of them. “I’ll do these in the morning. Early in the morning before the mailman comes. Don’t let me forget.”
“Perish the thought….”
The galleys were late.
The next few days were interesting to say the least. Nights were alternately spent in Chase’s house or Gypsy’s, although days were generally spent at Gypsy’s since she flatly refused to “clutter up” Chase’s lovely den or study with her stuff.
She worked during the day; her story was still shaping without
an obsessive urge to work constantly. Chase made several trips into Portland, where his office was located; he was officially on vacation, but since his was a one-man office, and since he was designing a house for Jake and Sarah, the trips were necessary.
But he was usually somewhere nearby. Gypsy would look up occasionally to see him stretched out on the couch reading, or hear him whistling in the kitchen. And he always made sure she ate regularly.
“I’ll gain ten pounds if this keeps up!”
“Ten pounds on you would just be necessary ballast.”
“Funny man. That ‘ballast’ won’t be able to fit into my jeans.”
“Have another roll.”
With Chase, every day—and certainly every night—became an adventure. Gypsy never knew what he’d do next.
“What is that?”
“The mating call of whales.”
“Really? I didn’t even know you had an aquarium.”
“Cute. It’s a record. To set the mood.”
“And I thought we were doing so well.”
“Change is the spice of life, Gypsy mine.”
“Right. Where’s the water bed?”
“Damn. Knew I forgot something.”
Gypsy discovered that it was definitely nice to have a man around. She was as mechanically inept as she was forgetful, her usual method of fixing anything being a few swift kicks or thumps.
“Chase, where are you?”
“In the kitchen feeding your pets.”
She headed for the kitchen, announcing without preamble, “Herman’s e is sticking, and it’s driving me crazy. Can you do anything?”
Chase nearly lost a finger since he was giving Bucephalus a steak bone and looked up at the crucial moment. He stared at Gypsy for a second, then apparently deduced that Herman was the typewriter. “I’ll certainly try,” he told her, accepting named typewriters without a blink.
Ten minutes later Gypsy was happily typing again. “My hero,” she murmured absently as Chase straightened from his leaning position against the desk. He touched her cheek lightly and said, “That’s all I ever wanted to be, sweetheart.”
Gypsy looked up only when he’d left the room. She stared after him for a long time, eyes distant and thoughtful. Then she bent her head and went back to work.
Chase came in late one afternoon to find her pounding the keys furiously and wearing a fierce grimace that didn’t invite interruption.
“Gypsy—”
“Hush!” she said distractedly, hammering away at her top speed, which was pretty impressive. “Someone’s about to get killed.”
It was half an hour before her assault on Herman ceased. Gypsy straightened and rubbed the small of her back absently, reading over what she’d written. Only then did she become aware of a presence. She looked up to find Chase leaning against the bookcase and watching her with a faint smile.
“Hello,” she said in surprise. “How long have you been there?”
“A few minutes. I tried to interrupt you, and you told me to hush.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she muttered, horrified.
He chuckled softly. “Don’t be. I knew it was the wrong time but, to be honest, I wanted to find out what you’d do. And if that was the worst, we’re home free, sweetheart.”
Gypsy pushed her glasses up on top of her head, never noticing that the pair already there fell to the floor behind her.
She looked curiously at his trying-hard-to-hide grin. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” she murmured in response to his comment.
“If you say so. What would you like for dinner?”
Gypsy’s “night lover” continued to call whenever she and Chase were spending the night in her house. Chase was always around, but never in the room, and her suspicions were growing by leaps and bounds. It was much easier, she admitted to herself ruefully, to believe that it was Chase; otherwise, she was quite definitely in love with two separate men… and there was a wonderfully cheering thought!
A few days later, suddenly and with no warning, her book became an obsession. It wasn’t too bad at first; Chase found wonderfully unique ways of getting her away from the typewriter for a break or a meal or sleep—and all without causing her to lose her temper once.
“Gypsy?”
“Not now.”
“You have to help me—it’s desperately important!”
“What then?”
“My zipper’s stuck.”
“Chase!”
“It got you away from the typewriter.”
“I know, but really!”
“Now that you’re here—”
“You’re incorrigible!”
Or:
“Gypsy?”
“What?”
“You have to help me.”
“What’s desperately important now?”
“I have to get my car keys.”
“Chase, you’ve been up that tree every morning for weeks; you should know the way by now.”
“Corsair went up a different tree. Sneaky cat.”
“I’ll bet you told him to.”
“How could I? He doesn’t listen to me. Come now, Gypsy mine, just a moment of your time. I don’t ask for much, after all.”
“Stop sounding pitiful; it won’t wash.”
“It was worth a try.”
He found her outside one morning, sitting cross-legged on the ground and methodically pulling up handfuls of grass.
“Why are you mangling the lawn?” he asked sweetly, sinking down beside her.
Gypsy was fixedly watching her hands. “I’ve painted myself into a corner, dammit,” she muttered irritably. “And now I don’t see…”
“Let the paint dry and repaint the room,” he advised cheerfully obviously without the least idea of what she was talking about.
She froze, lifting startled eyes to his. “Wait a minute. That just might work. I could— And then—” She reached over to hug him exuberantly. “You did it! Thank you!”
Chase followed her into the house, murmuring, “Great. What did I do?”
Chase managed to get her away from the typewriter all day the following Sunday by inviting her parents to have dinner and spend the afternoon at his house. Gypsy was inclined to be temperish about it at first; in fact, it was the first time she really snapped at him—and it upset her more than it did Chase.
“Why did you do that? I can’t stop working for a whole day! I’ll never get this book finished, dammit, and it’s all your fault!”
“Gypsy—”
“You’ve messed up my whole life!”
“Have I?” he asked softly.
She stared at him and her anger vanished. Quickly she rose from her chair and went over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “Why do you put up with me?” she asked shakily
“Well, you’re just an occasional shrew,” he told her conversationally. “And I always did prefer tangy to sweet.”
“Chase—”
“Cheer up. You haven’t seen my worst side yet.”
“Do you have one? I was thinking of having you canonized.”
“Saint Chase?” He tried the title on for size. “Doesn’t sound right, somehow. We’ll have to think it over. Come along now, Gypsy mine; we’re going to prepare a feast for your parents.”
“We?”
“This time you get to help.”
“Help do what? Kill us all? Face it, pal—I have absolutely no aptitude for cookery.”
“You can slice things, can’t you?”
“You’re going to let me have a knife?”
“On second thought I’ll do the slicing. You can set the table and keep me company.”
“As I asked once before, is your china insured?”
“Since the day after I met you.”
The entire day was fun laced with nonsense, and Gypsy thoroughly enjoyed it. She always enjoyed her parents’ visits, but Chase’s presence made it even better. He got along very well with both of them, accepting Gypsy’s definitely
unusual parents with clear enjoyment.
And they just as clearly approved of him:
“Mother, what were you and Chase in a huddle about?”
“Nothing important, darling. Are you working on a book? You don’t look as tired as usual.”
Knowing her mother, Gypsy accepted the change of subject. “Chase makes me rest.”
“Your father is just the same with me. When’s the wedding?”
“Are you and Poppy getting married again, Mother?”
“Gypsy…”
“He hasn’t asked, Mother.”
“Nonsense, darling. He doesn’t have to.”
“Etiquette demands it.”
“Write a new rule. Ask him.”
“I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl.”
“Stubborn. Just like your father.”
“Poppy, where are you going with that ladder?”
“Corsair stole my car keys. He’s on the roof; Chase is going up after him.”
“Oh. Chase had a ladder all this time? I’ll get him for that; I’ve been helping him out of trees all week.”
“Corsair?”
“Chase.”
“Oh, I like him, darling.”
“Corsair?”
“You’re worse than your mother. Chase, of course.”
“Stop smiling at me, Poppy.”
“I like smiling at you; fathers do that, you know.”
“Yes, but it’s that kind of smile. A definitely parental Father-always-knows-kid-and-don’t-try-to-hide-it kind of smile. Unnerving.”
“You’re misreading my expression. This is my I-want-to-dandle-a-grandchild-on-my-knee-one-day smile.”
“Poppy—”
“I’ll take the ladder to Chase.”
“Do that.”
“Did you get Corsair off the roof?”
“After a merry chase, yes. Your cat has a devious mind.”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you. If you’d only stop playing his game, he’d stop too. He never would have gone up a tree a second time if you’d only ignored him the first time.”
“I needed my keys.”
“He would have dropped them. Eventually.”
“Uh-huh.”
Days passed and Gypsy became more and more wrapped up in her book. The clutter on her desk, composed of notes on odd sheets of paper, reference books, and assorted alien objects like the Buddha, grew until it was nearly impossible to find her or Herman in the middle of it. Chase pulled her from the muddle for meals but otherwise left her strictly alone.