Once More With Feeling (18 page)

Then she realized exactly where they
were.

"Perry. . ." She put her hand on Perry's arm
to stop her. "There's a shop I'd like to go in."

Perry seemed relieved. This new show of
enthusiasm was obviously welcome. "Fine. Where?"

"That way." Gypsy pointed down the street.
"Fresh. It's a beauty boutique. I . . . buy my cosmetics there."
She didn't. Elisabeth had. Elisabeth who certainly didn't need them
now.

For a moment she almost faltered, but the
lure of the familiar, the prospect of using the same products that
had been a ritual in her former life, was too potent. Marguerite
O'Keefe had introduced her to Fresh. They had come here together,
experimented with a dozen different lotions and powders. It was a
peaceful place in an urban jungle. They'd had some of their best
conversations on stools at the counter.

"Sounds like fun to me," Perry said. "Maybe
I'll buy something to make me gorgeous tonight."

"You don't have to buy anything for
that."

"You sure do know what to say."

They puttered for most of an hour. Gypsy
knew better than to make a blanket purchase of the products that
had worked so well for Elisabeth. Her skin tended to be oily;
Elisabeth's had been dry. Their coloring differed, and so did the
images they projected. She solicited advice, and it was courteously
given. She and Perry experimented, laughed over mistakes, and
crowed over successes. Even though she had to reluctantly abandon
the moisturizers and foundation that Elisabeth had used, she found
others that had the same familiar feel and scent. She bought
liberally, and Perry, pleased enough with the prices, splurged as
well.

For that hour, she almost forgot everything
else. By the time they were finished making their selections, she
was almost happy. Until she saw Marguerite.

She had already ceased questioning why fate
had taken such a powerful hand in her life. It was far less of a
twist to have Marguerite O'Keefe staring at her than it had been to
wake up in another woman's body. She wondered what Marguerite would
do right now if Gypsy threw herself into her arms and sobbed out
the truth.

The answer was depressingly obvious.
Marguerite, who had always cornered the market on eccentricity,
would call for the men with the butterfly nets.

"I know you," Marguerite said.

"We'd better get out of here," Perry said in
low tones.

"No, it's okay." Gypsy started toward
Marguerite, stopping just in front of her. Marguerite's hair was
pulled back from her narrow face in a lopsided chignon. She wore a
basic black dress that had probably been passed down from a
particularly stoic maiden aunt, the pearls she'd been given on the
eve of her debut and a button that read: "I will not have a nice
day just because you told me to."

Gypsy extended her hand. "I'm Gypsy
Dugan."

Marguerite took it. "Yes, you are."

It was an odd affirmation under the
circumstances.

"I believe you're owed an apology,"
Marguerite said.

"Am I?"

"Yes. It should come from Owen. Owen
Whitfield, Elisabeth's husband. But he's in no shape to do it. So I
shall take it on myself."

"I see." And she did. She doubted Owen had
apologies on his mind these days. He was probably much too busy
balancing Anna, work, and the charade of grieving husband. "Well,
you don't have to apologize. I understand he was upset. This must
be a very . . ." A very what? Inconvenient? Frustrating? Annoying?
She settled on a word that could be interpreted a dozen different
ways. "A very hard time for him."

"No more than for you, I'm sure. After all,
you nearly died, I'm told."

Or did, depending on perspective. Gypsy
forced herself to nod. "But I'm recovering, and his wife is . . .
not."

"How do you know that?"

The truth seemed the best answer. "I call
the hospital and check every day."

"Do you? That seems quite
conscientious."

She told the truth again. "I feel a strong
link to Elisabeth."

"This all surprises me very much." Her blond
head cocked, Marguerite surveyed Gypsy from head to toe. "I'm
curious about one thing, Miss Dugan. Owen tells me you used my name
in order to get into Elisabeth's room. How did you know I was on
her visitors' list?"

Gypsy stared at her. Then she realized what
any newswoman would have done if she'd wanted that piece of
information. "I bribed someone to find out who was on it in case I
had trouble with the nurse on duty."

"I see. And why did it matter so much to
you?"

"That would be remarkably difficult to
explain."

"I am remarkably capable of understanding
plain English."

Gypsy faltered. She was within touching
distance of her best friend. She and Marguerite had shared so many
secrets over the years. They had stood together at the graveside of
Elisabeth's mother and father and later, Marguerite's parents. They
had crowed over the newborn Grant, cried a month later when
Marguerite's own pregnancy ended in miscarriage. She wanted
desperately to tell her the truth.

But how could she convince Marguerite of
something she didn't understand herself?

She shrugged in her best Gypsy style. "Call
it guilt. I guess that's as plain as English can get."

"You are not at all what I expected."

"You don't know the half of it," Gypsy said
with feeling.

"Elisabeth was fascinated by you. That's the
odd part of it, you know. I think she wanted to live your life. .
."

"I--She never told you that."

"How would you know what she told me?"

"I meant . . . From what I've discovered
about her, Elisabeth Whitfield hardly seems like the kind of woman
who would envy someone like . . . me."

"Oh, there were--are surprising depths to
our Elisabeth. She was not--before the accident, I mean--was not
happy with her life. I think. . . I know she wished she had done
more to have a career like yours. To be perfectly honest and a bit
crude, I think she envied your guts."

Gypsy swallowed tears. She had never
realized how well Marguerite understood her, how much empathy had
been waiting, if she'd just tapped into it. "She was. . . and is
lucky to have an understanding friend."

"All the understanding in the world won't
help her now. But I do not want you to believe that all of us think
the accident was your fault. There is nothing to indicate that it
was. Certainly not entirely. And Owen knows that, too. He is just
too emotional right now to think clearly."

Gypsy stood a little straighter. "He seemed
to have lots of support that day in the hospital."

"I suppose you mean Anna."

Gypsy shrugged more dramatically.

Marguerite's eyes narrowed. "I certainly
hope you're not looking for a sleazy tabloid story. Because that
would be the wrong place."

"I'm sure you're right." Gypsy didn't sound
sure at all.

"I know Owen attacked you, but don't think
you can attack back. Because we will circle our wagons around him,
you know. All his friends will protect him. He is well loved."

"Well, now that you mention it, that's just
the part of the story that intrigues me." No sooner had she said
the words than Gypsy wished she could call them back.

But surprisingly, Marguerite smiled a
little. "I think I see a bit of what attracted Elisabeth to you.
You say exactly what you please. And she has always been afraid to
do the same." The smile dwindled. "I have apologized, and now I'll
go. Good luck, Miss Dugan. I hope you recover completely." She
nodded her head in farewell.

Gypsy watched her walk away.

"Strange lady," Perry said from behind
her.

"One of the best," Gypsy said.

If Perry thought her answer was odd, she
didn't say so. "Shall we do lunch? Or go home?"

"There's a man standing just outside the
window, lolling uselessly against the light pole like he doesn't
have a care in the world."

"So?"

"He's been there since we entered the
store."

"Are you worried? Should I call
security?"

"No. Just go tell him to radio for the limo.
I want to go home."

"You could ask your mystery man for dinner,"
Gypsy told Perry. "You've made enough shrimp for ten people. I'd
love to meet him. Maybe the four of us could go out afterward for a
drink."

"I'm going out, and you're staying in."
Perry turned off the burner. "Fact is, I'm going out right about
now. I'm going home to dress. And he's meeting me there."

"What can I do to change your mind?"

"Not a thing."

Gypsy followed her out of the kitchen. "I
can compromise. Just come for dinner."

"No." Perry disappeared into her room and
came back out with her purse over her shoulder. "Do you remember
what you have to do to get everything ready?"

Gypsy made a face.

"And if I hear you called Casey and gave him
some piss-poor excuse why you had to cancel dinner, I'm coming
after you. Understand?"

"What if it's a stellar excuse?"

"No excuse. None. You'll have fun."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"You'll do fine." Perry unlocked the door
and stepped into the hallway. She gazed down the hall, then she
nodded.

Gypsy stepped out after her, but there was
no one else there.

"Who'd you just nod to?"

"Nobody. Now you get back inside and get
ready for Casey."

"Perry . . ." Gypsy put her hands on her
hips. "I mean it. Who were you nodding at?"

"You don't have a thing to worry about
except getting ready."

Gypsy stepped in front of her. "Is it Billy
or one of his boys?"

Perry frowned, but she didn't deny it.

"Why?" Gypsy demanded.

"Not my place to tell you, sugar bun. You
want to know, ask someone from the show."

"Oh, terrific. How many secrets are you
keeping from me, anyway?"

"Just the ones I'm paid to."

"Does Casey know about this?"

Perry shrugged. "Ask him."

"I have ways to make you talk."

"Not a one that will work."

"I could call my decorator and have him
start on your room. How would you feel about a grass hut and a
hammock?"

"Ask Casey about Billy."

Gypsy knew that was the best she was going
to get. "Have fun tonight."

"You go back in and lock up so I can
leave."

Inside, Gypsy started back through the
apartment. Casey was due in half an hour, and she only had to
change. Some of the banter with Perry had been for show, but a
substantial part of her was worried about the evening ahead.

Dinner with Casey was the closest thing to a
date that she'd had in twenty-five years. She was a married woman
living in an unmarried woman's body, and the last time she'd gone
out with a man who wasn't her husband, Gypsy Dugan had been three
years old.

Casey wasn't the only man who was pursuing
her, either. Since her discharge from the hospital she had used her
answering machine to screen all her calls. She could only guess
what some of the men wanted with her, but she didn't think it was
her autograph.

Having men lined up around the block was a
delicious fantasy, one Elisabeth had indulged in occasionally even
when her marriage to Owen had been wildly happy. But the reality
was something else. She was apprehensive, and despite herself,
guilty that she was about to be alone with another man. She might
be living Gypsy Dugan's life, but she hadn't yet absorbed her
casual attitudes or comfort with sexual freedom.

She was ready by the time Casey was
announced. She'd chosen black satin capris and a sheer white
organdy shirt. She had a feeling that when the shirt had been worn
previously there had been nothing but skin beneath it. Tonight she
wore a white satin camisole. Dressing in clothes Elisabeth would
never have dared to wear, was becoming the high point of each
day.

Casey was dressed in a sportcoat of flecked
raw silk over a black T-shirt and fashionably ragged jeans. His
sockless feet were jammed into dark loafers. When she opened the
door he touched the tip of her chin with his index finger, then
leaned forward to give her a quick kiss. "You look good, Gyps. I
always liked that shirt."

"Did you?"

"I thought maybe that's why you wore
it."

She stepped away from him. "Sorry. I wish I
could tell you my memory's back, but you're still a stranger."

His laugh rumbled through the space between
them. "We'll see about that."

"I don't think so." She watched as he
conscientiously closed the door behind him, turned the dead bolt,
and hooked the chain. "Can't be too careful, huh, Casey?"

"Did you forget about the crime rate in the
city?"

"Did you and everyone else forget to mention
why I'm under twenty-four-hour surveillance?" She turned away from
him and went to the dining room hutch where she had discovered that
the liquor was kept. "What'll I get for you?"

"The usual."

"And that is?"

"I'll do it." He clearly knew his way around
the apartment. He found half a bottle of Jameson's and poured a
generous three fingers.

He held it up to her, but she shook her
head. "Do you want ice?"

"I drink it like this." He proved his point
by swallowing half of it in one, smooth toss.

"What do I drink?"

"Anything you can get."

Gypsy pondered that. "Do I have a problem,
would you say?"

"Are you asking if you're an alcoholic?"

"I suppose."

"Not yet. The potential's probably there.
But that's true for a lot of us in the business. Too many missed
meals, tight schedules. An overabundance of airport bars and
meetings that last all night." He finished his drink and poured
another.

The images he evoked sent a thrill up her
spine. The last all-night meeting she'd attended had been with
six-month-old Grant and a particularly stubborn tooth. "I don't
suppose I drink Manhattans."