Once More With Feeling (38 page)

"Gypsy. . ." He put his hand on her
shoulder, as if to steady her. He pulled her toward him
instead.

The intercom buzzed.

She jerked backward; her heart skipped a
beat, then slammed against her rib cage like a frightened bird.
"Holy bejeepers."

"I told you I was having company." He
stepped backward, breaking all contact and checked his watch--an
Anfiteatro from Bulgari's that Elisabeth had given him as an
anniversary gift when she'd still felt they had something to
celebrate.

She crossed her arms to ward off the sudden
chill. "I could leave. I should, in fact."

"No." He answered so quickly, so
impulsively, that she knew he didn't want her to go. "Stay. Please.
At least meet my friends."

"Won't they find it odd that I'm here with
you like this?"

"The only person I have to answer to is
lying in a nursing home bed. She doesn't know where I am or what
I'm doing." His eyes told her the rest. "And we have nothing to be
ashamed of."

Not yet
. He never would have added
the last. She could see regret warring with desire. He had been as
enraptured by her as she with him. If the intercom hadn't squawked.
. .

It squawked again, and she was passionately
grateful. She had almost made the most grandiose mistake of a
mistaken-ridden life.

He left to speak to the doorman, then he
went into the kitchen to check on the coffee. When a knock sounded
he was ready.

And she was ready to go back to her
apartment and have a double shot of Jameson's and a good hard
cry.

Owen came back into the room and she got her
first glimpse of his guests. Missy Adamson, her dark hair stiffened
into a Wagnerian helmet, was followed at a distance by Richard who
was chatting with Marguerite and Seamus O'Keefe. Gypsy's eyes
squeezed shut involuntarily. She would answer to Marguerite for
this.

"Gypsy, meet my friends."

She stepped forward and struggled to
remember who she was. Not Elisabeth, the woman who had counted
these people among her closest friends. But Gypsy, who didn't know
them at all.

She shook hands and murmured names, smiled
and nodded until she came to Marguerite. Marguerite gripped Gypsy's
hand with the same force that she gripped a tennis racket on a game
point serve. It was all Gypsy could do not to screech in protest.
"Miss Dugan," Marguerite said, lifting one aristocratic brow. "How
interesting to find you here."

Gypsy retaliated. "How are you, Mrs.
O'Keefe. It's good to see you again." Gypsy smiled her flirtatious
anchorwoman smile.

"You two know each other?" Owen asked.

Gypsy continued to smile. In retaliation for
the handshake she was going to let Marguerite get them both out of
this one.

Marguerite lifted her chin and looked down
her straight-as- a-Republican nose. "We ran into each other in the
park one morning. We seem to share it."

"And other things," Gypsy said. "I was
delighted to see we have common interests."

"You've been hobnobbing with celebrities,
and you didn't even tell me?" Seamus shook his head at his wife.
"You're hopeless, Marg."

"We've met, too," Richard Adamson said to
Gypsy.

She couldn't remember, of course. But she
did vaguely remember a conversation at the dinner party Elisabeth
and Owen had given on the night before her miraculous
transformation. Richard had said that he'd met Gypsy and despised
her.

"Yes, I think I remember." She nodded
politely. "A long time ago."

"You have a good memory, then. Because it
has been a long time."

She wondered if that was true. She hoped to
God it was because if there was more to the story, it very well
might be that Richard Adamson and Gypsy Dugan had gone to bed
together. She had no evidence that the former Gypsy was the tramp
she'd led the world to think she was, but neither was there any to
suggest she had indulged in one committed, long term relationship
at a time. She had liked men. And she had probably gone to bed with
some very famous ones to get stories.

Richard Adamson might very well have been
one of them.

She dimpled coquettishly, just to test the
waters. "I never forget an important face. And you're becoming
important in New York, Richard. It's too bad there's absolutely no
scandal attached to your name. I would dearly love to do a story
about you. We all would, but you seem so determinedly upright."

Missy took Richard's arm, like a bodyguard
who smells danger. "Wouldn't that be a story in itself? A
politician who doesn't lie, steal, or fornicate? I'd think that's
all your show would need for a headline."

Gypsy wagged her finger playfully. "I'm
afraid we'd just see that as a challenge and dig a lot deeper.
Richard, you must have cheated on a test paper in prep school, or
tortured tadpoles at summer camp. We'd find you out."

For just the briefest instant he looked
dismayed. Gypsy had been teasing, and her aim had been at herself,
not him. She'd been making fun of her show and what she did. She
had no illusions that
The Whole Truth
was hard news, and
she'd wanted everyone to relax and see that. Now she thought that
she might well have uncovered a story, instead.

"He doesn't get near tadpoles, for fear of
the animal rights vote," Missy drawled. "If he did, he'd declare
their puddle to be national wetlands and have it cordoned off."

Everyone laughed. Gypsy did, too, but she
didn't take her eyes off Richard. He was fine now, nicely
recovered. But when he looked back at her animosity flared briefly
in his eyes.

"I've made coffee," Owen said. "I'll serve.
Everyone make themselves comfortable."

"I should go." Gypsy looked at her watch,
although it didn't matter what time it said. She wasn't going to
stay and risk giving herself away. She shook her head regretfully.
"I've got a taping to do first thing in the morning, and I'd better
get some sleep or they'll be looking for someone without circles
under her eyes to replace me."

"Yes, it's all about how you look on camera,
isn't it?" Richard said.

"No. You'd be surprised, but it's really
about how well I do my job. And I do it very well."

"You don't mean you go after your own
stories now? When you were covering the Capitol I heard that the
only thing you did between the afternoon and evening news was your
nails."

The room was so quiet Gypsy could hear a
clock ticking somewhere in the distance. "Did you?" she asked when
she could speak calmly again. "I'm afraid that was just one of
those rumors I planted to throw people off my scent. But I'm very
skilled at getting information. It's what I live for. Let me
interview you and we'll see what I can come up with."

"Children!" Marguerite clapped her hands.
"Stop circling this instant. You are making me dizzy."

Gypsy turned back to Owen. "It's been a nice
evening. Just what I needed. Thanks for dinner. You'll call if
there's anything I can do?"

He nodded.

She said polite good byes to the others.
Owen got her coat and walked her to the door before he called
downstairs to have the doorman tell Billy that she was on her
way.

"I'm sorry," she said when he'd finished. "I
don't know what came over me."

"Richard did, as a matter of fact. I'll
apologize for him. Maybe he's had a hard day."

"Maybe he has." And maybe she would see if
she could find out why.

"Gypsy. . ."

She put her hand on his arm. Touching him
was the greatest pleasure she could imagine. "Let it go. We had
dinner. It was good for us both."

"Maybe we shouldn't see each other
again."

She knew he was right and that they would,
anyway. "You need all the friends you can get right now. Don't cut
me off."

He looked as if he wanted to say more. He
didn't. He took her coat and held it as she slipped into it. "Make
sure Billy is doing his job."

"I'm as safe as I can be." She stood on
tiptoe and kissed his cheek. She hadn't meant to, although it was
perfectly appropriate. His skin was smooth against her lips, and
his scent was so familiar and welcome she wanted to inhale it
forever. She stepped away from him before she pitched her lovesick
body into his arms. "Take care, Owen." She opened the door and left
him standing in the hallway of his apartment as Billy stepped off
the elevator to escort her downstairs.

Marguerite's blond hair escaped in wisps
from a bun secured with ivory chopsticks. She had paced the length
of Gypsy's apartment twice, and she was just warming up. It was
early morning after their meeting at Owen's apartment, and
Marguerite was paying an unannounced social call. Her mother would
have been appalled.

"What exactly did you think you would
accomplish going to Owen's apartment like that?"

Gypsy snuggled back against a Laura Ashley
slipcover and watched as her friend barely skirted the coffee
table. "I'm not playing games with Owen, if that's what you're
afraid of."

"Maybe that's not your intent--"

"Come off it, Marg. You don't have any idea
what this is like for me, no matter how hard you try to put
yourself in my place."

Marguerite faced her, hands on hips. "You
have a size five body, legs as long as Birch Haven's front drive,
and skin that will not wrinkle if you spend the entire night
submerged in a Hollywood hot tub. I'm supposed to feel
sympathy?"

"Give it a try."

"You know, you really never are
satisfied."

Gypsy didn't answer. There was no point.
Marguerite was winding up, and there would be no stopping her.

"You were not happy as Elisabeth. Oh, you
never complained, but the unhappiness was there. We could all see
it."

"Owen didn't."

"Hogwash. He certainly did. And, of course,
you never told him why you were unhappy, so the poor man could not
do a thing about it. He was left to imagine the worst. And now
you're not happy as Gypsy. You want what you had as Elisabeth.
Maybe it's time you gave some thought to making up your mind."

"Whoa! Why don't you back up a bit. What do
you mean Owen was left to imagine the worst? Has he said something
to you?"

"I was your best friend. I had no choice but
to watch you. Owen did not need to say a thing."

"Then why didn't you say something?"

"It was not my place to interfere--"

"That seems to have changed."

"Quite a lot has changed."

The sofa was no longer comfortable. Gypsy
got up and went to the window. The city was waking up. Just across
the street a group of school children in prison-gray uniforms
huddled together for warmth under the watchful eyes of a man who
looked like a strip joint bouncer. "What did Owen imagine?"

"I would be guessing."

"Then guess."

"All right. I think he believed you had
fallen out of love with him. He was never that certain of you,
Elisabeth--"

"I'm not Elisabeth. Not anymore."

"Fine. He was never that certain of
Elisabeth. I don't think it will matter how rich and successful
Owen Whitfield becomes. There's still the tiniest part of him
that's reduced to nothing more than the son of immigrants who were
the children of Polish peasants. It does not matter how egalitarian
he is in theory, in his nightmares he still believes Elisabeth is
the lady of the manor."

He had said something similar himself last
night. Tears filled Gypsy's eyes. She wiped her cheeks with her
fingertips. "Lord, I didn't cry this much when I was approaching
menopause in another body."

"Maybe Gypsy was more comfortable with her
feelings than Elisabeth was ever allowed to be."

"Oh, come on. Pop psych from you of all
people?"

"I grew up with the same expectations that
you did."

"Elisabeth still loved Owen. Right up until
the day she realized she wasn't the only woman in his life. I don't
know what I feel now. Maybe Elisabeth should have gone to him,
tried to tell him how she felt right at the beginning. Maybe she
should have demanded that he tell her the truth about Anna. But she
was afraid that's exactly what he'd do."

"Elisabeth was always a bit of a
coward."

Gypsy played with the satin sash of her
bathrobe, tying and retying it. "Gypsy is, too. But only when it
comes to Owen. Gypsy can do things Elisabeth only dreamed about.
You can't imagine what it's like. I didn't know Elisabeth was bound
by so many chains until someone unlocked them."

"Then why aren't you happy?"

"I don't know!"

"Do you love Owen?"

"He broke my heart."

"And you let it happen."

"Square one. It's getting familiar."

"No, square one is this: Why were you with
Owen last night?"

Gypsy stuffed her hands in her pockets to
keep from untying the robe one more time. "I don't know. But if the
opportunity arises, I'll be with him again."

"You cannot go back. You really are not
Elisabeth anymore. You were right about that."

"Then I'll be Gypsy."

"He's attracted to you."

Gypsy faced Marguerite. Marguerite no longer
looked angry, but she was clearly worried. "Why do you say
that?"

"It was perfectly obvious last night. He
never once took his eyes off you."

"Didn't he?"

"Seamus noticed it, as well."

"Seamus told you that?"

"Seamus is worried, too. Of course he does
not know what I do."

"Well, he has cause to worry. After all, if
Owen had an affair with me, it wouldn't be his first, would it?
It's becoming a habit. Next thing we know he'll be standing up in
smoke-filled meeting halls saying 'Hi, I'm Owen, and I'm a sex
addict."

"It would be Owen's first affair while his
wife is lying comatose in a nursing home bed."