Once More With Feeling (44 page)

"I don't want to talk about this here, and I
don't want to talk about it now."

"You're going to anyway. And don't try to
get any closer to the door because you won't make it."

Resignation, not threat, sounded in his
voice. But Gypsy wasn't going to test him. Des was a short man, but
his shoulders were nearly as wide as his legs were long. And his
hands were powerful enough to finish her off quickly.

As if he knew what she was thinking he shook
her head. "Put that out of your mind. You don't have to worry. I'm
not going to hurt you. I don't hurt people."

"No? Too bad Mark Santini's not around to
ask about that."

"I didn't kill Mark. I didn't hire anybody
to kill him, either. His death was as much a surprise to me as it
was to you."

"I doubt that. I was standing right next to
him at the time, and I suspect it was mighty surprising to me."

"You don't remember?"

She shook her head.

"What do you know, Gyps?"

She didn't have any reason to believe he
wouldn't hurt her except for the expression in his eyes. "What are
you going to do to me if I tell you?"

He smiled. Not an evil smile, just an
exhausted one. She hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, but from
Desmond's smile Gypsy knew he hadn't slept in months. Not a real
night's sleep.

"I'm going to listen," he said, "And then
I'm going to tell you if you're right."

"And then?" It was the question of the year,
the question of her life--or what was left of it.

"And then we're going to sit down together
and figure out exactly what we should do about it." He handed back
the notepad.

"Do?"

He smiled the same sad smile. "You're
looking at the biggest story of your career, Gyps. Don't blow it.
Sit down with me, and let's make sure you win the show an
Emmy."

The final frames disappeared from the
television screen and there was an appreciative silence. Then
Kendra began to applaud, and the others who were gathered in
Gypsy's apartment to preview the Norman Carroll story took it up.
Gypsy flicked off the VCR. "So you like it?"

"You did a really great job, Gyps. It works.
It's not maudlin, but I felt a couple of moments right here." Casey
touched his chest.

"A big, tough guy like you?" She shot him a
grateful smile. She had struggled hard not to play to the lowest
common denominator. She had let the violence, the pathos of the
kids' lives speak for themselves. The most significant scene was a
fight on the school grounds during the lunch period. Her favorite
camera man had realized that the faces of the observers were as
poignant as the fight itself. In the editing Gypsy had interspersed
that footage with interviews of some of the same kids, who had
insisted in macho monotones that nothing that happened at the
school upset or frightened them. The television audience could make
their own decision.

"Perry, you're sure you're not sixteen?"
Kendra asked.

Perry tossed her head. She had proved
herself to be a real trouper. She had sized up story potential like
a seasoned reporter, and during the taping she had made sure that
she was always where the important action was taking place. "Baby
doll, I'm never going to see sixteen again. Wouldn't, if somebody
gave it to me as a gift."

Grant cleared his throat. "Speaking of
gifts, I've brought a little Christmas present for Perry."

Gypsy knew her cue. She crossed the room and
pulled the package from the inside of an old steamer trunk. Grant
had given her the gift to hide. As a little boy he had liked
nothing better than wrapping found items and giving them away. It
was still his delight.

Perry tore off the green foil and began to
chuckle. "I knew you had it in for me." She passed the gift around
the room for everyone to admire. Grant had carefully framed Perry's
essay on the theme of betrayal in King Lear, complete with his red
penciled corrections and helpful suggestions--and her hard-won A
minus.

"You've got a future in academics," he
said.

"Nope, she's got a future on television."
Gypsy was still basking in the warm glow of a job well-done. Norman
Carroll segments would run all next week. She had put together the
promos herself, and already considerable interest had been
generated. Her first full-fledged project as producer was going to
be a success.

It might also be her last.

"What about you?" Casey asked Gypsy. "Are
you ever going to be content just reading copy again?"

She shrugged. "That's a bridge I'll have to
cross later." Or not at all.

"We could start our own production company,"
Kendra said.

"Yeah, we could call it 'Some Part of the
Truth As Near As We Can Figure It.' Be more honest," Perry
said.

"'The Truth or a Bunch of Vicious Lies,'"
Kendra suggested. "Or how about 'Whatever Sells'?"

"I'll have to put someone else in charge of
promotion," Gypsy said. "You two are a washout."

In reality, the idea of a production company
was immensely appealing. It was something Elisabeth could have done
if she'd just used her imagination. She'd had the capital, the
contacts, and at least some of the experience she would have needed
to get started. All she had been missing was the conviction that
she had the right to pursue her own dreams. Owen wouldn't have
stood in her way. He had loved her, and she could have made him
understand.

Before the alienation had set in. The
doubts. The fears.

Grant and the two colleagues he'd brought
with him got to their feet. "We've got a faculty-senior basketball
game this afternoon. The last one before Christmas break, so we've
got to get going. Thanks for giving us a preview. We'll tell the
rest of the staff they don't have to skip town before this
airs."

Gypsy walked the Norman Carroll contingent
to the door and got their coats while
The Whole Truth
crew
dug into the food she'd ordered from the corner deli. "Grant, may I
speak to you for just a moment?" The other teachers said their
good-byes and left to wait for him downstairs.

"I just wanted to say thanks for
everything." She really wanted to say a final good-bye, but none of
the reasons for it would make sense to him.

He shrugged, a self-deprecating lift of his
wide, young shoulders under his wool overcoat. "I didn't do
anything. I'm glad you decided to film us. Maybe now more people
will understand what's happening to these kids."

"Just keep doing what you're doing. The show
will be forgotten in a matter of weeks, but you can make a real
difference."

He smiled his perfect Owen smile. "You'll
find this strange, but sometimes you sound like my mother. That's
exactly what she would have said."

Gypsy swallowed, determined not to cry. "I'm
glad you can still hear her voice."

He held out his hand. "Good-bye."

She took it in hers, a wider, stronger hand
than the tiny one Elisabeth had held for walks along their private
beach. "Good-bye, Grant."

"I don't suppose now that the story's
completed and we're not working together . . ."

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Go
find some nice young woman who really deserves you."

He grinned, not at all humiliated. "Your
loss, you know."

"Oh, I know."

She watched him walk away. She was still
staring at the same spot, empty now, when Casey came over to put
his arm around her shoulders. "You okay?"

She leaned against him and took a deep
breath. "I'm fine."

"I still don't think you should go to that
party tonight."

"I know you don't."

"I don't think you realize how dangerous
this could be."

"I do."

"I can't believe Des sanctioned this. I
really can't."

Casey only knew a part of the Richard
Adamson story. He didn't know how thoroughly Des was mixed up in
it. If Casey knew the "whole truth," he would have moved heaven and
earth to keep her from going to Marguerite's Christmas party. And
if Marguerite had known everything, she could not have been
persuaded to give the party at all.

At least Owen wasn't going to be at the
party to witness the biggest scoop of Gypsy's career. Marguerite
pointedly had not invited him. It had been a month since Gypsy had
seen him.

"Nothing's going to stop me from going
tonight." She turned so she could see Casey's face. "You really
don't have to go with me."

"I'll be there. I'm not letting you do this
alone."

"You're a pal."

"Yeah. And don't think I like it that way. .
." But he smiled, to let her know he understood that things between
them were the way they had to be.

She made arrangements to meet him in the
early evening at Birch Haven. He was going to visit Connecticut
friends first, then leave from there for Marguerite and Seamus's
estate. Billy would be driving Gypsy.

"We've got to go," Perry said, coming up
behind them with Kendra trailing her. "We don't have the whole day
off like some people."

Gypsy held out her hands to both of them.
They had come into her life when she desperately needed friends,
and neither of them had ever wavered in their loyalty to her.

"Hey, sweet patootie, we're just going
across town. You'll see us tomorrow. . ." Perry cocked her head and
searched Gypsy's face for the source of her tears.

Gypsy smiled a watery smile. She had hoped
to stay in control. "You're both terrific, you know that? I can't
say thank you enough. For everything."

Kendra looked suspicious. "Hey, is something
going on?"

"Nope. Just letting you know how much I
appreciated your help on this. Both of you."

Neither woman looked convinced, but Perry
hugged her and Kendra kissed her cheek. Then they were gone,
too.

"Gyps, you really aren't as blasé about this
confrontation with Adamson tonight as you've been letting on, are
you?" Casey asked.

"One thing dying--nearly dying--teaches you
is not to hedge your bets."

"You're not going to die tonight, Gyps. I'm
not going to let you."

"Of course you're not."

He was silent for a long time, staring at
the same empty patch of hallway. "You called your folks
recently?"

"Last night. I wanted to wish them a merry
Christmas."

"They have anything good to say?"

"My mother's still praying for my soul."

"What did you say to that?"

She managed to smile a little. "I told her
to pray a little harder."

She had died once--or something closely
approximating it--without any warning at all. No angels had visited
since, no heavenly jazz quartets had sounded, and no technicolor
dreams with Dolby Surround Sound and a Cecil B. DeMille cast of
thousands had warned her of her inevitable ending.

But Gypsy had known, since waking from the
accident, that the rules by which she had always played were
temporarily suspended. The former Gypsy Dugan existed somewhere
else; this Gypsy Dugan wasn't making any bets where her predecessor
was or in what form.

And out on Long Island, Elisabeth Whitfield
lay in a nursing home bed, her heart beating steadily while her
soul wandered increasingly dangerous paths.

The old saying that the only things for
certain were death and taxes didn't even apply. Death was far more
relative than she had ever expected.

So what was she doing standing in a doorway
across from Owen's office building, waiting for him to leave work
for the day? She knew he was expected at the nursing home about
seven. She had called the home, passing herself off as his
secretary. Then she had passed herself off as the nursing home
bookkeeper in a conversation with Owen's real secretary, in order
to discover that he would be leaving his office about four for an
early business dinner.

It was 3:56, and she had been standing there
for fifteen minutes listening to a Salvation Army Santa on the
corner shaking a handbell. The most she could hope for was a
glimpse of Owen. The glimpse would settle nothing, prove nothing,
accomplish nothing. But still she waited. Because if she had
learned one thing in the past months, it was that the heart had an
agenda all its own.

He exited precisely at four, unheard of
punctuality for a creative genius who only rarely was certain what
day of the week it was. His Burberry cashmere overcoat was
unbuttoned, the belt flapping as he strode toward the parking
garage where he would pick up his car. He carried a large
briefcase--no one in Manhattan walked the streets with their hands
empty. She supposed it was filled with work to keep him busy during
the long, lonely night after his visit with Elisabeth ended.

She wondered if he would read Elisabeth
poetry tonight or if he would just talk softly to her. Had he
confessed to his sleeping wife that he had made love to another
woman on their library sofa? That he was consumed with guilt,
overcome with shame? She hoped he hadn't, that somehow he had
accepted their joining for what it was. A release. A reunion.

But she really didn't think he had.

She stepped out of the doorway when she
could no longer see him. She watched him turn the corner, his
bright, silver hair and charcoal gray coat disappearing among the
crush of people exiting nearby buildings.

Gone.

"I love you," she said out loud. "Damn it, I
love you, Owen Whitfield!"

No one seemed to find that unusual. Midtown
Manhattan moved around her as she continued to stand there, and no
one said a rude word or seemed to think that her weeping was
strange.

Birch Haven had been in Marguerite's family
for six generations, and little had changed since those first
Warringtons had planted orchards of plums and cherries and hired
master craftsmen to hew shingles and fire bricks--both of which had
weathered artfully and without complaint through two eventful
centuries. The succeeding generation had designed the drive and
flanked it with birch trees to give the property its name. The
generation after that one had enlarged the house to its present
twenty rooms. But the spirit of staid tranquillity, of old money
and older values had probably remained much the same from the
beginning.