Something Different/Pepper's Way Read online

  She grinned suddenly. “It’s amazing that he and Mother have lived together in perfect harmony for nearly thirty years. If I didn’t know the story behind it, I’d wonder how Poppy ever managed to catch Mother.”

  “What is the story?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Unfair! It’ll drive me crazy.”

  “Sorry, but it’s not my story. If they come over to visit, you can ask. They live in Portland.”

  “I thought they traveled?”

  “Used to. Poppy still has to fly off somewhere occasionally, and Mother has her showings from time to time, but they’re pretty settled now.”

  Cutting up ingredients for a salad, Chase glanced at her innocently. “They’re so different, yet they get along perfectly?”

  Gypsy missed the point. “Usually. Although they told me that there was a definite disagreement before I was born. Mother decided to go on tour when she was six months pregnant, and Poppy protested violently. You’d have to know Poppy to realize how astonishing that is. He never gets mad.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, Poppy said that he’d be damned if he’d have his child born in an elevator or the back room of some gallery— quite likely, given Mother’s vagueness—and that she wasn’t going to exhaust herself by trying to give showings in twelve cities in twelve days, or something equally ridiculous. So he planned a long, leisurely tour lasting three months and went with her, and the government was having kittens.”

  Chase blinked, digested the information for a moment, and then asked the obvious question. “Why?”

  “Why was the government having kittens?” Gypsy looked vague. “Dunno exactly. Poppy was working on something for them, and they got very cranky when he took a sudden vacation. They couldn’t do much about it, really, since genius doesn’t punch a time-clock.”

  After staring at her for a moment, Chase asked politely, “And where were you born?”

  She looked surprised. “In Phoenix. Mother woke up in the middle of the night having labor pains. She got up and called a cab; she knew that she wouldn’t be able to wake Poppy—he sleeps like the dead—so she went on to the hospital alone. The problem was, she forgot to leave poor Poppy a note. He nearly had a heart attack when he woke up hours later and found her gone.”

  Chase had a fascinated expression on his face. “I see. So you were born in a hospital. Somehow that seems an anticlimax.”

  “Actually I was born in the cab. They made it to the hospital, and the cabbie ran inside to get a doctor. The doctor got back to the cab just in time to catch me. The cabbie—his name is Max—still sends me birthday cards every year.”

  Chase leaned back against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and shook his bowed head slowly. It took Gypsy a full minute to realize that he was laughing silently.

  “What’s so funny?”

  He ignored the question. “Gypsy,” he said unsteadily, “I have got to meet your parents.”

  Puzzled, she said, “They’ll be here on Sunday for a visit; you can come over then.” She had totally forgotten her intention of discouraging Chase’s interest.

  “Thanks, I’ll do that.” Still shaking his head, he went back to fixing the salad. A moment later he softly exclaimed, “Will you look at that?”

  “What?” She slid off the stool and went over to peer around him.

  “Your knife bit me.” Chase quickly held his right hand over the sink, and a single drop of blood dripped from his index finger to splash onto the gleaming white porcelain. “Or the Robbinses’ knife. Whichever—” He broke off abruptly as a muffled thump sounded behind him.

  Gypsy opened her eyes to the vague realization that she was lying on the coolness of a tile floor. A pair of jade eyes, concerned, more than a little anxious, swam into view. She gazed up into them dreamily, wondering what she was doing on the floor and why Chase was supporting her head and shoulders.

  He looked terribly upset, she thought, and didn’t understand why the thought warmed her oddly.

  Then her memory abruptly threw itself into gear, and she closed her eyes with the swiftness born of past experience. “I hope you put a Band-Aid on it,” she said huskily.

  “I have a paper towel wrapped around it,” he responded, a curious tremor in his deep voice. “Gypsy, why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t stand the sight of blood? God knows I wouldn’t have thought it, considering the type of books you write.”

  “It’s not something I normally announce to everybody and his grandmother,” she said wryly, opening her eyes again. “Uh… I think I can get up now.” She felt strangely reluctant to move, and grimly put that down to her sudden faint.

  “Are you sure?” Chase didn’t seem to be in any great hurry to release her. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

  “If I did, it obviously didn’t hurt me. Help me up, will you, please?” She kept her voice carefully neutral.

  Silently he did as she asked, steadying her with a hand on each shoulder until the last of the dizziness had passed. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Gypsy made a production out of straightening her knit top. “Sorry if I startled you.”

  “Startled me?” Chase bit off each word with something just short of violence. “You scared the hell out of me. How on earth can you write such gory books when you can’t stand the sight of blood?”

  Patiently Gypsy replied, “I don’t have to see the blood when I write—just the word.”

  He stared down at her for a long moment, shaking his head, until the bubbling sauce on the stove demanded his attention. He was still shaking his head when he turned away. “I hope you don’t have any more surprises like that in store for me,” he murmured. “I’d like to live to see forty.”

  Curious, Gypsy thought, then shrugged. Turning away, she caught sight of Corsair. The way he was sitting by one of the lower cabinets communicated dramatically. She frowned slightly as she got his cat food out and filled the empty bowl at his feet. “Sorry, cat,” she murmured.

  “What about Bucephalus?” Chase asked, obviously having observed the little scene.

  “I fed him earlier.”

  “Oh.” Leaping conversationally again, he said, “Tell me something. Why is it that the heroes in your books really aren’t heroes at all? I mean, half the time, they’re nearly as bad as the villains.”

  “Heroes don’t exist,” she told him flatly, going back to sit on her stool.

  He tipped his head to one side and regarded her quizzically. “You’re the last person in the world I’d expect to say something like that. Care to explain what you mean?”

  “Just what I said. Heroes don’t exist. Not the kind that people used to look up to and admire. The heroes available today are the ones created years ago out of pure fantasy.”

  “For instance?”

  “You know. The larger-than-life heroes who were always fighting for truth, justice, and the American way. Superman. Zorro. The cowboys or marshalls in the white hats. A few swashbucklers. Knights on white chargers. They’re all fiction … or just plain fantasy.”

  Chase set the bowl filled with tossed salad into the nearly barren refrigerator. “No modern-day heroes, huh?”

  “Not that kind, no. The larger-than-life heroes are either long dead or else buried in the pages of fiction. It’s a pity, too, because the world could use a few heroes.”

  Spreading French bread with garlic butter, Chase lifted a brow at her. “Those words carry the ring of disillusion,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’re a romantic at heart.”

  Gypsy squirmed inwardly, but not outwardly. “I know that’s a sin these days.”

  “No wonder you haven’t gotten involved with anyone.”

  “You’re twisting my meaning,” she said impatiently. “I would never expect any man to measure up to fantasy heroes. That’s as stupid as it is unreasonable. But there’s a happy medium, you know. It’s just that… romance is gone. I don’t mean romance as in love or courtsh
ip. I mean romance. Adventure, ideals.”

  She ran a hand through her black curls and tried to sum up her meaning briefly, feeling somehow that it was important for him to understand what she meant. “Fighting for something worth fighting for.”

  Chase was silent for a long moment, his hands moving surely, and his eyes fixed on them. Then he looked over at Gypsy, and the jade eyes held a curiously shuttered expression. “Heroes.”

  “Heroes.” She nodded. “Now, master chef—when do we eat?”

  three

  THINKING BACK ON IT THE NEXT DAY, GYPSY had to admit—however reluctantly—that Chase was a marvelous companion. He’d kept her interested and amused for several hours, telling her all about what it was like to grow up in military schools—one prank after another, judging by some of the stunts he and friends had pulled—and how clients could easily drive an architect crazy.

  And he asked questions. About the different places she’d lived, about her parents, about how she wrote her books. He plied her with an excellent red wine, pressed her to eat more spaghetti than Italy could have held, and then refused her virtuous offer of help in cleaning up the kitchen.

  He left on the stroke of midnight… with a casual handshake and a cheerful good-bye.

  Not quite what Gypsy had expected.

  Rising on Saturday after an unusually restless night, she fiercely put him out of her mind. She fixed herself a bowl of cereal for breakfast, absently noting that she was nearly out of milk. She fed Bucephalus and Corsair, unlatched the huge pet door leading from the kitchen out into the backyard, and rinsed her cereal bowl.

  Saturday was juice, so she carried a large glassful out to her desk. Orange juice today; she usually alternated between orange, grape, or tomato juice. Wearing a pair of cutoff jeans and a bright green T-shirt, she sat down at her desk to work.

  Two hours later Gypsy discovered that she’d been shuffling papers around on her desk, and had accomplished absolutely nothing.

  Physical labor—that’s what she needed. Working at a desk was fine, but working at a desk meant thinking, and she was thinking too damn much about Chase Mitchell.

  Locating her gardening basket with some difficulty—why was it in the bathroom?—she went out into the front yard. There were several flower beds all bearing evidence that she’d indulged in physical labor quite often during the last two months.

  Gypsy was a good gardener. And she had not merely the proverbial green thumb but a green body. Flowers that weren’t even supposed to be blooming this time of year were waving colorful blossoms in the early-morning breeze. The half-dozen flower beds in the front yard were beautiful.

  She glanced around, remembered where she’d left off, then dropped to her knees beside a flower bed ringing a large oak tree at the corner near Chase’s property. She attacked a murderous weed energetically.

  There was a sudden rustle in the tree above her, and then a metallic sound as a bunch of keys fell practically in her lap. Gypsy stared at them for a long moment. Keys. Not acorns. She looked up slowly.

  Chase was lying along a sturdy-looking lower limb, staring down at her. He was dressed casually in jeans and a green shirt, open at the throat, and the only way to describe his expression would be “hot and bothered.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked with admirable calm.

  “Getting my car keys,” he replied affably.

  “Oh, is that where you keep them?”

  “Only since I met your cat.”

  Gypsy’s gaze followed his pointing finger and located Corsair, who was sitting farther out on the same limb. The cat’s furry face was a study in innocence, and his bushy tail was waving gently from side to side.

  Gypsy looked back at Chase in mute inquiry.

  Chase crossed his hands over the limb and rested his chin on them, with all the air of a man making himself comfortable. “Your cat,” he explained, “has somehow found a way into my house. Beats me where it is, but he’s found it. He was sitting on my couch a little while ago—with my car keys in his mouth. I chased him three times around the living room and then lost him. The next thing I knew, he was sitting outside the window, on the sill. When I came out of the house, he climbed this tree. Ergo, I climbed up after him.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gypsy glanced again at the innocent cat. “Why would Corsair steal your keys?”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Forgive me. I’ve known Corsair a little longer.”

  “He stole my keys.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “How the hell should I know? Maybe he wanted to drive the car; God knows, he’s arrogant enough.”

  “Don’t insult Corsair, or I won’t let you climb my tree anymore.”

  “Cute. That’s cute.”

  “Chase, cats don’t steal keys. And Corsair’s never stolen anything.” Gypsy exercised all her willpower to keep her amusement buried. She waved the trowel about. “What would he want with your keys?”

  “He wanted to annoy me. I tell you, that cat doesn’t like me!”

  “Well, if you keep on calling him that cat in that tone of voice, I wouldn’t be surprised if he actually did start disliking you. Besides, it’s obvious that you know nothing about cats. If he disliked you, he’d shred your curtains or attack you when you weren’t looking, or something like that. Not steal your keys.”

  “He stole my keys.”

  Gypsy stared up into stubborn jade eyes. “Of course, he did. He just sat down and decided very logically that since he didn’t like you, he’d steal your car keys. Then he’d let you chase him three times around your living room. Then he’d let you chase him up a tree—”

  “All right, all right!” Chase sighed in defeat. “Obviously I imagined the whole thing.”

  “Obviously.” Gypsy went back to work with the trowel.

  There were several rustling noises from above. Then a muffled “Damn!” Then a long silence. Gypsy kept working; another weed poked up an unwary head and she attacked it lethally

  “Want to give me a hand here?”

  Gypsy murdered another weed. “A grown man can’t get down from a tree by himself?” She had to swallow hard before the question would emerge without a hint of the laughter bubbling up inside of her.

  “I’m not too proud to ask for help.” There was a pause. “Help!”

  She sat back on her heels and looked up at him. She was trying desperately to keep a straight face. “What do you want me to do? Climb up and get you down, or cushion your fall?”

  There was a frantic gleam in the jade eyes. “Either way— when I get down. I’m going to murder you!”

  “In that case, stay where you are.”

  “Gypsy—”

  “All right! What’s the problem?”

  “I can’t look over my shoulder to see where to place my feet. Every time I try, I lose my balance. And stop grinning, you little witch!”

  “I’m not grinning. This isn’t grinning.” Gypsy struggled to wipe away the grin. “It’s a twitch. I was born with it.”

  “Sure. Tell me where to put my feet.”

  Gypsy swallowed the instinctive quip. “Uh… slide back a little. Now a little to the right. No, your right! Now…”

  A few moments later Chase was safely on the ground. Gypsy, who hadn’t moved from her kneeling position, looked up at him innocently. “That’ll teach you to climb trees. What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?”

  “Perished in agony. I thought you were supposed to be working.”

  “I told you I worked odd hours.”

  “What’re you doing now?”

  “What does it look like? I’m planting weeds.”

  “You have a sharp tongue, Gypsy mine.”

  She ignored the possessive addition to her name. “One of my many faults.” She tossed him the keys. “Don’t let me keep you,” she added politely.

  Deliberately misunderstanding her, he asked solemnly, “Would you keep me in comfort and security for the rest of m
y life? I have no objections to becoming a kept man.”

  The unexpected play on words knocked her off balance for a moment—but only for a moment. She and her father had played word games too many times for this one to throw her. “I won’t be a keeper; the pay’s not good enough.”

  “But there are benefits. Three square meals a day and a place to rest your weary head.” He sat down cross-legged on the grass beside her, still grave.

  “Not interested.”

  “A live-in proofreader.”

  “I can read.”

  “Typist?”

  “I’ll ignore that.” Gypsy weeded industriously.

  “That’s not a weed,” he observed, watching her. The word game was obviously over for the moment.

  “It is too. It’s just pretending to be a flower.”

  “What are you pretending to be?”

  “A gardener. If you’re not leaving, help weed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Chase searched through the wicker garden basket, obviously in search of a tool with which to weed. “Why is there a dictionary in this basket?”

  “Where do you keep dictionaries?”

  “One would think I’d learn not to ask you reasonable questions.”

  “One would think.”

  “Do you do it deliberately?”

  Gypsy gave him an innocent look. “Do what deliberately?”

  “Uh-huh.” He sighed. “There’s a fork here; shall I use it to weed?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Would you like to have lunch?” he asked, using the fork enthusiastically to destroy a marigold in the prime of life.

  Gypsy gently removed the fork from his grasp. “Not just after breakfast, no.”

  “Funny.”

  “Sorry.” She hastily took the fork away from him a second time. “No more help, please. I don’t want Mr. and Mrs. Robbins to come home to a bare lawn.”

  “Are you criticizing my gardening skills?” he asked, offended.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  “No wonder you hire a gardener.”