Gypsy Magic (The Little Matchmakers) by Judy Griffith Gill Page B
Authors: Judy Griffith Gill
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down onto it again, creating impressive concentric circles of waves.
“They look happy,” Kevin said. “Like they’re playing.”
Gypsy agreed. “I think they are.” Then she wrinkled her nose as one large male with a badly notched dorsal breached the surface, blowing his stinky breath high in a steamy spout that the wind caught and wafted straight to where they stood. She waved the smell away with the back of her hand and made a conscious effort to smooth her face. She’d been frowning, grinning, squinting, screwing up her nose and pursing her lips far too much this past week. Lance Saunders made her frown. Kevin made her grin. The sun glaring off the water made her squint, and the odor of the out-house definitely made her wrinkle her nose whenever she had to use it. Daily, she cut fresh cedar boughs to lay on the floor of the toilet, and hang on the walls. It helped, but not much. And she’d clamped her jaw and pursed her lips far too often so as not to snarl at Lance Saunders when his attitude annoyed her.
All in all, though, she reflected, the concern about her complexion, her skin’s texture, her weight, and the condition of her hair had dwindled to almost nothing. How nice it is, she thought, leaning against a pine tree at the edge of the windy, open meadow the day after they’d watched the whales, to know there is nothing at all I can or must do about my appearance. Every morning since her arrival, after Lance had gone about his business, she sent Kevin outside and gave herself thorough a sponge bath at the sink in the kitchen area. She also, to his irritation, made Kevin wash well daily before she helped him get ready for bed.
And today, she had decreed they both needed clean clothes, so she had done laundry in the sink. Now, she and Kevin waited for it to dry. Here, high above the water, the breeze blew strongly and the sun shone hot. It wouldn’t take long, she thought, even for jeans. Idly, she braided three long blades of coarse grass and wrapped it around her wrist like a bracelet. As she did so, her diamond engagement ring flashed in the sun.
I really should take it off. She frowned. Now, what made me think that? she asked herself moments later. Because, to Tony, I’m dead? Hmm…How seldom I’ve thought of him since I came here. It was, she thought, since she knew she was dead as far as he was concerned, he—and their engagement—had somehow ceased to feel real to her. It has for a long time, Gypsy.
Where had that bit of insight come from? From solitude, she reasoned. From having permitted herself to let go of the trappings that made her the “perfect” companion for Tony, from having allowed herself—well, to be honest—been forced to dress like a hobo—and enjoy doing so.
She looked down at the child who was drowsily watching bugs in the long grass, and then at herself. A couple of Robinson Crusoes, she thought, and grinned. He, wearing shorts and a torn tee-shirt, and she with her shirt tails knotted at the waist, bikini bottoms her only other garment while her jeans dried. Or are we Huckleberry Finns? Are we castaways or runaways? Right at this moment she felt more like a happy runaway. The sun was warm, the waves incredibly blue with white icing creaming over the tops where they broke on the reefs between their island in the next.
Would she really prefer not to be having this unusual, unexpected vacation in this lovely, uninhabited place? She knew, in spite of everything insisting she should feel otherwise, she’d found a great deal of satisfaction and fulfillment here. Heck, she even enjoyed making a temporary home out of the grungy cabin.
Roughly, Lance had said, “There’s no need for you to spoil your manicure cooking and cleaning, Gypsy.” After the first two days he’d progressed beyond “Ms. Gaynor,” which made her comfortable using his first name. Formality seemed just a tad misplaced under the circumstances. “I’m quite capable of doing what’s required to
“They look happy,” Kevin said. “Like they’re playing.”
Gypsy agreed. “I think they are.” Then she wrinkled her nose as one large male with a badly notched dorsal breached the surface, blowing his stinky breath high in a steamy spout that the wind caught and wafted straight to where they stood. She waved the smell away with the back of her hand and made a conscious effort to smooth her face. She’d been frowning, grinning, squinting, screwing up her nose and pursing her lips far too much this past week. Lance Saunders made her frown. Kevin made her grin. The sun glaring off the water made her squint, and the odor of the out-house definitely made her wrinkle her nose whenever she had to use it. Daily, she cut fresh cedar boughs to lay on the floor of the toilet, and hang on the walls. It helped, but not much. And she’d clamped her jaw and pursed her lips far too often so as not to snarl at Lance Saunders when his attitude annoyed her.
All in all, though, she reflected, the concern about her complexion, her skin’s texture, her weight, and the condition of her hair had dwindled to almost nothing. How nice it is, she thought, leaning against a pine tree at the edge of the windy, open meadow the day after they’d watched the whales, to know there is nothing at all I can or must do about my appearance. Every morning since her arrival, after Lance had gone about his business, she sent Kevin outside and gave herself thorough a sponge bath at the sink in the kitchen area. She also, to his irritation, made Kevin wash well daily before she helped him get ready for bed.
And today, she had decreed they both needed clean clothes, so she had done laundry in the sink. Now, she and Kevin waited for it to dry. Here, high above the water, the breeze blew strongly and the sun shone hot. It wouldn’t take long, she thought, even for jeans. Idly, she braided three long blades of coarse grass and wrapped it around her wrist like a bracelet. As she did so, her diamond engagement ring flashed in the sun.
I really should take it off. She frowned. Now, what made me think that? she asked herself moments later. Because, to Tony, I’m dead? Hmm…How seldom I’ve thought of him since I came here. It was, she thought, since she knew she was dead as far as he was concerned, he—and their engagement—had somehow ceased to feel real to her. It has for a long time, Gypsy.
Where had that bit of insight come from? From solitude, she reasoned. From having permitted herself to let go of the trappings that made her the “perfect” companion for Tony, from having allowed herself—well, to be honest—been forced to dress like a hobo—and enjoy doing so.
She looked down at the child who was drowsily watching bugs in the long grass, and then at herself. A couple of Robinson Crusoes, she thought, and grinned. He, wearing shorts and a torn tee-shirt, and she with her shirt tails knotted at the waist, bikini bottoms her only other garment while her jeans dried. Or are we Huckleberry Finns? Are we castaways or runaways? Right at this moment she felt more like a happy runaway. The sun was warm, the waves incredibly blue with white icing creaming over the tops where they broke on the reefs between their island in the next.
Would she really prefer not to be having this unusual, unexpected vacation in this lovely, uninhabited place? She knew, in spite of everything insisting she should feel otherwise, she’d found a great deal of satisfaction and fulfillment here. Heck, she even enjoyed making a temporary home out of the grungy cabin.
Roughly, Lance had said, “There’s no need for you to spoil your manicure cooking and cleaning, Gypsy.” After the first two days he’d progressed beyond “Ms. Gaynor,” which made her comfortable using his first name. Formality seemed just a tad misplaced under the circumstances. “I’m quite capable of doing what’s required to
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