Bucephalus for an hour, but then
he
got bored. She tried to teach Corsair to play the same game; for her pains, she got a stony glare from china-blue eyes and a swishing tail indicative of cold contempt.
“Why do I put up with you, cat?”
“Waurrr.”
“Right. Go away.”
She watched as Corsair headed for the shade of a nearby tree in the backyard, then glanced at her watch. Twelve o’clock. The morning was gone, and she hadn’t accomplished a thing. Wonderful.
Gypsy walked across the lawn to the redwood railing placed about two feet inside the edge of the cliff. She leaned on the railing for a few moments, gazing out over the Pacific and thinking muddled thoughts. Maybe a walk on the beach would clear the cobwebs away.
She followed the railing to the zigzagging staircase leading down to the beach. On the way down, she absently glanced across to the twin staircase leading from Chase’s backyard. The beach below was narrow as beaches go, but it was private for a quarter of a mile in either direction. North and south of the private stretch were various small towns, and, of course, other privately owned properties.
But only these two homes possessed the eagle’s perch of the cliffs. In this area anyway.
Gypsy loved it.
Barefoot as usual, she walked out to the water’s edge andstood listening to the roar of the surf. It was a comforting sound. A
comfortable
sound. Endlessly steady, endlessly consistent, though at the moment it possessed the disturbing trick of reminding one of one’s own mortality.
Frowning, Gypsy turned and walked back a few feet toward the cliffs. She stopped at the large, water-smoothed rock jutting up out of the sand. It was a favorite “place of contemplation” for her, and she sat now in the small seatlike depression in its side.
Mortality.
It was one of those odd, off-center, out-of-sync moments. Gypsy wasn’t generally given to soul-searching, but in that moment she searched. And she discovered one of life’s truths: that complacency had a disconcerting habit of shattering suddenly and without warning.
How many times had she told herself that her life was perfect, that she had no need to change it? How many times had she asserted with utter confidence that she needed no one but herself to be happy?
Gypsy’s frown, holding a hint of panic, deepened as she stared out over the ocean. Had she been wrong all these years? No. No, not wrong. Not
then.
She’d needed those years to work at her writing, to grow as a person.
But had she grown? Yes … and no. She’d certainly grown as a writer. And she was a well-rounded person; she had interests other than writing, and she got along well with other people. But she’d never opened herself up totally to another person.
For
person,
she thought wryly, read
man.
No relationships, other than the strictly casual. No vulnerability on that level. No chance of heartache. And… no growth?
She was more confused than ever. Who, she wondered despairingly, had conceived the unwritten rulebook on humanrelationships? Who had decreed long ago in some primal age that total growth as a human being was possible only by risking total vulnerability?
Reluctantly Gypsy turned from the philosophical and abstract to the concrete and specific. Chase.
She was reasonably certain that she didn’t
need
Chase—or any other man—to be happy. At the same time she had no idea whether or not that mythical man could make her
happier.
And for her—more so, she thought, than with most other women—any relationship would be a great risk. She already had one strike against her: She was difficult, if not impossible, to live with. And she wasn’t even sure that she could live for more than a few months in one place.
And then there was—
Gypsy’s thoughts broke off abruptly as a sound intruded on her consciousness. If she didn’t know better… it sounded like hoofbeats. She got to her feet and stepped away from the rock, looking first to the south.
he
got bored. She tried to teach Corsair to play the same game; for her pains, she got a stony glare from china-blue eyes and a swishing tail indicative of cold contempt.
“Why do I put up with you, cat?”
“Waurrr.”
“Right. Go away.”
She watched as Corsair headed for the shade of a nearby tree in the backyard, then glanced at her watch. Twelve o’clock. The morning was gone, and she hadn’t accomplished a thing. Wonderful.
Gypsy walked across the lawn to the redwood railing placed about two feet inside the edge of the cliff. She leaned on the railing for a few moments, gazing out over the Pacific and thinking muddled thoughts. Maybe a walk on the beach would clear the cobwebs away.
She followed the railing to the zigzagging staircase leading down to the beach. On the way down, she absently glanced across to the twin staircase leading from Chase’s backyard. The beach below was narrow as beaches go, but it was private for a quarter of a mile in either direction. North and south of the private stretch were various small towns, and, of course, other privately owned properties.
But only these two homes possessed the eagle’s perch of the cliffs. In this area anyway.
Gypsy loved it.
Barefoot as usual, she walked out to the water’s edge andstood listening to the roar of the surf. It was a comforting sound. A
comfortable
sound. Endlessly steady, endlessly consistent, though at the moment it possessed the disturbing trick of reminding one of one’s own mortality.
Frowning, Gypsy turned and walked back a few feet toward the cliffs. She stopped at the large, water-smoothed rock jutting up out of the sand. It was a favorite “place of contemplation” for her, and she sat now in the small seatlike depression in its side.
Mortality.
It was one of those odd, off-center, out-of-sync moments. Gypsy wasn’t generally given to soul-searching, but in that moment she searched. And she discovered one of life’s truths: that complacency had a disconcerting habit of shattering suddenly and without warning.
How many times had she told herself that her life was perfect, that she had no need to change it? How many times had she asserted with utter confidence that she needed no one but herself to be happy?
Gypsy’s frown, holding a hint of panic, deepened as she stared out over the ocean. Had she been wrong all these years? No. No, not wrong. Not
then.
She’d needed those years to work at her writing, to grow as a person.
But had she grown? Yes … and no. She’d certainly grown as a writer. And she was a well-rounded person; she had interests other than writing, and she got along well with other people. But she’d never opened herself up totally to another person.
For
person,
she thought wryly, read
man.
No relationships, other than the strictly casual. No vulnerability on that level. No chance of heartache. And… no growth?
She was more confused than ever. Who, she wondered despairingly, had conceived the unwritten rulebook on humanrelationships? Who had decreed long ago in some primal age that total growth as a human being was possible only by risking total vulnerability?
Reluctantly Gypsy turned from the philosophical and abstract to the concrete and specific. Chase.
She was reasonably certain that she didn’t
need
Chase—or any other man—to be happy. At the same time she had no idea whether or not that mythical man could make her
happier.
And for her—more so, she thought, than with most other women—any relationship would be a great risk. She already had one strike against her: She was difficult, if not impossible, to live with. And she wasn’t even sure that she could live for more than a few months in one place.
And then there was—
Gypsy’s thoughts broke off abruptly as a sound intruded on her consciousness. If she didn’t know better… it sounded like hoofbeats. She got to her feet and stepped away from the rock, looking first to the south.
Similar Books
