Authors: Gilbert Morris
The Gypsy Moon
© 2005 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7059-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover illustration by William Graff
Cover design by Melinda Schumacher
I would love to dedicate a book to every single one of you who have bought a Winslow novel. Since I can’t do that, let me mention a few of you who have been so supportive of the series:
—To
Betty Southworth
of Warner Springs, California
—And to
Jack and Shirley Werst
of Wapakoneta, Ohio
—To a special friend,
Gerald Squires
of Yreka, California
—To
Maryan Wolfe,
my good friend from Covina, California
—
Mike Hollingshead
of Malvern, Arkansas—can’t think of a better man!
—And here’s to you,
Ivy Iorio
of Niagara Falls, New York
—To
Anne Lahti,
who keeps me supplied with the best jam in the world!
—And to
Horace and Betty McKenzie
of Monroe, North Carolina, my very good friends.
Contents
18. Jesus Is the Friend of Sinners
CHAPTER ONE
A Dark Prediction
Gabrielle slipped down into the tub until she was completely submerged in the warm, soapy water. She lifted her legs toward the ceiling and pointed her toes while singing, “Tea for two and two for tea, just me for you and you for me . . .”
Gabby didn’t have the best voice in the world, but it was strong, and she knew all the lyrics to every popular song coming over the radio. This particular one had been the smash hit of 1924 both in America and in England, and now a year later it was still a favorite. Gabby loved to sing, and one of the keen regrets of her life was that she did not have a good enough voice to sing on the stage or in films. As she relaxed in the soapy water, soaking up the heat and looking up at her polished toes pointed at the ceiling, she thought of the time when her mother had gently broken the news that she would never be a professional singer. She had been twelve years old, and it had broken her heart for at least a week.
Sitting up abruptly and splashing the water to rinse off the soap, Gabby pulled the plug and stepped out onto the bath mat. Grabbing a fluffy white towel, she rubbed herself vigorously, then tossed the towel over a rack. Quickly, she slipped into a chenille robe that had once been a deep royal blue but now was faded to an anemic lavender. Leaving the bathroom, she scurried down the short hall and went into her bedroom and peered out the window.
“Good! It’s not going to rain anymore.” The first week of June had been particularly wet for southern England, and
she had been afraid that a downpour such as they’d had the previous evening would spoil her date with Greg. But the skies were clear, and there was no sign of anything but fine weather. From where she stood, she could catch a glimpse of the English Channel. She was intensely sensitive to natural beauty, and for some time she drank in the sight of the rough waves, the occasional boat going by, and the branches blowing in the breeze.
Turning, she moved to the rosewood table that had belonged to her grandmother. She selected a record from a tall stack and wound up the gramophone. Each year her mother made a trip to America, her home, and she always returned with all the latest records. Gabby sang along as she decided what to wear. “It had to be you, it had to be you. I wandered around and finally found the somebody who could make me be true. . . .”
She looked through her underwear drawer, tossing a flattening brassiere to the side with a snort of disgust. “Silliest thing I ever heard of! Women ought to look like women,” she muttered. The last few years had produced some strange garments in women’s dress. Women were now supposedly freed from their “bondage,” but for some reason this meant they had to look like men. They had cut their hair short and disguised their feminine shapes as much as possible. Gabby pulled out the camiknickers she had bought only the week before, the latest fashion in underwear. The one-piece garment combined a camisole top with attached knickers. Gabby stared at herself in the full-length mirror. “It looks stupid, but it’s what everybody is wearing,” she murmured.
She put on a white pleated skirt and a soft green loose-fitting jumper with a low neckline. She draped an emerald green scarf around her neck, pulled on her beige stockings, and slipped into a pair of dark green low-heeled shoes. Moving closer to the mirror, she studied her face critically. As usual, she was not overly impressed, but she did have nice eyes—large, almond-shaped, and a warm brown that
appeared almost golden at times. Her mother used to tell her,
“The eyes are the windows of the soul; people can see right through to your soul, Gabby.”
She surveyed her straight nose and broad forehead and shook her head with disgust. But she brightened up at how her hair looked. She liked her abundant curls and the rich chocolate color with a trace of auburn that glowed in the sun. Her friends were always complaining about their thin or straight hair, but she had no complaints with hers.
She stepped back from the mirror and admired her trim figure with satisfaction but sighed, wishing she were shorter than five-seven. She had always admired diminutive women like her best friend, Helen Stempson, who was only five feet tall. More than once her mother had told her to straighten up and be what God made her to be.
Gabby picked up her cloche hat and pulled it down over her hair. She personally thought cloche hats looked stupid, but everyone wore them, and this one had seemed to her the best of a bad lot. After examining her complete outfit from every angle in the mirror, she put her hat back on the bed and sat down at her desk.
She removed a small red leather book from the back of the bottom drawer and opened it to the marker. Grabbing a pen, she wrote:
So, this is my first grown-up date. I have a new outfit, and Daddy and Mum say I can stay out until eleven. They wanted me to come back by ten, but I argued them out of it.
Gabby hesitated for a moment, chewing on her lower lip, before beginning again. Unconsciously her tongue appeared at the corner of her mouth, a childhood habit she had never shaken.
Greg Farnsworth isn’t the most handsome boy I know, but he’s not hideous either. At least he’s tall and got rid of his pimples this year. I wonder if he’ll try to kiss me when he brings me home—and I wonder if I’ll let him.
“Gabby, are you ready?”
Gabby quickly slammed her journal shut and shoved it into the drawer. “Come in, Mum.”
Her mother poked her head into the room.
Gabby stood up and struck a pose. “Do you like my outfit?” she asked eagerly. “Do you think Greg will like it?”
“I think he’ll love it.” Josephine Winslow, at the age of thirty-two, looked like she was in her twenties. She was a tall woman with green eyes and reddish hair and a strong, attractive square face. She had married Lance Winslow after the death of Gabby’s mother and for a time had wondered if she could fill the role of mother as well as wife. Despite her doubts, everything had turned out successfully. Although there were times when Gabby mentioned her birth mother, Noelle Winslow, she and Josephine had grown very close. Josephine had met Gabby’s father during the Great War, when she was a journalist from New York and he was a pilot with the Royal Flying Corps.
Now Josephine kept up her career and did a great deal of traveling, though England had become her first love. She had only distant relatives in the States and found her greatest pleasure was in being at their home in Hastings on the southeastern coast of England.
“If he doesn’t like it, he would have to be blind and a moron,” Jo said with a smile. “Turn around and let me see.” Gabby turned, arms extended. “I can’t believe this is the gawky, long-legged creature that kept bringing frogs into the house just a year ago, it seems.”
“Oh, Mum, it’s been longer than that!” Gabby protested.
“Well, as long as you don’t start collecting snakes, I suppose I can bear it.” Jo shook her head as she looked at the walls, which were completely covered with specimens, including butterflies in glass-covered frames, birds’ eggs in frames with small sections—each bearing a tiny egg with a label underneath it—and flowers that had been dried and mounted. “We won’t ever have to worry about decorating a house. You’ve got enough specimens to fill Windsor Castle.”
Gabby giggled. “I guess I have, haven’t I? Look at what I did this morning. Come over here.”
Jo went over to the table, which was cluttered with books and a microscope. At Gabby’s insistence she looked down into the scope. “I can never see anything in here,” she protested.
“Yes, you can. Just look and concentrate.”
Jo Winslow obediently peered into the lens. “I see it, but I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s a butterfly wing. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Jo straightened up. “Yes, it is. But I think I’d rather see the whole butterfly than just a microscopic section of it.” She walked to the window and looked out at the sea for a moment. Then she turned and said, “I want us to have a mother and daughter talk.”