Free Gypsy Sins by John Lawrence Reynolds

the idea that life wasn’t really a series of haphazard events but an extended, continuous reflection of each person’s values and commitments. Back when McGuire assumed that he was responsible for his own happiness, when people were free to shape their lives according to their own choices, good or bad, wise or foolish.
    He could no longer make himself believe those things. Just as Ollie Schantz could no longer make his limbs respond to the commands of their owner.
    In many ways, the two partners were united again. Not in their occupations but in their handicaps. Ollie Schantz paralyzed by a shattered neck vertebra, Joe McGuire impaired by a failure of his beliefs in himself and in his once well-honed sense of ultimate justice.
    Haphazard, McGuire thought again. It was as good a description of his life as anything else he could come up with. How do you prepare for haphazard events? You don’t. You survive them.
    McGuire watched Ellie Stevenson separate herself from the other women and walk toward him, a glass of rum and cola in her hand, the silky fabric of her dress measuring each stride with a sound like softly brushed cymbals.
    â€œYou doing all right?” she asked, her broad mouth poised on the edge of a grin.
    McGuire nodded. “Doing fine,” he replied.
    â€œYou get anything out of that sermon today?” Ellie Stevenson began toying with a pendant hanging from a fine gold chain at her throat. She smiled frequently as she spoke, her conversation often punctuated by bursts of laughter totally at odds with her words, as though she were responding to the comments of someone whispering in her ear. “Wasn’t that the most bizarre crap you ever heard? God, I think Willoughby’s losing it.”
    â€œI couldn’t figure it out.” McGuire smiled tightly. “But then I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.”
    Her smile grew wider. “Boy, we didn’t think you were going to make it here at all.” The hand spun the pendant.
    â€œDidn’t get the message until yesterday.” McGuire drained his drink.
    â€œI told June that.” Ellie smoothed the pendant against her skin, just below the hollow in her throat. Laughter again. “I said, what the hell, it takes half an hour to get a call through to Nantucket some days, and we’re talking about a guy on some sandbar in mañana land.” More laughter.
    McGuire’s eyes followed her hand to the soft shadow of her cleavage, visible at the unbuttoned neckline. Shifting his gaze away, he looked for somewhere to set his empty glass.
    â€œHere, I’ll take that.” Ellie reached for the tumbler and moved sideways against McGuire, their bodies touching. “Here comes the bible thumper up the walk with Knuckles O’Toole, his favourite organ player, if you catch my drift.” McGuire could smell her perfume, heavy with jasmine and spices. “Damned if I’m playing hostess to a guy who wears gowns and talks with a lisp.” She exploded in laughter and rested a hand on McGuire’s shoulder.
    â€œEllie?” It was June Leedale, removing deviled eggs one by one from an elaborate plastic container and arranging them on a large flowered china platter. “Would you let Reverend Willoughby and Jerome in, please?”
    â€œShit,” Ellie spat in McGuire’s ear. “Caught again.” Another burst of laughter.
    McGuire watched Ellie Stevenson walk gracelessly to the door and swing it open to reveal the minister and the organist waiting patiently to enter. “Hello,” she said in a flat, sarcastic tone which she quickly tried to soften with one of her cold smiles. “Come in,” she added, and as the men entered she looked across at McGuire and covered her mouth to stifle her laughter.
    McGuire turned away while Parker and June Leedale welcomed their new guests. He didn’t like Ellie. Nor did he feel any warmth toward Parker Leedale. But he felt