The Talisman - Crisscross
Page 19
Trish listened while Zelda recounted the charlatan's antics. Pierre expressed genuine grief at the end of the story yet Trish sensed it was more for the loss of business than for not seeing the shenanigans of riding the imposter out of town on a rail.
"Guess most the boys 'll be drinkin' at the Root Hog Bar tonight. Makes no sense to ride the five miles back this 'o way." Pierre rubbed the bar.
Trish felt a wry smile tug at the corner of her mouth, recognizing Pierre's constant activity as an unconscious habit.
"Trish, care for a hand of poker to keep us busy, or should we go through my wardrobe and find some more suitable clothes for you? You ain't goin' to keep the fellers’ interest for long lookin' like a schoolmarm."
For the first time in her life, being compared to a schoolmarm sounded good. The lie she'd unintentionally found herself in by not refuting their assumptions didn't feel right. How long could she keep it up? Hopefully long enough to keep a roof over her head.
Four years ago, Trish had a sweet deal living with Meredith until her friend had married Truman. Meredith and Truman were not quiet lovers as they had vowed they would be. But Trish had only needed to stay until she passed her bar exams. The exam date had arrived with Trish getting very little study time, due to the riotous lovemaking at all hours. She had failed the exams. That had been the second time and Trish vowed that romance--hers or anyone else's--wouldn't deter her from her goal again.
This afternoon, cloistered in her new room, she rearranged her three pieces of furniture consisting of the brass bed, the tiny table Pierre had carried from his own rooms, and the kerosene lamp on it. It hadn't been difficult. She'd even daydreamed about Quinn being her one and only customer while she dusted and cleaned. He would come to her straight from the bath shack, clean-shaven. The interlude would be sweet and intoxicating. It wasn't like he would be keeping her from her life-long dream of passing the bar. Reality descended. Zelda intended to make Trish a right proper prostitute and Pierre expected her to pay for the room she occupied. The dilemma gave her a headache.
A headache. That was it.
"I'm sorry, Zelda." Trish allowed the stress to infiltrate her tone and pressed her fingers to her forehead. "I'm really not feeling up to it. I've got such a splitting headache."
"What a pity. Let's get you some supper and put you to bed."
"I don't think I could eat a bite." It wasn't difficult to feign a migraine, the stale odors of tobacco smoke and sweaty bodies were enough to turn her stomach. Trish knew that her mother could never eat when one of her bad migraines plagued her.
"You go right up to your room. I'll bring you some food and you can eat when you feel like it."
Trish climbed the stairs, afraid to look back, fearing they would see through her deception. Once in her room, she retired with nothing else to do and was soon asleep.