by Pamela Morsi
Tom had lain awake the previous night attempting to concoct a story of explanation. The best he could come up with being that Tom and Gerald were identical twins separated as children when his parents came West on a tour of the plains and their conveyance was attacked by wild Indians. The Crane family believed the lost brother dead until the two had discovered each other in the Rough Riders.
It sounded more like the plot of a two-penny adventure novel than an explanation of why Gerald Crane appeared to be exactly the same man as Tom Walker. He was loathe to attempt to use it. Worse, Tom was sure, being found out a liar would put Cessy in the position of choosing to believe him against all evidence and the advice of her friends. He didn't want that to happen.
But avoiding the good people of Topknot and Burford Corners was not going to be as easy as he'd supposed. Truly, the only solution was to take Cessy away on that wedding trip.
That was easier to get her to agree to than to get done. Tom was down to four dollars and change. That would get the two of them about as far as Joplin. To provide Cessy with a month-long, first-class honeymoon of the type that he'd envisioned, he would need nearly a hundred dollars. A paltry sum from the fortune of King Calhoun, but Tom was not yet able to get his hands upon one thin dime of Calhoun's money. He couldn't even work up the nerve or think up an excuse to ask Cessy about it. Certainly there had to be household accounts. And undoubtedly his wife had money in trust.
Perhaps the best answer was simply to mention the funds transfer again. Simply tell her that his funds had not arrived—another blow to the efficiency of Western Union—and that she needed to advance him the money to purchase the fare. That would undoubtedly work. She trusted him completely. Maybe that was why he was so hesitant to abuse that faith.
Still, he had to. If he did not get Cessy out of town, his marriage was over. He had to get her away from here, away from people that could identify him.
He wasn't sure how well that would really work. Unless he kept her away, the threat of meeting up with Ma and Cedarleg would always be there. And what about his supposed parents? She was extremely keen on meeting them. Even if he convinced her that they dropped dead sometime between now and when they arrived back East, he was certain that he would be obliged to escort her to visit his ancestral home in Bedlington, the country house in Connecticut. She would want to be introduced to all of the myriad siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles and etcetera that he'd made up stories about for her entertainment.
Not even on the wedding trip, unless they ventured to Timbuktu, would he find any real refuge from his tangled web of deceit.
But perhaps if they went away, he could gain some time with her. If he were able to prove himself dependable and honorable, if she were given time to get to know him as the real person that he was, if he could have a chance to show her how much he truly loved her, then . . .
Tom's thoughts halted abruptly in midsentence. That he truly loved her. Was that what he thought? That he truly loved her. It was impossible, of course. He didn't really believe in love. And even if he did, certainly he would have chosen someone delicate and pretty, quiet and shy. Cessy was . . . Cessy was . . . well, Cessy was wonderful. She was kindhearted and genuine, she was sweet and funny, practical, determined, always smiling and, of course, she was in love with him. It was a combination that created a powerful love potion.
Did he really love her? Was that why the pack of lies that he'd created sat so sourly upon his stomach? He really loved her and he didn't want to hurt her. And somehow there was not going to be-any way not to do that.
The far end of Main Street brought Tom to the railroad track. He gazed up and down the long length of galvanized steel and wondered if heading out of here in one direction or another would help.
But he couldn't desert her, she surely didn't deserve that. Better that he throw his body in front of the train and make her a grieving widow than an abandoned bride. Tom shook his head. With the way his luck was going these days, somebody would probably recognize him as he lay dead in his coffin.
He gave up the idea completely when he noticed the signal was up. Burford Corners was a jerkwater town. A huge trough of water was kept filled between the tracks. The train merely scooped up the water as it went by, not bothering to stop unless it was unloading a passenger or was signaled to pick one up.
Tom gave a casual glance in the direction of the platform. Sure enough, a lone woman in gray serge sat waiting upon one of the benches.
He tipped his hat politely and meant to pass on by when he realized who the rather dowdily clad woman was.
"Miss Queenie," he said. "How are you this morning, ma'am?"
She looked up, startled as if her thoughts had been very far away, and then smiled at him.
"Tool Dresser," she said. "I've been thinking about you."
"Thinking about me, ma'am? I am flattered."
"Well, don't be," she said chuckling suggestively. "I wasn't thinking that you were the best-looking man I ever laid eyes on. I was just thinking about what you told me the other night about starting over."
"Ummm, yes," Tom said nodding. "Starting over."
He was no longer so sure that it was going to be as easy as he had believed.
"King Calhoun is looking for you," she said.
Tom stilled inside and out. "King Calhoun is looking for me?"
"You're Tom Walker, aren't you?"
He nodded slowly.
"Cedarleg speaks very highly of you. He told King that you'd left the oil business for a banking opportunity,” she said. "Now King is wanting to get you involved in a business venture."
Tom cleared his throat nervously.
"I don't know that I'd be interested," he said.
"Well, of course you don't know until you hear him out," Queenie said. "You can trust King. He may not know a lot of things, but that man knows how to make money."
"It's a fine skill to have," Tom agreed, and then deftly changed the subject. "So you are traveling today, ma'am."
"Just a short trip," she said. "I'll . . . I'll be back by evening, back to work, back to my life."
"Is this a pleasure jaunt or business?" he asked.
"Neither," she replied. "What about you? Are you here to take a train?"
"No, not really," he said. "I'm just walking, walking and thinking. A typical pastime for a new husband, no doubt."
Queenie nodded thoughtfully.
"May I join you?" Tom asked, indicating the empty space next to her on the bench.
"Should you?"
He raised his eyebrows at her question.
"I understand that you recently wed that young woman that you wanted," Queenie said. "I may be dressed here in disguise, so to speak, but people still know who I am. I'd hate for your new bride to think we were making an assignation."
Tom seated himself with unconcern. "Cessy would never believe me unfaithful to her," he said.
"Why is that?"
"Because I never would be," he answered. "There is a whole world of things I am guilty of, but that is not now nor ever will be one of them. I think she knows that."
"She must love you then, very much,” she said.
Tom nodded.
"And amazingly I believe that I love her, too. Isn't that funny? I went after her, deliberately making her fall in love with me, only to find myself in love as well."*
She smiled at him. "It sounds as if this is destined to end happily ever after."
Tom sighed heavily. "No, I don't really think so."
"Why not?"
"Truthfully?"
"Would a woman ever want to hear a lie?" she asked.
"I used to think so," he answered. "I used to believe that the ladies greatly preferred pretty lies to unpleasant truths. But I'm beginning to revise my judgement."
"Experience often does bring wisdom," she agreed. "And marriage, I understand, is an experience famous for that."
Tom laughed at her clever bit of humor. "In honesty, I have nev
er been happier in my life," he told her. "Nor have I ever been so miserable."
"Well, that certainly sounds like a typical marriage."
"There is nothing typical about mine," he said.
Tom turned to look at Queenie for a long moment. She was a strong, sensible woman. Not necessarily the type to whom a man should choose to divulge his secrets, but somehow Tom knew he could trust her.
"You know when you tell a doctor personal things about your body, he's got to keep it to himself," Tom said. "And when you tell a lawyer about your business dealings, he can't tell anyone, either."
Queenie nodded.
"What about your profession, Miss Queenie?" he asked. "You must hear plenty of stories that shouldn't be spread around. Are you obliged to keep quiet about them, too?"
"Are you asking me if I'll keep a confidence for you, Tool Dresser?"
"Yes, ma'am, I guess that I am."
Queenie nodded slowly. "You've kept one for me," she told him. "I believe that I can return the favor."
Tom leaned back more comfortably on the bench and stretched his long legs out in front of him.
"I told you that I created a whole new life for myself. That I left everything behind and began as a new person."
"Yes, I remember that. The idea intrigued me," she admitted. "I . . . I've occasionally thought of doing the same thing myself. And for you, at least, it has obviously worked."
"I suppose that it has," he said. "But the new person I've become is a pack of lies. There is nothing about him that is familiar or genuine or even honorable."
Queenie raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound good," she said.
"No, it's not," Tom agreed. "I thought it would be, but it's not."
Tom rubbed his beardless chin thoughtfully.
"I guess that all my life I've wanted to be somebody else. Always I've pretended to be somebody else," he said. "Now I have even created another whole person with a history and friends and family. All of it just made up."
Queenie shook her head in admiration.
"It sounds like a grand scheme to me," she said.
"I thought it was fun and I. . . well, I hated being who I was. I wanted to be somebody different," he said. "Now I truly have become a different person, I've taken on a completely new identity and I find I do not like it at all."
"Why did you do it?" she asked him.
"I felt that to survive, to get ahead in the world, I had to change. I had to be a different man than the man I was born to be. So that is what I did. I became someone else," he said.
"And was it true? Do you need to be a different man to survive in the world?" she asked.
Tom shook his head. "I'm not sure," he said. "I can do a job. I can work hard. I can earn the respect of other men. But I won't get rich that way. I'll never be . . . I'll never be King Calhoun."
Queenie was thoughtful for a long moment before she replied. "King Calhoun is a good man. He's been a good friend to me and I admire him a lot. But King would have never turned down a free sample from Frenchie. He might not have sought it out, but if it were offered he wouldn't have had the constancy to resist. Perhaps you will never be as rich as he is, you may never own your own oil company or buy and sell in millions of dollars. But in this one thing you are the better man. Do you really want to give up that superiority?"
"No, Miss Queenie, I don't think I would," Tom admitted finally. "Now that I find myself wholly taken over by the man I pretended to be, all I really desire is to be once more that fellow that I once was."
"Then you should go back to being him," Queenie said. "And you should go back now, without delay. Over time the distance gets further and further, until you are certain that you can not go back at all."
"I want to, but there is so much to lose," he said. "Like the woman that I'm in love with."
"You said that she loves you?" Queenie asked. "Does she love the man that you really are? Or does* she love the pretender that you've claimed yourself to be?"
"I . . . I'm honestly not sure," he answered.
"Well, you need to find out,” she said. "You need to find out for sure. And the only way to do that is to give her the chance to choose between the two."
Tom sat for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "I guess you're right. I have to lay my past before her and let her decide if she cares for me or if what she really wanted was him. And I'd better do it before she hears the truth from someone else."
The sound of a train whistle could be heard in the distance. Tom turned to look in that direction and could barely make out the puff of smoke on the horizon.
"Looks like your train is coming in, Miss Queenie," he said.
"Yes, yes, it's my train," she said.
Her words sounded so forlorn that Tom turned to glance at her.
She'd planted a brave smile on her face, but it was evident that she was upset.
"What's wrong, Miss Queenie?" he asked. "Are you feeling ill again?"
"No, no, I'm fine," she assured him. But she didn't look it.
She had no real luggage, just a small club satchel, still Tom picked it up to carry for her.
"This is another way that I'm better than King Calhoun," he told her.
"Carrying luggage?"
"If you were my woman, you'd never be traveling alone," he said. "Of course, I guess I can't take much credit for that. Knowing my woman as I do, she'd simply assume that I should accompany Her and then insist that I do."
"She's a little domineering?"
"Cessy takes the bull by the horns on every occasion, and I am the bull she is most familiar with," he said.
"Most men wouldn't like that,” Queenie told him.
"I didn't like it much at first either," he admitted. "But you know what I think now? I think that a woman like that can sometimes bring out the best in a man."
The train had come to a full stop in front of them. The porter jumped out from a door two cars up and put down the steps. He was obviously in a rush and urged them forward.
"Let's get you on board right away, ma'am," he said. "We're already running sixteen minutes behind and we'd hoped to make it up on this stretch."
The man reached for Miss Queenie's bag and Tom held it out to him.
"Wait!"
Queenie's cry was so startling both men momentarily froze in place.
"What is it?" Tom asked.
"I'm not going," she said, firmly. "I'm sorry, I'm not going."
She turned and began deliberately walking away.
Tom and the porter exchanged perplexed looks.
"She's not going," Tom told him with a shrug.
"Women!" the porter complained as he put the steps back on board and waved the engineer forward.
Tom, still holding the woman's traveling bag, hurried after her.
"Miss Queenie, you forgot your satchel," he called.
She stopped and he hurried to hand it to her.
"What is going on, ma'am?" he asked her.
"I'm taking your advice, Tool Dresser," she said.
"My advice? You're the one who was giving advice, Miss Queenie."
She smiled up at him. "Well, Tool Dresser, I'm going back to being the woman that I once was. The woman who could do anything. And I fully intend to bring out the best in my man."
Cessy had intended to spend most of Thursday afternoon by herself. Gerald had promised to send the telegram and attend to some unstated business. She deliberately held herself back from questioning him too closely. They were husband and wife now, and it was her duty to allow him to freely pursue his interests without her interference. She had to bite down her lip to let him do so, but she was determined.
She had hardly begun to direct Howard in the reorganization of the carriage house when Muna surprisingly arrived.
Cessy washed her hands and face and hurried to meet her friend.
"And where is Mr. Bashara this afternoon?" she asked, giving her Muna a warm hug.
"Making his living selling knicks and
knacks, I suppose," Muna answered. "And your husband, is he out-of-pocket also?"
"He's gone downtown on business," Cessy answered. "So it's just us once again."
"We can sit in for a real gossip!"
The two giggled together like girls and then took seats in the front parlor.
"I came to tell you that we've set the date," Muna began.
"When?" Cessy asked.
"September twenty-eighth," Muna answered. "That will give all my uncles and cousins a chance to be here."
"So you are still determined to go through with it," Cessy said.
"He is a good man, Prin," she told her. "He is unfailingly honest and he works very hard. He is gentle and kind. He's very funny, too. And he's not afraid to laugh at himself. It's hard to live in a place so strange, to not understand all that people are saying to you, to always be the foreigner, the butt of the joke. But he is philosophical about it. He is sweet and caring and . . . and tender."
"But does he care for you? That's the question, Muna. Does he care for you or is it only your father's business that he wants."
"Prin, I've thought about it," she said. "I've thought about it a lot since that day we talked in the store. I tried to get to know him. I've tried to give him a chance. I tried to see what kind of man he really is and what kind of life he could offer for me. And I've tried to determine if he has any interest in me, just as myself."
"Ancl what did you decide?"
"I've decided that I like him," she said. "More than that, I think that I care for him. I ... I believe that I have fallen in love with him."
"Oh, Muna!"
"Perhaps I'll never know if he truly wants me or just my father's store. And if a store was all he wanted, I am just going to go on with our life together, grateful that my father had one to offer him."
"You love him?"
She nodded.
"But it just seems so . . ."
"Don't say anything against him, Prin," Muna warned. "I know you don't like him, but I do. I love him and if you love me, then you will respect my feelings."
"Oh, Muna," Cessy said. "We are both so lucky to get the men that we love."
The two laughed and giggled together. It was almost as they had been before, before a peddler came halfway across the world to marry a storekeeper's daughter, before Cessy had seen a Rough Rider in uniform who she had waited all her life for.
