by Pamela Morsi
Cessy giggled and shook her head. "Now you are being silly. We've hardly seen a soul since we wed."
"Yes, but they are all here," he said. "Your father could come popping in at any time and Howard and Mrs. Marin are scandalized every time I close the door to the room we're in."
"Oh, they are not that bad," she said.
"Just about. Cessy, I want to get away from here for a while. I want to take you places like we talked about."
"All right, Gerald," she told him. "I did marry you, I don't think that it's too far a step to be willing to go to the ends of the earth with you."
"Not all the way to the ends of the earth," he assured her. "Just Chicago and New York."
"All right, not the ends of the earth, although Chicago and New York seem almost that far away from here," she said.
He leaned down to whisper teasingly in her ear. "I told you about that train, that pullman train."
Cessy was grateful for the darkness that hid her blush.
"While we are in New York we can take the excursion to Ocean Grove," he told her. "It's on the New Jersey shore, which should be lovely this time of year. We can take a spin along the boardwalk in one of those rolling chairs."
"Do you mean like the ones in the 'Why Don't You Try' song?"
"Those are the ones," Gerald told her.
"Oh, wouldn't we look elegant," Cessy said, feigning a haughty accent. "We simply must have someone photograph us."
"Indubitably, madam," he replied.
"Oh, Gerald!" she exclaimed with sudden excitement. "If we're to be in New Jersey, then we could take the train out to see your parents."
"Ah, well, I don't know, Cessy," he said. "Bedlington is not that near, nor is it on our way," he said.
"But it's ever so much closer than Burford Corners," she said, laughing. "It would be silly to go all that way and not go by and see them. Perhaps I will make a better impression in the flesh than I do by way of telegram."
"Cessy, of course my family will love you, but
"Then we can go to see them," she said. "Oh, please, Gerald, say yes that we can."
There was a strange hesitation in him as if he wished to say something else, and then he sighed smoothly.
"Of course we will go to see them, Cessy," he said.
"I am so proud of my new bride and I want my whole family to know her and love her as much as I do."
The Nafees lived in a large, sparsely-furnished apartment built over the store. The appearance of the store downstairs was of prime importance to customers and could mean success or failure of the business. The comfort of the family living quarters was not a vital concern. Ever diligent against dirt, Mrs. Nafee kept the rooms spotless.
The evening meal was partaken later than in most households. The store was first cleaned and closed and the peddler wagon, having made rounds through the oil camp, was returned to the carriage house. Muna and her mother usually shared the cooking chores, but tonight her parents were double-checking a freight bill that her father believed was in error.
The odor of hot, steaming bamia—stewed lamb with okra and tomatoes—filled the air. It was not Muna's best dish. No matter how many times she cooked it or how careful and conscientious she tried to be, it was never as good as her mother's. And worse yet, her father never failed to mention that fact as he ate it.
Determinedly she attempted to concentrate upon her task, but her thoughts were in a whirl. Ever since the day of the picnic, Muna's life had become increasingly exhilarating. And for one reason alone. Maloof had made it so.
He had not kissed her. She had thought that he would. Perhaps, when she explained how her father had deceived him, she had hoped that he would.
They were interrupted by Prin and Gerald. And with the surprise engagement and the ensuing excitement of the hasty wedding, it was natural that he had not found time to kiss her that day. Although that evening as they walked up the stairs he had taken her hand. Maybe that was merely meant to steady her.
But when they reached the top, he pressed it against his cheek and closed his eyes as if savoring the touch of her flesh against him.
He looked at her before as a cousin or a brother might. But now he gazed at her with longing and with passion. It was almost more of a thrill than a young woman could endure.
How had she not realized how handsome he was? she asked herself. Certainly he was not as tall or muscular as some men and his hair was thinning on top. But his eyes, those dark, luminous eyes, were so alluring. And his smile was so easy and genuine. How lucky a woman would be to have that man smiling at her.
She sighed and raised her eyes dreamily, only to find the man of her vision standing in the doorway. "Oh!"
Her startled cry was as much guilt at being caught in such a pleasant fantasy as it was authentic surprise.
"Good evening, my little bride," he said.
Muna covered her flustered reaction and raised her chin undaunted. "I am not your bride as yet, sir," she replied.
He grinned broadly as if he approved of her reply. "No, not yet," he agreed. "You are not yet bride. I do not think of you as bride."
"How do you think of me?"
He was thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. "I do not have English for what I think," he admitted. "In my thought, you are my entee batata."
Muna's jaw dropped. She was astounded. "You call me your sweet potato?"
"Sweet potato," Maloof considered the English words, nodding. "It is good on ear. I like in English, too."
"Why on earth would you think of me as such a thing?" she asked.
"Because it is like you," he insisted. "Sweet potato is so ordinary, so familiar, so plainly pleasant with meat or fish."
As he spoke he moved farther into the room and closer, so that he was standing only inches from her, the warmth of his body permeating her own.
"So simple, so ordinary, the sweet potato," he said. His voice lowered to a whisper. "But when I heat it up, add a bit of cinnamon, a clove, some sugar, it makes my mouth wet with longing for it is more tasty than any candy or delight."
He was right next to her then, his chest only a breath away from her own, his mouth open, eager, urging.
"Maloof?" Muna's heart was pounding and she was trembling with passion.
"Kiss me, sweet potato," he begged her. "I have been tortured enough."
She did.
Chapter Sixteen
Tom had little idea what to do with himself. He wandered the Main Street in Burford Corners for the specific purpose of sending a mythical telegram to a group of people who didn't exist.
Tom felt the noose of lies grow tighter and tighter at his neck. He was going to be found out. He had thought somehow that his old life as Tom Walker could just cease to exist. But there were far too many people who knew about it.
Maloof was one. He called him Tom on more than one occasion and even told Cessy that he worked on the oil wells. It was only the man's shaky grasp of the language that kept him from being believed.
But Cedarleg and Ma had no problem with language. All it was going to take for them to unmask the scheme was to lay eyes on Gerald Crane.
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 wedd
ing 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."
Queenie nodded.
"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 judgment."
"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 never 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?"
