by Anna Furtado
Leah’s expression changed. “I am literate, you know.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to imply—“
“Tucker, Jackie lent me your books a couple of months after I settled in. When I leased the house and saw your name, I thought it sounded familiar. You’ll be surprised to learn I also know how to Google.” She got that twinkle in her eye, telling Tucker she was teasing again. “So I did. Google you, that is. Then I asked Jackie about you, and she told me you were one and the same famous writer. She asked me if I was interested in borrowing her copies of your books. I said I was, she did, and the rest is history, as they say. I thought they were wonderful.”
“You did?” Tucker’s voice squeaked again. Good grief, she needed to stop doing that.
“Well, I would think you already knew that.” Leah’s laugh tickled her again, making the discomfort worth it.
“I—I’m glad you liked them.”
“Of course I liked them. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Some of them aren’t everyone’s genre.” Even though Jackie told Tucker Leah was interested in her, it didn’t make her a lesbian. Maybe she was curious. Maybe she wanted to be titillated. Maybe she was one of those people who got starry-eyed over someone who was published—or maybe she was only looking for a friend. Another possibility, she reminded herself.
Leah reached across the table and put her hand over Tucker’s. It took every ounce of self-control for Tucker not to jump out of her seat when the electricity ran up her arm, down her spine and came to rest between her legs.
“Tucker, I recognized your name because I’ve seen your books advertised at the lesbian literature sites online. I don’t always read historical epochs or non-fiction tomes. Sometimes I like to relax with our literature.”
Tucker noted the emphasis on “our” literature. She blew out a breath. Leah’s face glowed in the dim light of the saloon. She just came out to her. Not only that, it was obvious her interest progressed way beyond the realm of friendship.
Tucker felt sure of it now.
How on earth could she handle this? She shouldered the revitalization project, her own book project, now Leah obviously sought some kind of relationship with her—and she might possibly be losing her mind. How in the world would she manage to muddle through this particularly difficult phase of her life?
Tucker finally came to the conclusion she only needed to take one step at a time, get through this dinner with Leah Hudson. Tucker admitted it wouldn’t be difficult. Leah was fun. Tucker liked her teasing and she loved her laughter. Maybe taking this one step at a time was the way to go. Maybe everything would be all right. Maybe.
THE LIGHT OF the television in Tucker’s hotel room flickered with changing scenes. The only other glow in the room came from the small bedside lamp. Tucker sat on the bed, pillows stacked behind her back, surrounded by pages of notes and reference research from the meeting earlier in the evening. As she sifted through the papers, she tried to wrangle some order out of the chaos, but success eluded her. Other jumbled thoughts competed for her attention and the distraction of the television finally won her over.
She tapped the volume button on the remote to adjust it to a barely audible setting to hear the news program. The local Portero reporter talked about the missing girl’s family growing frantic. The reporter looked serious and spoke with urgency in his voice. The young woman remained missing for almost a week now. The police lacked leads. He emphasized the tragedy of the situation and pleaded for the public’s help. They flashed a picture of the blonde, blue-eyed twenty-something young woman on the screen.
Visions of Leah crowded out the television images as they went to commercial. Leah’s dancing eyes loomed in Tucker’s mind, those eyes sparkling as she and Tucker engaged in animated conversation at The Charlie over dinner. Tucker could almost hear Leah’s laughter and her teasing tone. Her playfulness made Tucker smile. Then the ghost of their conversations quieted, replaced by snippets from the revitalization meeting earlier in the day. Tucker muted the television and returned to her notes.
As she spoke to people before the meeting began, welcoming them, catching up, she saw Joe Dawson circulating, chatting with those in attendance, working the room. She realized she’d seen Joe and Jackie talking briefly and wondered what his motives might be. Maybe he finally decided to be social, but being amiable wasn’t exactly Joe Dawson’s way of doing things. Engagement might indicate mischief-making and sabotage.
Tucker glanced up and saw the news winding down. The topic switched to sports. Her eyes grew heavy as she sat mesmerized by the screen. Nothing piqued her interest enough to crank up the volume.
She gathered up the pages strewn across the bed, held the disheveled pile over the side and let them fall to the floor. She switched off the light on the nightstand and left the image of a nighttime talk show host mouthing words, lulling her to sleep in the flickering light. It only took a few minutes before she dozed off.
Chapter Two
TUCKER WOKE UP to sun beaming through her window. She cursed under her breath for forgetting to draw the drapes, but when she turned toward the light, she didn’t see the heavily lined, room-darkening hotel shades she expected. Instead, dingy white sheer curtains hung from a cord strung tight across the top of the window frame. She felt her eyebrows furrow together involuntarily as she tried to figure out how the window dressing differed so drastically and she not notice.
She wondered what time it was, but when she looked at the nightstand beside the bed, the digital clock was missing. Nothing occupied the small table but a kerosene lamp and box of matches. She stumbled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. She’d need to wake up more to make sense of this. When she opened the bathroom door, she mewed in surprise. Instead of a bathroom, she found a closet. Only a long canvas duster and her black felt cowboy hat hung from thick nails pounded into the wall to act as hooks. She staggered back and spun toward the window.
On the street below, she saw two people approach from the south end of town wearing costumes as if they were in an old West movie. At yesterday’s revitalization meeting, they discussed wearing authentic period garb, but she didn’t think people would rush right out and outfit themselves.
The din of metal and the squeak of leather accompanied the crunching of wheels on a street Tucker now realized should have been paved, but wasn’t. A stagecoach drawn by a team of four horses clattered toward the hotel and, as it reached the front door, the driver pulled back on the reins and yanked the long, wooden handle beside him as he yelled “whoa” a few times. The horses slowed to a stop as did the stagecoach behind them. After securing the reins, the man stood up and shook red road dust from his hat and long leather coat and swung himself down to the ground like he’d done it a million times before.
Tucker wiped her hand across her face trying to make sense of the scene. She watched as the stagecoach driver opened the door to the coach, and stuck his hand inside to help someone out. A woman emerged dressed in the frilliest, laciest outfit Tucker ever saw. The edges of a bright blue hooped skirt were trimmed with layers of white lace, giving the dress the appearance of a finely decorated cake. As it materialized through the doorway, the fabric shimmered brightly in the morning sun, almost glowing. The woman wearing the garment bent forward to clear the low doorway. She wore a broad-brimmed hat, the same color as the dress, that bore the same extravagant decoration. She held tightly to the driver’s hand as he guided her to the wooden step between the doorway and the ground. Once her feet were firmly planted on the thick-planked sidewalk, the woman raised her head, the large brim moving out of the way to reveal her face. She met Tucker’s gaze through the second-floor window. Tucker’s mouth fell open. Leah smiled up at her.
LEAH DIDN’T ENTER the hotel. Instead, Tucker watched from the window as she walked south, down the street toward The Charlie. She disappeared under the wooden overhang along the street. After a certain point, Tucker lost sight of her, so she determined she needed to get dressed and get outsid
e to figure out what the scene below meant. Had everyone lost their minds—or was she the one who slipped over the edge?
Fear rippled up her back until it reached the base of her skull. If she truly lost her mind, she’d better face it. In order to do that, it was crucial to figure out why things looked so different from her window—and she really needed to find the bathroom.
When she stopped at the front desk in the small lobby of the hotel, she found a mousy, graying man sporting a mustache and a neat, short beard. He peered over wire-framed glasses as she approached. She wondered about the college kid she expected to find at the desk, but the need for a bathroom pushed her to get straight to the point.
“Bathhouse is down at the end of the block. If you prefer privacy, we can bring a tub up to your room later tonight, but it’ll cost you fifty cents.”
Maybe later she would need a bath, but right now, she needed a toilet. She realized she might be phrasing her request wrong and tried again. “I need to...you know, relieve myself.”
The man gave her a strange look and shook his head. “Outhouse is out the back.” He gestured with his thumb toward a hallway beside the desk. The corridor led toward the back of the building.
Outhouse? “We’re certainly getting into the spirit of this whole living history thing, aren’t we?”
He looked confused. She decided it best not to pursue the conversation. Anyway, she needed to use the facilities urgently, no matter how rudimentary. She thanked the man and sped down the hall, looking for a sign saying “outhouse” or, perhaps, “damsels in distress” or something indicating a restroom. She found nothing but an unmarked door at the end of the hall. When she pushed it open, she found herself in an expanse of field. She felt disoriented—again.
She turned back to look at the hotel. Then, she whirled toward the field. This couldn’t be right. There should be a street behind the hotel. And on the other side of the street, there should be a row of houses. None of that existed. A few trees dotted the landscape here and there, green with leaves beginning to change with the coming of autumn, and, off in the distance equivalent to a city block, a tiny wooden structure sat under a tree with no leaves on it whatsoever. A path, only wide enough to accommodate one person, worn down through the dried field grass, led directly to the tired-looking structure.
Tucker said aloud, “An outhouse? Come on. Isn’t this going a little too far?”
She stepped onto the path and headed straight for it. What choice did she have?
TUCKER EMERGED FROM the putrid smelling privy, relieved, so to speak, and with one purpose. She needed answers and she needed them now. Since she only recognized one person—the one she’d seen in the street from her room—she decided she’d look for Leah. Maybe she’d get some straight answers from her. In order for her to find them, she’d have to figure out where Leah went after she left the front of the hotel.
She headed for Main Street and stomped off in the direction she’d seen Leah going when she alighted from the stage. As she passed one business, the aroma of breakfast food encircled her, and visions of sausages and eggs made her stomach clench with hunger. Maybe it’d be better to get answers on a full stomach.
When she peeked into the doorway, wafting with the breakfast aroma, she hesitated. It didn’t look like any restaurant she was used to and this should have been the bookstore anyway. She cocked her head and eyed the place again. All the tables in the room were occupied, but a couple she didn’t recognize, wearing period dress, got up and called out goodbyes to some of the other diners, who all responded to them. As the man and woman exited the building, the man tipped the rim of his hat when he passed Tucker. The woman gave her a reserved smile.
Tucker stepped inside.
There wasn’t a book in sight. Nor were there any other wares for sale. A woman stood at an old-fashioned wood stove at the rear wall with her back toward Tucker. She wore a simple gingham print dress with a large bow at the back. Her copper colored hair was tied back in a bun at the base of her head. When she spoke, her voice sounded familiar.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said, plating up food on thick china. When she swung around, plate in hand, Tucker gazed into the jade green eyes of Jackie O’Malley.
“HAVE A SEAT,” Jackie said, gesturing with her chin to the recently vacated table. “Be right with you.”
She deposited the plate of food in front of a man dressed in a suit and thin-stringed bow tie. A bowler hat sat on the chair to his left.
Tucker was stunned. She watched Jackie’s movements as she waited for the tingling sensation coursing through her body to subside. How could this be happening? Were Leah and Jackie both in on some hoax she, the head of the Elder Creek revitalization committee, wasn’t privy to? What the heck was going on?
Jackie glanced back at her as Tucker stood rooted to her spot. When Jackie lifted an eyebrow at her, Tucker maneuvered almost involuntarily toward the empty table and plopped down on the wooden seat. As Jackie approached, Tucker whispered, “Jackie, what the heck is going on?”
Jackie raised both eyebrows this time and said, “Jackie? I think you have me mistaken for someone else. Name’s Olivia. Olivia Justice. Pleased to meet you.” She thrust out her hand.
Tucker didn’t take it. Confusion washed over her as if dumped, cold as ice, from a vat above her head. “Jackie, stop this. It’s me, Tucker. You know me. And who’s Olivia Justice?”
Olivia pursed her lips. “Look. I don’t know who you think I am, but evidently, I’m not this Jackie. If you want breakfast and you have the money for it, I’ll get it for you. Otherwise, I’d suggest you go down the street to the church. They usually have food for people who can’t afford it.”
“Jackie, come on. It’s me, Tucker.”
Olivia’s scowl told Tucker she was having none of this. “Do I need to get the sheriff?”
“What? No. Jackie—” Olivia’s look of warning told Tucker she wouldn’t receive another before she got thrown out on her ear. “Jack—uh, don’t you know who I am? For god sakes, we grew up together.” The desperation she heard in her own voice made her woozy.
Olivia stood there for a moment with a stern look on her face. Finally, she softened a little and said, “Look, I’m not this Jackie. I don’t know why you would think I was someone with a boy’s name, but it’s neither here nor there. I’m not who you think I am. My name is Olivia and this is my establishment. If you come in here, you get served one of my three meals. Ten cents for breakfast and fifteen for lunch and dinner. Now stop calling me Jackie and put your money on the table, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.” The look on Olivia’s face changed to one of pleading. “Please, don’t make trouble and I won’t either.”
Ten cents for breakfast? Wasn’t that taking things a bit far? How was Jackie—Olivia—whoever she was—going to make a profit charging those prices? If the whole town operated this way, everyone would be bankrupt in a month, but at this point, she merely needed to figure this out without alienating anyone who might be able to give her information, or who bore the potential to be a friend. Antagonizing this woman probably wasn’t a good idea.
“I’m not out to make any trouble—Olivia, is it?” Olivia accepted her statement with a tentative smile and Tucker continued, “Yes, I’d like something to eat.” Tucker fished in her pocket for her money clip. Instead of bills, she found a handful of coins. She pulled them out. They looked different. She squinted at them as they sat in her palm. They looked old. Oh, most of them were still shiny, but the designs on the faces of the coins weren’t today’s money. She recognized them as coins she’d seen pictures of in advertisements in magazines, the kinds of coins people collected. She blew out her breath. At least the denominations looked like something she knew. “Ten cents for breakfast, you said?”
“That’s right, ten cents.”
Tucker handed her a dime and smiled weakly. “Can I see a menu?”
Olivia cocked an eyebrow and blew out a breath. The stray hairs on her forehead
blew upward then settled back down. “Look, whoever you are—”
“Tucker. My name’s Tucker.”
“Tucker, this isn’t the big city. Maybe you’re used to a menu and fancy choices where you’re from, but in Elder Creek, we’re pretty simple. I cook breakfast in the morning. Eggs, maybe some cured ham or sausages if I have them, which I do right now. Some potatoes, a piece of fresh-baked bread. It’s what you get for this.” She held up the dime between her thumb and forefinger. “If you want it, I’ll get it for you. If you don’t, you can have this back and be on your way.”
Tucker stared at her for a second or two then said, “Thank you, Olivia, I’ll take it.”
Olivia finally smiled. “Coming right up, Mister Tucker,” she said as she headed for the stove.
This wasn’t the first time someone mistook Tucker for a male. She knew her body to be androgynous and her face angular. She let out a sigh. She’d better play along until she figured out what the heck was going on. The question occurred to her again as it did more than a few times in the past hour, wondering if the town had gone completely mad—or was the problem within her own mind?
BY THE TIME Olivia returned with Tucker’s breakfast, most of the other patrons finished their meals and left. As Tucker ate, she watched Olivia go from table to table, removing breakfast dishes, wiping down surfaces, and cleaning crumbs off chairs. When she completed those tasks, she swept the floor of any remaining debris.
Tucker soaked up the last of the golden-yellow egg yolk on her plate with a hunk of the hardy sourdough bread Olivia served and said, “Getting ready for lunch now?”
Olivia stopped sweeping and concentrated on Tucker. “Just about,” Olivia said.
She sounded so much like Jackie she could pass for her twin. Tucker decided to risk making the observation. “You look and sound exactly like her, you know.”