Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(23)
After the waitress sauntered off, he leveled his squint-eyed gaze on Gideon. “So, betrothed you two are? From Germany, eh?”
Gideon was not sure how much Romy might have shared in the intervening twenty-four hours and looked to her.
She piped up, “Well, not exactly.”
The cowboy turned his head to stare down at her. “Not exactly? Not exactly which?”
“Both. Or neither,” she floundered. “Betrotheds. And from Germany.”
McClellan merely regarded her as she dug herself in deeper.
“We are – err – both refugees. Under the guise of betrotheds. I am from Germany – by way of Spain and Ireland ye might say.”
“You do say?” McClellan parodied dryly.
The waitress returned with their coffees, bestowing another lingering smile for McClellan before departing.
Gideon lifted his cup, “L’Chaim.”
The cowboy hiked a questioning brow.
Romy raised her own cup, “To Life – and Dheagh shlàinte, your good health.” Then added quickly, “And tis no life ye’ll be having if ye take that waitress to wife, Mr. McClellan.”
Gideon’s head swiveled, along with McClellan’s, toward Romy. She shrugged and smiled cheerily. “Gypsy souls know these things.”
McClellan eyes narrowed even further. “Then you’re not a Jew – you’re a gypsy? And you’re Irish, not German?”
Industriously, she stirred her steaming coffee, splashing a messy ring into its saucer. “Semantics.”
Slowly, Gideon shook his head in disbelief, while she hurried on. “That Adelle will make a frowsy, discontented ranch wife for ye, Mr. McClellan. Go to fat in no time. And, Gideon – that Mrs. Spiegel is accustomed to being pampered and will demand a great deal of yuir time and attention.
“However, if it is proper wives ye be wanting, I would be most happy to consult the cards about the females ye’re interested in. At a trifling price, naturally. “
“Naturally,” McClellan scoffed and took a swallow of the stomach-churning coffee.
Gideon was not so dismissive. Not that he gave any credence to her fortune telling act. But, after all, the day before Congressman Johnson had locked his roaming eye on the gritty girl, and if Gideon had learned anything in his three short decades of life, it was not to overlook or discount anything. Anything. Anything that could serve his practical purpose.
And this resourceful Gypsy girl with her old soul wisdom and devil-may-care attitude and engaging personality had all the makings that interested men like Lyndon Baines Johnson.
Rubbing his chin, raspy from lack of shaving lather, Gideon said, “It’s not such a bad idea, McClellan. We have nothing to lose.”
“I do. Every red cent I have, I intend to plow back into the S&S.”
“But think of the money and time wasted, courting all the females ye’ve a fancy for,” she prodded. “Think of it – I can save ye money, Mr. McClellan.”
“I am thinking of it. It’s money I don’t have. Besides, this isn’t gonna work. Come Christmas, I’m hauling you back to Galveston and asking Rabbi Hickman for another cook.”
Like a hummingbird, her gaze darted from the rancher to alight on Gideon. He could see that mind of hers spinning like a roulette wheel.
“Look, McClellan, if she does it for free,” he offered, “if she finds you a suitable wife soon, then you will rid yourself of – ,” he paused, nodded at Romy, who glared at him, and finished, “you will rid yourself of your present obligation just that much quicker. And you will have yourself a wife and cook in one.”
“Free?” she piped up, frowning.
“As in freeloading,” McClellan shot her an uncompromising look. “Matchmake all you want, but come Christmas your Bed and Breakfast freeloading is over.”
§ § §
Dawn’s muted light forced its way through the bathroom’s high, sand-filmed window pane. Towel slung around his hips, Duke braced his hands on either side of the chipped and rust-corroded pedestal sink and stared bleakly down at his hairbrush, its bristles meshed with long butterscotch-yellow strands.
That first night, the Gypsy girl had requisitioned one of his bandanas. The first morning after her arrival, she had used his toothbrush without a by-your-leave. Then, the night before last, he had found one of the Jewish Relief’s donated huaraches, almost a child’s size, left carelessly in between the distressed cushions of the parlor’s camelback sofa. She had been listening to the radio, turned up to a deafening decibel.
Granted, her personal hygiene was impeccable. Each night she had spent an hour or more in his claw-footed tub, washing her hair and scrubbing her skin, as if she thought she’d never be clean.
Yet he found her haphazard housekeeping and lack of respect for others’ personal belongings maddeningly incomprehensible. Yesterday, he’d walked in to find once again the radio blasting, this time loud enough to broadcast “Louisiana Hayride” to Austin and San Antonio.
Jesus Christ, what had he let himself in for? It was bad enough Lucy had up and died on him. This is what he got for letting his guard down, for letting Rabbi Harold Hickman play on his sense of obligation.
He took his straight razor and shaving brush from the mug, only to find dried, gummy lather coating the brush. And where the hell was his mustache trimmer? Frustration curdled into a yelled, “Sonnufabitch!” He reached for the medicine cabinet’s top shelf – and froze at the sound of the door opening.