“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, what do you eatthen?” she asked.
“Frank only had one tradition on New Year’s. We never gambled until one minute past midnight.”
“Why? And who is Frank?”
“Because superstition had it that whatever a person did on New Year’s Day, they would do all year. He said if we lost, then we would be losers,” I answered. “And he’s the man who taught me to play poker.”
“But what if you won?” Scarlett asked.
“He didn’t allow us to tempt fate. I did when I played poker in Tucson. I should have walked away a few minutes before midnight.”
She finished loading her bin and headed for the kitchen. “But what if you justthinkyou lost? What if you really won?”
I cut my eyes around at the café, or diner, or bus stop—whatever it was called. Could she be right?
“Rosie is making ham, black-eyed peas, collard greens, cheesy potatoes, and lazy-daisy oatmeal cake,” Scarlett answered. “That’s the special lunch on New Year’s Day. I never did like greens until I tasted how Rosie fixes them. She seasons them up real good with bacon. I just hope there’s lots of leftovers.”
“Why?”
“Because when we close up each day, we take them home for supper.”
“Do you really think there will be that many customers on a holiday?” I asked.
“Always has been,” she answered. “That second bus, the one on the way to El Paso, Vegas, and points west. They will be excited about maybe winning money or having already done so,” she explained. “So, to answer your question, it will be a madhouse for a couple of hours. I’ll be glad to have some help.”
So, Iamthe help, not the boss?
“Did Martha ever hire more than just you and Rosalie?”
“Matilda, not Martha—and no, she didn’t,” she said. “Not in my day, but I understand there was a woman that worked here for a few years before I came to the Tumbleweed.”
“I’m sorry that I called her by the wrong name, but I’m tired and sleepy. How old was Matilda, and what happened to the other woman?”
“She was eighty-eight when she passed away a year ago. Rosie and I are still in shock. She went to sleep and didn’t wake up.”
“In the room where I’ll be sleeping?” I whispered.
“Do you believe in ghosts or something?” Scarlett asked.
“I don’t know, but that sounds a little creepy.” I thought about the futon in the storage room. My stuff didn’t take up a lot of space.
“If you happen to see Matilda’s ghost, call me. There are questions I want answers to,” Scarlett said.
The futon was sounding better by the minute.
“Rosie said that the lady before me had moved somewhere on the East Coast,” Scarlett continued, changing the subject. “I wouldn’t ever want to live where it gets cold or where I’d have to shovel snow again.”
My sixth sense shot into the red zone. With her big innocent eyes and love for conversation, Scarlett seemed like an open book, but there was something that had caused her to snap her mouth shut and abruptly talk about something else. That interested me even more than Ada Lou and her motorcycle.
“So, you come from a cold place?” I asked, glad not to have to think about sleeping where Larry the goat-man had—or in a bed where a woman had died, either one.
“Rosie and I don’t talk much about the past,” she answered. “We’re just glad for the present and hope for the future.”
That piqued my interest for sure, but there was plenty of time to go into stories of the past. “Rosalie or Rosie?”
“It’s Rosalie until she gives you permission to call her Rosie. You have to earn her trust. It took six months for me to get to do that. Larry never did.”
