Page 14 of Mail Order Bride

I hope he’s right. I’m going to need a stack of chips— money so high it could block someone’s view of Marilyn Monroe. But I know I can win. Ihaveto win.

The housealwayswins.Except with poker, you’re not playing against the house. You’re playing against the other people at the table. They may not let me partake as often now, but they have no qualms about paying me to serve their drinks. Oddly enough, every couple of weeks or so, one of the men ends up piss drunk—that or too sick to play. And then, voila! Like magic, a seat at the table opens up.

I’ve learned to be a formidable player over the years. Most people who play poker seriously know it is one hundred percent a game of skill in the long run. However, there is a large element of luck in the short term.

I keep my focus on the long game. I’ve learned to dance their dance, and I've always been good at it. It helps when you can see into their souls, when you can read them like a book. Daddy says this is my gift. He says Mama had it too, but I’m not so sure that’s how I’d describe it.

“I still can’t believe that son of a bitch fired you,” my father repeats.

“Life is too short to worry over such things,” I say, placing his plate in front of him. He smiles because I’ve just fed his words back to him. It works because I mean them: lifeisshort.

It eats at me most days. The best years of my life are passing me by. My dreams feel elusive, like they’re slipping away. I need to get out of this town and fast. The west is calling, and I’m standing still.

Mona says it’s morbid to think like this. But I’ve always sort of had the sense that time is running out, like a battery being drained. I’ve always been afraid of things ending suddenly and abruptly, before I finished doing all the things I wanted to do. I think of Sharon.So young.I wonder if she ever had that feeling?

Chapter Twelve

Gina

Mona showed up at the house this morning unannounced, like some kind of omen. In one hand, she was carrying a pot of chicken soup for my dad, and in the other, her toolbox to fix the broken door. “I can’t pay you,” I tell her as she unloads her things. “Mr. Walton hasn’t reopened the store, nor has he offered my job back.”

“It’s on the house,” she says with a wink. This is the kind of woman Mona is.

I shake my head. “They don’t make ‘em like you anymore, Mona.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” She finishes unpacking the items she’s brought and she turns to me. “Speaking of—that Smith boy asked about you the other day.” Her voice is hot with mischief. She walks over to the sink and strikes a match, but she doesn’t say anything else. She just goes about her business, humming a tune.

I’m guessing my father has told her about the ad. If her behavior is any indication, I’d say she’s just as shocked as I was to hear of it. A strange feeling creeps over me, but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. Maybe it has to do with Mona walking around the house with something burning in her hands. She’s stopped humming and now she’s whispering some weird prayer or something.

“What’s she doing?” I ask my father.

“How should I know? Maybe she’s losing her mind.” He shrugs. “Or maybe she’s onto something.”

I sniff the air. “What is that?”

“Martha dying,” Mona says. “It feels like some kind of bad juju. I’m clearing the air.”

“Bad juju?”

“You know,” she says. “Like karma. A little ceremony ought to take care of it. I just need a few minutes…”

“It’s smoking up the house!” I tell her, fanning the room. “Daddy’s already short of breath!”

“It’s just sage,” she says. “He’ll live.”

“I always liked Jacob,” Daddy remarks. “Maybe Mona is right. Maybe you should give him a call. Take your mind off things.”

“No, thank you. You said you wanted me to have options. Now, I do.” I say this, though I’m not sure that’s entirely true. The truth is, I'm scared. What if every one of those men who wrote those letters are duds? What if I hate all of them?

“The energy has been cleared,” Mona announces with a full exhale, like it took a lot out of her. I watch as she takes her smudge stick to the sink and puts it out. “And that Smith boy is a fine option.”

My father’s eyes sharpen. “He’s always had a thing for you.”

“It’s just a crush,” I tell them, adding another lie to the pile. I’ve told so many lately, it’s hard to keep track.

Jacob has been in love with me since the third grade, maybe sooner, but that was when I took notice. He proposed marriage ten months ago, right before Christmas. I didn’t mean to, but I laughed in his face.

“You can’t be serious,” I said, my heart sinking as I realized he was. He looked crestfallen, his cheeks reddened with the kind of humiliation I have known only once. I took his face in my hands, and I leaned forward and kissed his lips.

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