Jericho stepped a little closer. He smelled clean and woodsy, as he had that morning on the roof when they’d kissed. “I’ve missed you,” he said in his deep, quiet way.
Evie’s breath caught in her chest, a painful ballooning. Her feelings for Jericho had been manageable when he was only a memory. In the whirl of parties and the radio show and, yes, the arms of other, fun-loving boys, thoughts of him could be pushed aside, she’d found. But here in person, it was an entirely different matter. Evie looked up into his eyes. “I…”
“Is that the Sweetheart Seer?”
“Why, it is! It’s her!”
Excited burbling filled the front of the lobby as a few of the Bennington residents recognized Evie. She took in a sharp breath and stepped back.
“I… I have to go. I’m late for a cake—I-I mean a party! A party with a cake,” Evie said, sounding as dizzy as she felt. “Tell Mabel I said good-bye.”
“Wait! Don’t go.”
Jericho reached for her hand, catching the tips of her fingers just as the elevator doors opened and Mabel flounced out in her new yellow dress like one of Isadora Duncan’s dancers.
“Daaaahling! It is I, Mabel BaraSwansonKnightBow… oh.”
Quickly, Evie yanked her hand out of Jericho’s reach and trotted toward her pal. “Mabesie! You are a vision in that dress!”
“A vision of what?” Mabel joked. Her eyes flicked from Evie to Jericho and back.
“Isn’t it funny? Who should I run into but our old friend Jericho,” Evie said, far too brightly. She could feel Jericho’s gaze on her and she didn’t dare meet it.
“Golly. You looked like you were having a very serious conversation. I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Mabel said.
“Just passing the time until you arrived,” Evie chirped, her panic mounting. Any minute now, she feared, he’d say something about what had happened, breaking Mabel’s heart and scarring their years-old friendship.
The revolving door swung around again as Sam pushed through, talking loudly to Jericho across the lobby. “See, the trouble with Nietzsche, besides his being a real killjoy, is that he thinks like a spoiled seven-year-old who doesn’t want to share his sandbox toys—”
“Sam! Sam, over here!” Evie blurted.
A smirking Sam sauntered over with his hands in his pockets. “Well, if it isn’t the Queen of Sheba. Just the girl I’m looking for. Did Freddy tell you the news about our Diviners exhibit? I was thinking that—”
Evie threw her arms around Sam’s neck. “Sam, there you are! You’re late. Oh, but I don’t mind. How handsome you look!”
Sam’s brow furrowed. “Forgive me, Miss. I thought you were Evie O’Neill. Clearly I’ve mistaken you for someone else.”
Evie laughed too hard. “Oh, you! Always the comedian.” She slipped her arm through Sam’s, giving him a small pinch as she did. “Now, I’m late to the Whoopee Club, and I need you to escort me, won’t you? So long, Mabesie, darling! Let’s do this again soon!” Evie nodded at Jericho. “Lovely to see you again, Jericho.”
As she and Sam walked away, Evie chanced a look over her shoulder and saw Jericho watching her, wounded and stoic. It had to be done, even if it felt awful.
Once outside the Bennington, Evie slipped free of Sam’s arm. “On second thought, it’s too chilly for a walk, and it looks like rain. I’d better grab a taxi here.”
Sam smirked. “What? And interrupt our cozy, heartfelt reunion?”
“Yes, I’m all broken up about it, too. But I’m sure I’ll recover.” Evie signaled to the doorman.
“You remember the day we met in Penn Station?”
“When you stole my twenty dollars? How could I forget?”
“You told me then that you weren’t an actress.” Sam tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “I think you pulled my leg on that one.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Sam Lloyd.” Evie looked hopefully toward the street, where the doorman stood with his arm raised.
“I’m sure you do. Don’t worry—I won’t blow your cover. But I need something from you in return.”
“Have you given up petty theft in favor of blackmail now?”
“This isn’t for me. It’s for your uncle. He’s gonna lose the museum, Evie, if we don’t pull a rabbit out of a hat.”
“I don’t see how that’s any of my concern.”
“We need you for the Diviners exhibit. If you mentioned it on that radio show of yours and showed up as the guest of honor, we could guarantee a big opening—maybe enough to pay the tax bill before the collector puts the whole place up on the auction block.”
Evie’s eyes flashed. “Why should I help Will? I risked my life to help solve the Pentacle Murders, and then he tried to ship me back to Ohio. That was the thanks I got. Maybe it’s time to stop pulling rabbits out of hats every month, Sam. Maybe it’s time for Will to give up that old museum.”
“It’s his life’s work, Sheba.”
“Then he’ll find a way to save it, if it means that much to him.”
Sam shook his head. “You’re a real hard-hearted Hannah, Evie O’Neill.”
Evie wished she could tell Sam that if that were true, hers wouldn’t ache quite so much. She’d done the right thing by pushing Jericho away and toward Mabel. Hadn’t she?
A gentleman in a dark suit sidled up to Evie. “Could you sign this for me, Miss O’Neill? I’m a big fan.”
“Of course. To whom shall I make the inscription?” Evie said, taking her elocution-shaped vowels for a walk.
“Just an autograph is fine, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all,” Evie said, pronouncing it “ah tall” and liking the sound of it. She put the last flourish on the inscription. “There you are.”
“I can’t tell you how much this means to me,” the man said, taking it from her, but Evie didn’t hear. It’s about time, Evie thought as she saw T. S. Woodhouse strolling across the street.
“Well, if it isn’t the Sweetheart Seer!” he said around a mouthful of chewing gum. He blew a bubble and it was all Evie could do not to pop it.
“How nice to see you at long last, Mr. Woodhouse,” Evie said.
Woodhouse yawned. “I was rescuing a bunch of nuns from a burning church.”
“You probably set the fire to get the story,” Evie shot back.
T. S. Woodhouse nodded at the cluster of schoolgirls running toward them across the street, whispering excitedly to one another. “Gee, I wonder who let the cat out of the bag that you were here at the Bennington?” Woodhouse winked.
The bum had delivered after all.
“Miss O’Neill?” one of the girls said. “I adore your show!”
“That’s awfully nice of you to say,” Evie said in her radio-star voice, and the girls fell into excited squealing. Evie loved being recognized. Every time it happened, she wished she could snap a photograph and send it back to Harold Brodie, Norma Wallingford, and all those provincial Ohio Blue Noses who’d misjudged her. She’d write along the bottom of it, Having a swell time. Glad you’re not here.