“Oh, Saaaam,” Evie whined. She dropped her head on the table with an Isadora Duncan–worthy sense of drama. “No. I am not helping Will. Why, it’s campaigning for the enemy! I hate that museum, and I hate Will, too.”
“You’re not helping Will. You’re helping me. If the museum goes under, I’m out on the street. By the way, we’re being watched.” Sam flicked his eyes in the direction of a table full of gawking flappers whispering excitedly to one another.
Evie raised an eyebrow. “No kidding. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, you know.”
“We should give them a little something for their trouble.”
“Such as?” Evie said, wary.
Sam leaned forward and took both of Evie’s hands in his. He stared into her eyes as if she were the only woman in the world. Like a traitor, Evie’s stomach gave a slight hiccup.
“Help me with Project Buffalo and the Diviners exhibit. And I promise I’ll sell this romance so hard Valentino couldn’t’ve done better.”
From the corner of her eye, Evie could see that more people were taking notice of them. The room buzzed with an energy that made her feel as if she, herself, ran on electric current. She liked that feeling. She liked it very much. Reading a few trinkets and hosting a party—even one for the museum—in exchange for being front-page news and New York City’s biggest radio star seemed fair enough.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Sam, with one last condition,” Evie said.
“I won’t take up golf or folk dancing.”
Evie narrowed her eyes. “A time limit. Four weeks of the swooniest, swellest romance New York City has ever seen. And then, kaput. Over and out. Off the air.”
“Golly, when you say it like that, it sounds as if our love’s not real, Lamb Chop.”
“There will be a tragic parting. Our love will have burned too brightly to live on.” Evie put a hand to her forehead like a doomed opera heroine, then let it flutter into a parting wave. “Toot, Toot, Tootsie! Good-bye.”
“Four weeks, huh?” Sam asked, cocking his head.
“Four weeks.”
Sam stole a glance at the flappers watching them. They were cute, and probably one of them might jump to date him. So why was he entering into a devil’s bargain with Evie? Why did the prospect of a fake romance with her give him the same thrill as thievery?
“Done,” Sam said. He stared up at her with big peepers and a lupine grin. “We’ll have to make the chumps believe it. Moonlight strolls. Staring into each other’s eyes. Sharing the same straw in our egg cream. Dreadful pet names.”
“Not Lamb Chop,” Evie protested. “That’s hideous.”
“You got it, Pork Chop.”
“I will murder you in your sleep.”
Sam grinned. “Does that mean you’re sleeping beside me?”
“Not on your life, Lloyd.” Evie smirked. “The act’s only good when the cameras are flashing.”
“Well, then, guess I’d better make this look good now.” Sam kissed the back of Evie’s hand. The table of flappers let out a collective, swooning Ohhhh. The kiss tingled up Evie’s arm and gave her insides a soft buzz. Stop that, she thought. She’d have to discuss this with her insides later and let them know the score.
The waiter appeared at their table once more. “The meal is on the house, Miss O’Neill, Mr. Lloyd. Thank you for dining with us at the Algonquin today. We do hope you’ll come again.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “I could get used to this.” He snugged his fisherman’s cap down onto his head.
“Mr. Phillips has arranged an interview for us at WGI today. Four o’clock. We’re telling the story of our love. Don’t be late.”
“Nifty. I’ll steal something swell to wear. Whaddaya think—pantaloons?”
He was toying with her. This was the trouble with trusting a fella like Sam Lloyd.
“Sam. Don’t make me kill you on a full stomach. I might get a cramp.”
Sam smirked. “Nice doing business with you, too, Baby Vamp.”
Evie batted her lashes. “Go now before I change my mind.”
“Leave separately and disappoint our audience?” Sam nodded toward the other patrons slyly watching from their tables. That wolfish grin was back. But the thread of pure glee was new. Sam slipped his arm through Evie’s, parading her through the gaping patrons of the Algonquin. He leaned in to whisper in Evie’s ear, and her stomach gave another rebellious flip.
“From now on, Sheba, you won’t be able to shake me.”
Theta and Henry raced down the crowded sidewalk of Forty-second Street, late, as usual, for rehearsal. They squeezed past a preacher and his small flock of parishioners holding a prayer vigil. “This sleeping sickness is God’s judgment! Repent!” the preacher thundered, a Bible held high in one hand. “Turn away from loose morals; from those dens of iniquity, the speakeasy; from the Devil’s music, jazz; and from the untold evils of the bootlegger’s liquor!”
“Gee, if I do that, I won’t have any hobbies left,” Henry quipped.
“If we don’t hurry, we’re not gonna have any jobs left,” Theta said.
A corner newsboy waved a newspaper at Theta. “Paper, Miss?”
“Sorry, kid.”
He shrugged and shouted out the day’s headlines. “Extra! Sleeping Sickness Spreads, Docs Fear New Plague! Anarchist Bombers Take Out Factory! The Sweetheart Seer Engaged! Extra!”
“What?” Theta stopped short. “Kid, here,” she said, tossing over a nickel and practically snatching the Daily News from him. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
“Is this some sort of joke?” Henry asked, reading the front page over Theta’s shoulder. “Why wouldn’t Evie tell us about this?”
“I don’t know what game Evil’s playing now, but you can bet I’ll find out,” Theta said, shoving the crumpled paper into her pocketbook. “If she’s marrying Sam Lloyd, I’ll eat my hat.”
“Gee, that’s too bad,” Henry said, opening the theater door. “It’s an awfully nice hat.”
The sharp report of tap shoes competed with the melodic rise and fall of chorines singing scales, announcing that rehearsal was already under way at the New Amsterdam. Wally, the show’s long-suffering stage manager, glowered at Henry and Theta as they sauntered down the aisle together, arm in arm. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Tardy Twins. Congratulations. You’re only”—he made a point of checking his watch—“ten minutes late today.”
Theta patted Wally’s cheek and pursed her lips. “Now, Wally, don’t let your ulcer flare up—Hen’s got a new song for you. Quiet, everybody!”
“Hey, that’s my line,” Wally griped. Not to be outdone, he barked, “Quiet, everybody!”
“Go on, Hen,” Theta coaxed.
Henry perched at the piano and took a deep breath. “It’s a bit rough, mind you. But it goes something like this.”
Henry played a lilting melody, singing along in his raspy falsetto:
“Inside a dream I yearned anew