“Sure. Just, um, gimme a minute,” Sam said. He sounded winded. In a second, he turned to her, looking a little flushed, as if he were newly drunk. “I, ah, guess we’d better breeze while we can.”
They started down the long hallway. Sam could still smell a bit of Evie’s perfume on his collar. He gave her a sideways glance just as she looked his way, grinning, clearly invigorated by their shared adventure. And Sam’s heart felt suddenly too big for the cage of his chest.
A janitor came around the corner with his mop and pail, and Evie let out a yelp of surprise. The janitor startled, then narrowed his eyes. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be down here. Who let you in?”
“Gee. We’re awfully sorry, Pops. We were looking for the dead letter office so we could pay our respects,” Sam said, and Evie let out a little snort of laughter, which she covered with a cough. “Guess this isn’t it. Excuse us, won’tcha?”
They sidled past the janitor, holding fast to each other’s hands. Evie’s giggles bubbled up, and that was all it took to make Sam lose his composure.
“You’re not supposed to be down here!” the janitor yelled after them as they broke into a run, both of them laughing hysterically.
By the time Sam and Evie arrived at the Waldorf, the Radio Star people were waiting.
“I’m gonna see if I can scare up one of those punch card–reading machines,” Sam said, smoothing back his thick dark hair and securing his Greek fisherman’s cap in place once more.
“Who do you think those gray-trousered men were?” Evie asked.
“Don’t know. But I got a feeling they weren’t looking for dead letters.”
“Oh! Don’t forget about tomorrow night! Pears soap is very excited that you’re coming on the show with me.”
“Do I hafta?”
“Yes. You do. It’ll only be a few minutes, Sam. Just enough to sell soap and make the advertisers happy, which will make Mr. Phillips happy, which will make me happy.”
“That’s a long chain of happy. Okay, Sheba. I’ll see you at nine.”
“Nothin’ doing. Show’s at nine. You’ll see me at half past eight.”
On the other side of the windows, Mr. Phillips’s secretary waved impatiently to Evie and nodded toward the magazine people.
“I suppose I’d better get in there,” Evie said. She could still feel the lingering ghost of Sam’s touch on her arm.
“Suppose you’d better,” Sam said, without moving.
“Well,” she said.
“Yeah,” Sam said.
“So long, my lovely leprechaun,” Evie called as she backed away.
Sam doffed his hat to her. “So long, Mutton Chop.”
Sam watched through the hotel’s tall front windows as, inside, the photographer had Evie pose with a tennis racket, as if she were pretending to reach for a serve. It was just a photograph, but Evie’s expression was one of fierce concentration, as if she meant to hit that ball out to the stars. Sam knew he should be moving on, but he couldn’t seem to go.
On the road to New York, Sam had spent a wild couple of months with daredevil aviator, Barnstormin’ Belle. He’d liked her plenty, but in the end, he’d left her to chase after Project Buffalo.
“Always thought it would be a plane that’d bring me down someday. Never figured it would be a boy like you,” she’d told him. “Someday, a girl’s gonna break your heart. Let me know when it happens. I’d like to send her a thank-you note,” she’d said, slapping a pair of aviator goggles over eyes glistening with tears. “Scram, Flyboy. I got a show to do.”
Sam had a skill that often let him take what he needed. But you couldn’t do that with love. It had to be given. Shared.
Through the window, Evie saw him. She made a funny face—a silly gesture—and Sam felt it deep inside.
“Don’t get soft, Sergei,” he muttered to himself.
The uniformed doorman approached Sam. “May I help you, sir?” he said, letting Sam know he’d worn out his sidewalk welcome.
“Pal,” Sam said, giving Evie one last, longing look, “I really wish you could.”