“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.
Sam put his arm around Evie as she signed an autograph. “Doesn’t she have beautiful penmanship?”
T. S. Woodhouse smirked. “Say, you two look cozy there. Anything the Daily News readers should know about? There were those rumors a few months ago that the two of you were an item.”
“No. We are not,” Evie said firmly.
“Now, that’s a fine way to talk to your fiancé, Lamb Chop!”
“Fiancé?” Woodhouse raised an eyebrow.
At this, the girls squealed anew. More people had shown up. A small crowd always drew a larger one. That was the math of fame.
“He’s kidding on the square,” Evie said.
Sam gave her his best lovelorn look. “Why, I’ve been crazy about this kid since the day I first saw her in Penn Station.”
“Sam—” Evie warned through a tight smile.
“But who wouldn’t be? Just look at that face!” He pinched Evie’s cheek. She stepped down hard on his foot.
“Gee, that’s awfully romantic,” one of the girls said with a sigh. A few in the crowd applauded.
“The Sweetheart Seer’s got a sweetheart?” a man joked.
“No, he’s not—”
“Now, honey blossom. Let’s not hide our love. Not anymore.”
“I’d like to hide my fist inside your gut,” Evie whispered low near his ear.
“You trying to keep the lid on this romance, Miss O’Neill? More important, you holding out on me?” Woodhouse pressed, trying to sniff out a scoop.
“Miss! Your taxi!” The doorman held the taxi door open for Evie.
The first thin, spitting drops of rain hit the sidewalk. Sam practically pushed Evie into the backseat of the waiting automobile. “You run along, sweetheart! Can’t have my little radio star catching a cold.”