Mabel perked up. “Do you really think so?”
Evie managed a smile. “I’d bet my new stockings that’s it. Do you know what? I don’t think you should wait around for Jericho. You should be bold! Show up at the museum and offer assistance. Tell him you’ve had a message from the spirit world that the two of you are supposed to catalog ghosty things and then go dancing.”
“Evie!” Mabel giggled.
“Or you could make him jealous.” Evie waggled her eyebrows. “What about that other fellow who gave you his card… Arthur Somebody-or-Other?”
“Arthur Brown,” Mabel confirmed. “I haven’t seen him since October. Besides, my parents don’t like him.”
“Why not? Did he vote for Coolidge or something?”
Mabel giggled. “No! Arthur’s too radical for them.”
Evie put a hand to her forehead. “Stop the presses! Someone is too radical for your parents?”
“They say he’s not a union organizer; he’s an anarchist. Apparently, he got into some trouble at a rally for the appeal of Sacco and Vanzetti, where those explosions took place? My father said Arthur had to leave town ahead of the feds.”
“Golly! A real, live anarchist on one hand, and a boy who spends all his time inside a ghost museum on the other. You sure know how to pick ’em, Mabesie.”
The girls broke into fresh laughter. Mabel wiped her eyes. Inside, she felt warm and right with the world. Courageous. It was funny how one afternoon with a best friend could set a girl right. “Gee, I’ve missed you, Evie. Please, let’s do this again soon?”
“Will do, Pie Face,” Evie said, giving Mabel’s fingers a squeeze before getting up. “I hate to break up a party, but I’d better get a wiggle on. I’ve got a date with a cake. But before I go, you must model your new dress for me!”
“Now?”
“No. Next Fourth of July. Of course right now! I insist!”
“All right. Let’s go upstairs.”
Evie shook her head. “Nothing doing. I want the full treatment-ski. Go upstairs and put the glad rags on. Then”—Evie lowered her voice to a husky purr—“I want you to emerge from the elevator and drape yourself against the wall like Clara Bow!”
Mabel could feel her ordinariness creeping back. “I am not Clara Bow,” she said.
“For Pete’s sake, Mabesie! Embrace a little mystery, will you? I’ll wait here. Just don’t take all day! And put on some lipstick!” Evie called as she shoved Mabel toward the elevator.
“I will return a new woman!” Mabel declared, pointing her finger skyward as the elevator operator slid the gate into place.
“Tick-tock. Party? Cake?” Evie reminded her and dropped into a chair in the lobby to wait. She pushed the heavy velvet drape aside and peered out the front windows. Still no sign of T. S. Woodhouse, the good-for-nothing. Before they’d left Gimbels, Evie had slipped into a phone booth and tipped him off that “Miss Evie O’Neill had been seen escorting her best friend to the Bennington Apartments for the first time since she’d left in November, in case interested parties wanted a story for the papers.” It might’ve been a paltry sum Evie paid Woody to keep her name in the news, but it was still hard-earned money, and he’d better not be spending it in a speakeasy instead of making both of them more famous.
Someone was pushing through the revolving door. Finally, Evie thought. She jumped up and posed herself beneath a gilded sconce, turning her best side toward the entrance in case Woodhouse had been clever enough to bring along a photographer. The door swung all the way around. It wasn’t Woodhouse who swept into the lobby, but Jericho. He stood for a moment, unwinding his scarf, not seeing her. Evie’s stomach gave a carnival-ride flip as the feelings she’d worked to forget came bubbling up. She remembered that morning in the hotel room up in Brethren after Jericho had been shot, the way they’d been with each other, so open, so honest. Evie had never felt so naked with anyone, not even Mabel, as if she could say anything and be understood. It was heady. And dangerous. A girl needed armor to get by in the world, and Jericho had a way of dismantling hers so easily.
Jericho’s eyes widened, then his mouth settled into the loveliest smile. “Evie!” he called, walking straight toward her, and her resolve to leave him alone began to erode.
“Hello, Jericho,” Evie said softly, and they stood uncertainly in the foyer. People passed by, but Evie was barely aware of them. She’d forgotten the specific handsomeness of Jericho—the severe cheekbones, the sharp blue of his eyes. A long strand of blond hair had been shaken loose, falling across one cheek. He tried to tuck it back, but it fell again, and all Evie wanted to do was cup her hands at the base of his neck. It would be so easy to touch him.