All About Evie (11 page)

I wanted to set him straight, but I couldn't. Not here. Not in public.

The bartender came over, the same guy we'd had earlier today—Beau, his name tag read. “Scotch, Mr. Dupont?”

“Good of you to remember, old boy.”

Except Beau wasn't really old. He was middle-aged. Average height. Average build. Not handsome, not ugly. Average. He smiled at me. “Fiesta Fandango for the lady?”

“Virgin piña colada, please.” Between the Motrin I'd taken earlier and the pills the nurse had given me, it didn't seem wise to mix medication and alcohol. I'd done that yesterday. Oh, and earlier today. Jeesh. For someone who didn't want to be the stereotypical artist numbing her emotions with drugs or booze, I was doing a pretty good job of it.

I'd barely taken two sips of the frozen concoction when Martha-of-the-two-left-feet appeared. She pushed her cat-eye glasses up her nose, squinted at me and smiled. “It
is
you. We were taking bets.”

For a moment my insides chilled like my drink. What did she mean by that? I glanced over at a group of huddled seniors. They stood near an outdoor shuffleboard court, cues in hand. Four of them. Two men, two women. When they saw me looking, they waved. Forcing a smile, I waved back. Had one of them taken a bus trip to Atlantic City? Had someone recognized me from one of the casinos?

I turned back to Martha. Five foot,
maybe,
with yellow—yes, yellow—tightly permed hair. The corners of her black cat-eye glasses sparked with rhinestones. She wore purple Bermuda shorts, black-and-white basketball sneakers and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. She looked like one of my zany characters. The thought occurred:
This is me in thirty years
. I cleared my throat, locked in the Brooklyn accent. “Um, where did we meet exactly?”

“Don't you remember? The mambo contest. I didn't recognize you with your pigtails and Keds. You look like a little girl.” Her gray gaze fell to my chest. My cups still runneth over thanks to the extreme cleavage bra. “Well, from a distance, anyway.”

I was relieved that my cover hadn't been blown, ecstatic that she'd thought me so young. Although I guess even forty-one was young in the opinion of a seventy-two-year-old. “You remember my husband, Charlie.”

“Certainly, dear.” She squinted at him through her sparkly bifocals.

For a moment I thought that she was going to be the first person to comment on our age difference, but then Charles kissed her age-spotted hand and said, “Pleasure to see you again, madam.”

“The pleasure's mine,” Martha murmured, transfixed.

Seems I'm not the only one affected by Arch's crooked grin. Yeah, boy, he knew what he was doing.

“Would you like to join us for a drink, Martha?”

She fluffed her Harpo-hairdo, smiled at Charles then looked my way. “Actually, Sugar, we were hoping you'd join us in a game of shuffleboard. I need a partner.”

Martha was a widower. While we'd mamboed, she'd explained that she had no one special in her life. Even though this cruise had been advertised as a “couples cruise,” she'd tagged along with a group of her married friends intending to let loose and have fun. Life's too short, she'd said, especially when you're seventy-two.

“I'd be happy to team up with you, Martha.” I hopped off my stool before Arch could stop me. Sure, there was a part of me that wanted to prove to him that I was up to this job, that I have boundless energy, that I'm the life of the party. But more, I wanted to make someone happy. I wanted to make a difference in Martha's life because someday…that could be me.

T
ALK ABOUT A GRUELING
, traumatic day. If I weren't so professional—okay, obsessed—I would've faked a headache and begged off dinner. The need to prove myself as an entertainer kept me charged like the Energizer bunny. Besides, it was hard to say no to Arch, who continued to play the thoughtful, loving husband, treating me to displays of public affection and a gourmet meal.

Dinner conversation focused on movie trivia and an improvised discussion about an inside tip on procuring an unearthed masterpiece for Charles's private art collection. The feigned intrigue caused my pulse to race with excitement. I'd never advocate anything illegal, but Sugar would.

We left The Cha-Cha Club sometime around nine. I could barely keep my eyes open. As much as I wanted to do the nasty with Arch, sleep was uppermost in my mind as we stepped into an elevator. I bit my lip to keep from complaining when he ushered me out onto Deck Nine. What now? A moonlit walk? A nightcap poolside?

Worse.

He guided me into the ship's casino.

 

I
AMAZE MYSELF
sometimes. I have no formal training, yet I delivered an Oscar-winning performance. I stood behind Charles, my French-manicured hand gripping his shoulder, bouncing and squealing like a brainless twit every time he won a hand of blackjack. In reality, I wanted to bash him on his silver head for dragging me into a place that reminded me of Atlantic City. I didn't care that he was winning. The longer we stayed, the more I felt like a loser. I performed in the casinos. I, unlike Sugar, had not happily retired.
I
was being forced out. I, unlike Sugar, did not have a wealthy, attentive husband.
I
was divorced. Divorced, unemployed, and over forty. It was all I could do not to scream my frustration to the gilded rafters.

Oh, yeah. I was good.

I retained my composure, my Brooklyn accent and Sugar's vibrant personality for another forty-five minutes until Arch cashed in his chips. I zoned out as we crossed the festive red-and-gold carpet, as we passed the craps and roulette tables and rows and rows of slots.

Hold it in, Evelyn. Good girls don't cause scenes
. Even though I left home when I was seventeen, my mom
still
influenced my behavior. I could almost see her standing in front of me, wagging her finger.

I know, I know,
I thought to myself.
If I'd gone to college, learned a noble profession, I wouldn't be in this mess.
I fisted my hands, longing to punch something. Not that I would.
Violence is wrong
.

By the time we reached our cabin I was shaking.

“You're angry,” Arch said in his own accent after closing and latching the door.

“No, I'm not.”

“You're trembling.”

“I'm cold.”

“It's eighty degrees out there, yeah?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” I snapped.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.” I turned my back. “Would you unzip this, please?” Heat should have pooled down below as he performed the intimate task, but now the only thing burning was my buns. “Thank you.” I snatched up a change of clothes, stomped into the bathroom and slammed the door.

I ditched the evening gown in favor of blue-and-green-striped pajama bottoms and a green ribbed tank top. I removed all traces of makeup, scrubbed my face and teeth. I told myself to get over it, to suck it up, but the more I suppressed my feelings, the more they intensified. Thoughts whirled and raced and collapsed in on each other.

I blew out of the bathroom and rooted through Big Red in search of my diary.
When your heart and mind jam up,
I could hear Daddy saying,
pour your feelings onto the page.

Without a word, Arch, who'd stripped to his trousers, escaped into the bathroom.

I plopped my butt in a chair and wrote.

Dear Diary, Why are men such asses?

Okay. So last night's entry had started the same way. So sue me for being unoriginal. I'd shot my creative load by being in character for twelve flippin' hours.

I deserve an Oscar, dammit. I deserved that emcee job, not Britney. I deserved a happily-ever-after with the man I gave my best years to, not Sasha!

I ranted and whined, spewed everything I couldn't say out loud because good girls don't complain. I scrambled to finish my last thought just as Arch ventured out of the bathroom.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing in my diary.”

“What are you writing?”

“Private stuff.”

“Like what?”

“If I told you it wouldn't be private.” I closed and locked the diary just as he stepped in behind me.

He hovered over my shoulder, reading the cover.
“Secrets of a Diva.”

I didn't need to turn to know that he'd shed the prosthetics, showered off the hair dye and snuck a smoke. All I had to do was breathe. Irish Spring, tobacco and shaving cream. The return of Mr. Manly Man. Criminy.

“You
dinnae
strike me as a diva,” he said. “Divas let everyone know their feelings.”

Avoid eye contact. Maintain your composure.
I sidled out of my seat and crossed the room without looking at him. “I voice my feelings.”

“Not at the risk of confrontation.”

“Are you saying I'm a wuss?”

“I'm saying you're nice.”

Why did that feel like a strike against me? I buried my diary in my suitcase, hid the key. “You were going to say something else.”

“Repressed.”

As in distant? Cold? Michael told him I was conservative. As in
frigid?
The frustration I'd committed to paper resurfaced, simmering under my skin. I turned, fists balled at my side, ready to knock Arch on his butt. There'd been a lot of “firsts” in the past two days. It could happen. But he was already on the floor, on his hands and toes…doing
push-ups
.

My thoughts stalled as I reacquainted myself with Arch Reece, the dark and dangerous rebel. I hadn't seen him without his aging makeup since last night. How had I forgotten how insanely handsome he was? I watched his muscles flex as he continued to work his upper body, dressed in loose-fitting sweatpants and a tight black T-shirt. Jeesh. I couldn't bring myself to rise for an early jog, and here he was exercising after a long day. He'd performed twelve flipping hours, too. Then again, he was probably ten years younger than me.

Since he wasn't looking at me, I continued to admire his arms and shoulders. It also made it easier for me to speak freely. I couldn't bring myself to ask if Michael had spoken to him about our sex life, but I could address that confrontation thing. “If you had seen me in action yesterday morning, you'd take back that repressed crack.”

“It was an observation, not an insult.” He continued the push-ups. Nine. Ten. “What did you do?”

“Told off a group of executives.” I didn't mention the flashing biz. It was too embarrassing. Too childish.

“Why?”

“Because they talked through my audition. It was rude.”

“What were you auditioning for?”

“A casino spokesperson.” Anxious, I fingered my ring. It made me think of Jayne. She would have been perfect for the job, as well. Another victim of ageism. “You know. A costumed greeter who answers patrons' questions and fills them in on the latest tournaments and sweepstakes.”

“Sounds like a waste of your talent, yeah? You're an actress. A singer.”

“I'm also over forty.” Oh, great. Reveal your age. Burst his bubble. Kiss the horizontal mambo goodbye. What vibrant thirtysomething guy wants to get it on with an over-forty has-been?

He paused in the middle of his twenty-fifth push-up—yes, I'd been counting—and studied me.

My cheeks burned under his bold appraisal. Why hadn't I at least put on some lip gloss? “I know. I don't look my age. But I don't look twenty, either, and that's what everyone wants.”

“Not everyone.”

I blinked. Was that a come-on? Was he admitting he appreciated older women? Me?

He focused back on the carpet, resumed his push-ups. “Fuck 'em.”

Who? The casinos or Michael? They'd all abandoned me for younger women.

“There are other places to perform.”

I snorted. “What, like New York? Hollywood? Nashville?” I clenched my jaw against a surge of anger. I paced the spacious suite, patriotic music swelling in my head. “The recording and movie industries are youth oriented. Opportunities for female performers over the age of forty are slim. And that's for the ones who have already established themselves.”

“There are other options.”

“Sure. Singing telegrams and hawking cars in a gorilla suit.”

He chuckled as he rose to his feet. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

“Oh, right. I could host karaoke night at Dooley's.” I shot him a look of disgust as I paced by. “I'd rather be shot and put out of my misery than put out to pasture.”

He ran a hand over his mouth, probably to disguise another smile, stroked those sexy black whiskers. “That's a wee bit dramatic, yeah?”

How dare he trivialize my career crisis! “Easy for you to be blasé. You're a man.”

“You noticed.”

I blew over his playful sarcasm. “Men have greater longevity in entertainment. Look at Sean Connery, Harrison Ford, Robert Redford, Clint Eastwood. They're over sixty and they still land lead roles, some of them romantic. Pierce Brosnan stayed on as James Bond even after fifty. Do you think they'd let an over-fifty woman play a Bond Girl? No! Why? Because Hollywood and fashion magazines have brainwashed people into thinking that the older a woman gets the less beautiful she becomes.”

“That's
bullshite
.”

“That's entertainment.”

“So get out.”

I threw my arms wide. “And do what? I've spent the last twenty years performing in casinos, Arch. It's what I do. It's who I am. They don't want me anymore. Do you have any idea of what it's like to not be able to do what you do best?”

“Aye.”

I stopped in front of him, heart hammering. He'd just done fifty push-ups and wasn't even breathing hard. “You do?”

He dragged a hand through his dark, wet hair. “Sometimes life throws you a curve, Sunshine. Sometimes you're forced to move on.”

“What were
you
forced to move on from?”

He quirked a lopsided smile. “Doing what I do best.”

“You talk in circles, you know that?” No doubt about it. He rivaled Michael in the art of saying something without saying anything at all. I spun away and fell back on the bed with a weary sigh.

“Change is never easy, Evie.”

“It sucks.”

“Usually.”

He stretched out next to me on the bed and my pulse skyrocketed. We lay side by side, staring at the ceiling. My body tensed with excitement and dread. Was he going to make a move? Did I want him to make a move?

Yes.

No.

Not this minute. This minute I longed to be held and comforted. Would he sense that? Should I ask? Take the initiative and roll into his arms? “I wanted to get away from it all,” I said, my voice sounding as fragile as I felt.
Crap.
“To forget. Then you dragged me into that stupid casino.”

“Ah.”

“Did we have to go in there?”

“Afraid so.”

“Smoke and mirrors?”

“Aye.”

I felt the back of his hand knock against mine. I opened my palm, casually, heart in throat, and, yes…
yes,
he interlaced his fingers with mine. I waited for him to roll on top of me, to turn this into something sexual. Michael would. Well, at least he used to. He never understood the concept of cuddling. When Arch made no move other than to hold my hand, I wondered if it was because he wasn't interested or because he was being sensitive. Instead of forty-one, I felt fourteen. I plucked at an imaginary daisy.
He wants me, he wants me not
. “I'd feel better if you'd tell me who we were duping and why.”

“Maybe.”

“But you're not going to tell me.”

“No.”

I finally looked away from the ceiling and at the man lying beside me. “Because you think I can't handle it? That I'll freak out and my jaw will lock? Because that's not why it happened. I'm not stressed about this job.”