Everybody Loves Evie (25 page)

Arch blew smoke in the opposite direction, then caught Milo's eye. “I need to make something clear, yeah? Regarding Evie's integrity. She did break off with me in London. She wasn't lying
aboot
that. She respects your stand on team members screwing around.”

“But you don't.”

“She's not an active player.”

“Not the point.”

He shrugged. “Things happen, mate.”

“Yeah. You and Gina. You and Evie.”

“This is different.”

“Why?”

“Because Evie is different.”

“You mentioned that before. She's not like us, you said. I agree. She's wounded and bitter about certain aspects of her life, but she's not jaded. She hasn't developed skin as tough as a rhino's. She won't bounce back like Gina when you get bored and cast her aside.”

“It's not like that.”

“What's it like?”

“With Gina it was
aboot
sex. Just sex.”

“And with Evie?”

He didn't answer and Milo's gut kicked. This was bad all around. Knowing Arch—as well as one could—he couldn't imagine him committing to a long-term relationship. “Are you prepared to marry this woman? That's what she'll expect if you keep heading down this path. In case you haven't noticed, she's in love with you.”

“I noticed.”

Milo waited. Part of him reveled when Arch didn't profess the same. Part of him cursed the detached bastard. “This complicates matters.”

“Because you've got eyes for Evie yourself, yeah?”

There was that. But he was also thinking about the overall dynamics of the team. And Evie. Instead of denying or confirming Arch's allegation, he said, “I don't want to see her hurt.”

“Neither do I.”

“You've put your all into Chameleon, I'll give you that, but you're hardly reformed. Over the years you've gone renegade more than once. Jetted off to bumfuck wherever to engage in activities known only to you.”

“I'm entitled to a personal life, yeah?”

“Not when it entails criminal activity. I put my neck on the block for you, Arch. Played loose with the law to keep your crooked ass out of prison.”

“So you're fond of reminding me.”

“Point is, you've got another life, a secret life. I've maintained a less-I-know-the-better attitude because I needed your expertise to obliterate the worst of your kind. Evie's interest in you is genuine. If you continue to deceive her, then you're nothing but a stupid, selfish prick.”

“
Dinnae
sugarcoat it,” Arch said, gaze level as he sucked on that Marlboro.

“If you truly care for Evie, you'll come clean with her. No secrets. Otherwise any lasting relationship—if you're capable of such a thing—is doomed.”

“You speak, of course, from experience.”

A prick
and
an asshole. Milo didn't need to be reminded of his own failed marriage. The disconnection and disillusion. The secrets and betrayals. He'd like to think he'd learned from the fucked-up experience. God forbid he share that wisdom with a friend. Not that Arch was a friend in a traditional sense. But there was—and had always been—a mutual admiration and warped camaraderie between them.

“Lecture over?” Arch asked.

“Go to hell.”

“Probably.” The Scot crushed out the cigarette while seemingly weighing his words. “Evie has her heart set on being an active member of Chameleon, you know?”

Milo nodded. “I think she's got potential.”

“Aye. She's a natural. But I
dinnae
want to subject her to our world. Not on a regular basis. She's sensitive and good and…”

“Not like the people we tangle with on a routine basis.” He knew what Arch was trying to say because he felt the same way. As though they were tainting something pure. Still, she deserved an honest shot at a job she badly wanted. He checked to make sure they were still alone. Even so, he lowered his voice further. “If she proves she's a capable shill, I'm not going back on my word, Arch. I'm not going to manipulate her.”

“I sense an unspoken
like you.
”

“You claim you flew in to keep me from ruining my career. I think you're here because you didn't want me to act as Evie's savior. What if I busted the man scamming her mom? What if Evie's gratitude grew into something more intimate? What if we seriously bonded? What if
you
turned out to be nothing more than a dangerous thrill?”

Arch betrayed nothing in words or expression, but Milo knew he'd hit the mark. He barreled on, wanting to make the amoral man think, feel. “Even though you and I have worked together for almost three years, you still operate as though we're competitors. You second-guess me, you counter me, you constantly take the lead. I think your need to be top dog is at work here. I'm less sure of your motive. Do you honestly want Evie? Or is it that you don't want me to have her?”

“Are you saying you're going to make a play?”

Milo heard Mr. Parish coming their way. He polished off his beer, mentally ticking off all the reasons Twinkie would be better off with him than Arch. “If she makes the first move.”

“W
HERE'S
N
ICOLE
?”

“She ran up to the bathroom to freshen up.” I wrung my hands as Mom located three paper bags and set them on the counter. I glanced down at my pink shirt, frowning at a few specks of Kitt's dried blood. “I also asked her to search my bedroom for a fresh shirt. Must be something in there that still fits. And I hope you don't mind, but I asked her to raid Christopher's room for a clean shirt for Arch. His is stained.”

“Why don't you run up and help her look?”

“She'll do okay. Besides, I wanted a few minutes alone with you.” On the ride home I'd decided to be as truthful as possible with Mom in hopes that she'd do the same.

“Why?”

“We need to talk.”

“No, we don't. I was young once, Evelyn, and stargazing was around before you were born.”

Okay, I'm not sure I wanted to know my mom used to make out in the backseat with boys. Then again, it did make her human…and truthful. “Actually,” I said, stopping her as she reached for the fridge handle, “I was hoping to talk about you and Dad.”

She tensed and I saw a glimpse of the repressive woman I'd grown up with. “It's private,” she said in her no-nonsense teacher voice.

“Yes, I know. I respect that, but…”
Start the party. Be the first one on the dance floor.
“I love you, Mom.” When she didn't respond, I boogied on. “I want you to be happy. I know whatever's going on between you and Dad is private, but we're family, and if you can't confide in me…” I clasped her hand. “I know I made a mess of my own marriage. I know you don't think—”

“Hold on, Evelyn. You don't know what I think.”

My back went up. “You told me if I had paid more attention to my husband and less to my career—”

“I was angry. Not at you but at Michael and the situation. I don't express myself well.” She sighed. “It's something I'm trying to change. Please—” she squeezed my hand, nodded toward the kitchen chairs “—sit down.”

My heart pounded anticipating news that the world was coming to an end because,
hello,
Mom and I were talking. About stuff that
matters.
I sat, stiff-backed and poised on the edge of the seat.

She eased into a chair, placed her hands on the table and fixed her gaze on the napkin holder. She was quiet for so long I wondered if this was a new bizarre silent treatment, but then she lifted her chin and looked me in the eyes. “You didn't fail your marriage, Michael did.”

My shoulders sagged with relief. My friends had uttered similar words, but I'd still felt guilty. Until now. Mom's support worked like an elixir.

“I was distraught at the thought of you being alone in your early forties, angry because the profession you'd chosen was turning its back on you at such a young age.”

“Forty-anything isn't young in the entertainment industry, Mom.”

“That's my point, Evelyn. Please listen. This isn't easy for me.”

I suppressed a smile. We were talking, and nothing, not even a small reversion to her former snippy self, could dampen my elation.

“Everything in your life went down the commode at the same time.”

“Yes, I know,” I said with ironic humor. “I was there.”

She quirked a fleeting smile. “If you'd gone to college, if you had a diploma to fall back on, you could've gone into teaching dramatics or music, even at this late date. You would've had stability. No mother wants to see their child flail, living paycheck to paycheck or, worse, sinking into deep debt. When I brought up getting a respectable, reliable nine-to-five, you balked. I blamed you for being foolhardy and stubborn, just as I did all those years ago when you joined a band instead of enrolling in a university. That was wrong of me. I see that now. You are who you are because of the choices you make. You are a beautiful person, Evelyn.”

The lump in my throat was easily the size of an orange. Vision blurry, I clasped my hands in my lap.

“Don't cry, dear. Otherwise I won't be able to continue.”

I nodded and squeezed back tears.

“I don't think like you do, Evelyn. I'm logical, grounded. I never understood your artistic spirit. When your life fell apart, I didn't know how to help. I was convinced, given our history, that you wouldn't be open to any of my suggestions, so rather than risk rejection, I barely tried. Instead I focused on my own life, my own marriage, thinking nothing would make me happier than spending my golden years living in Florida with your father.

“As you know, we did not see eye to eye on that score. I wanted to relocate, instead he bought the tavern. I kicked George out because I was hurt. He preferred work and his cronies to me.”

“That's not true, Mom.”

“It's a little true. I've realized since then that I am opinionated and rigid. But I don't want to get into that. The point is, I soon learned that he intended to refurbish the tavern so that you would have a place to earn a living doing what you love to do. I thought it was thoughtful and generous and I resented not being a part of that. It made me feel selfish and small.”

I massaged a dull throbbing at my temples. So much to take in. “I don't understand why he didn't tell you up front. About his reasons for buying the tavern, I mean.”

“Because I had always been opposed to your creative pursuits, he anticipated a fight, and you know how your father hates scenes. Also, at the time we weren't getting along. Being around each other seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day is…difficult.”

“I suspect that would be the case for most couples, Mom.”

“Maybe. Still, living alone for a week gave me a lot of time to think. I decided to make some changes. I wanted to make an effort to understand you better, so I decided to try something creative. That's when I met the man who showed me the light.”

I fidgeted in my seat, unsure if I was ready for this next part.

“You met him,” she said, lighting up with a smile that cramped my stomach. “Randolph Gish.”

“The dance instructor.”

She nodded. “I signed up for his class thinking I was going to get dance lessons.”

I arched a brow. “And?”

“I got life lessons. I can't believe how fast and well we hit it off. He's charming, don't you think?”

I shrugged. “He's okay.”

She pursed her lips. “You say that because you only have eyes for Archibald.”

“Are you saying you have eyes for Randolph?”

“In a romantic sense? Heavens, no. First of all, I'm married. Second of all, he's much too young for me. Third, he's…”

“Gay?”

“You noticed.” She leaned forward, voice low. “He's in the closet. Said he's suffered discrimination and that's why he moves around a lot. Said his classes thrive more if he pretends to be heterosexual.”

A straight man pretending to be a gay man pretending to be straight. If I were less imaginative, that would have given me a brain cramp. “So…what? You're friends?”

“Good friends.”

Straight girl/gay guy buddies. “Did he talk you into this makeover?”

“He did. And I'm not sorry. I love it and, just as Randolph predicted, George approved.” Her cheeks flushed. “Did you see the way he looked at me?”

“Who? Daddy?” My heart fluttered. “Yes, I saw. I think he's quite smitten with your sexy new look.”

“Sexy?” She gave a nervous laugh. “It's been a long time since George looked at me the way Archibald looks at you. I have to confess, I like it.”

I smiled. “You want to reunite with Dad.”

“I do. But not as the old us. I'm working hard on becoming a more tolerant, sociable person, but he needs to make an effort to change, too. A good relationship involves sacrifice and compromise, respect and trust. Meanwhile, I'm investing in our future.”

Warning bells clanged in my head. “Investing?”

She bit her lower lip. “I promised Randolph I wouldn't tell anyone. The project's in the preliminary stages. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I'm getting in on the ground floor.”

Common buzz words and phrases used in a come-on. I'd heard them, read them. Gish had hooked and reeled Mom in, pitched an irresistible deal. He'd probably cough up a small return—the
convincer
—then soak her for an additional investment. I wondered if he'd played any other women in his dance class, swearing them all to secrecy. My blood burned, but I played it cool. “So what is it? Stock? Land?”

Her face lit up. “A multiplex entertainment center for seniors in Boca Raton, Florida. It's going to make a mint. I will easily make back five times what I invested. I'm going to reinvest my earnings into a second home in a nearby housing development. That way your father and I can divide our time between here and Florida. The best of both worlds. Compromise.”

I was clenching my teeth so tight I feared a bout of lockjaw.
Chill, Evie, Chill.
“How is it that Randolph is privy to this awesome investment opportunity?

Mom leaned forward and whispered, “His partner. You know, his…”

“Lover?”

She nodded. “He's the head architect. I spoke to him on the phone. Lovely man. He even e-mailed floor plans for me to look at.”

Phony floor plans, no doubt. But how would she know that? And Mom was no fool. According to my reading and conversations with Arch, con artists intent on bigger scores often target professionals. Politicians, doctors, bankers, teachers—the college-educated were as susceptible to scams as the blue-collar workforce. It boiled down to the grifter ascertaining the mark's weakness, winning their confidence and telling them what they wanted to hear. Something Arch had down pat, a troublesome skill that kept me on my toes.

How can I trust you?

You can't.

The stairs creaked, signaling Nic's return. It reminded me of another creak, a hasty retreat. “Last night when I came in, I thought I heard someone leave through the back door. Was it Randolph?”

“He dropped by to discuss the investment,” Mom said, the picture of innocence. “He snuck out because our meeting was confidential.” She hurried to the fridge, retrieving several pounds of hamburger meat and a huge bowl filled with potato salad. “Don't tell your dad about Boca Raton. It's a surprise.”

I bagged the chips and buns, mulling over a course of action. “Don't worry, Mom. Dad won't hear it from me.” I spotted a box of chocolate cupcakes, a favorite childhood snack, and tossed those in, too.

“And Evelyn?”

“Yes?”

“I love you, too.”