Everybody Loves Evie (30 page)

T
HE SCENE WITH
Gish went down exactly as we'd rehearsed. It almost seemed too easy and it was over—my part, anyway—much too soon. Throughout the charade I'd been on an adrenaline high. The rush far greater than any I'd ever experienced on stage. Obviously because more was at stake. The goal wasn't to entertain an audience but to bamboozle a despicable human being. The reward for a flawless performance not a standing ovation but satisfaction in knowing I'd brought a scum artist to his knees. I could get used to this.

“I hate not knowing what's happening in there,” I whispered as Nic and I made our way down the hall, leaving Arch and Beckett alone with Gish in the dance studio.

“You know what the end result will be. Maybe they feel the less you know, the better. What if they're doing something illegal?”

“They call it
creative.
”

“Whatever.”

I chewed my thumbnail as we descended a wide set of carpeted stairs. “At least I didn't crack out of turn this time and no one ended up dead.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Even though I knew I should shut up, adrenaline kept my mouth running. “I wonder what the come-on will be or if they plan a straight-out shakedown. How are they going to get him out of town and into the hands of the law without alerting Sheriff Jaffe? You don't think Beckett's going to escort him all the way to Washington state, do you?”

“I'm not sure what you're more enamored with,” Nic said as we hit the first floor of the civic center, “Arch or his profession.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you're starting to sound like one of those thrill-seeker junkies.”

“I'm not—”

“Mrs. Parish, for the last time, I can't put Evie in the show. All of the parts are taken.”

Nic and I stopped cold. She didn't know the irritated voice booming from somewhere down the hall, but I did. And unless Monica had business with my brother's wife, she was talking to my mom.

“I understand that. I just thought someone may have dropped out. It happens.”

Mom.

Nic and I ducked around the corner, behind a potted palm. Yeah, boy,
that's
not conspicuous.

“I thought you said your mom was spending the afternoon with your dad,” she whispered.

“That's what she told me when we spoke on the phone this morning. Said they had a heart-to-heart last night and that they were going to take the reconciliation slow. Said she was going to spend the afternoon lending a helping hand at the tavern. I hope she didn't stand him up.”

“That's the least of our worries,” Nic pointed out. “She knows you had a dance lesson scheduled. What if she pops upstairs to say hello? She could blow this whole thing.”

“We have to get her out of here.” I slapped a palm leaf out of my face and stepped into the open. “Follow my lead.”

“Maybe Evelyn can be featured in some other capacity,” Mom went on. “Maybe she could host the auction or sing a special song during the aftershow party.”

“As I said before, everything is set, Mrs. Parish.”

I walked down the hall, following the voices and looking for the door marked Civic Theater Director. I attributed my racing pulse to Mom acting as my champion for the second day in a row. I didn't give two figs that Monica was barring me from taking an artistic part in Mrs. Grable's benefit. Okay, that's a lie. Maybe I didn't have the eye of the tiger, but I had pride. Rejection sucked on any level, but in this case it was doubly unfair because it was vengeful.

Reaching our destination, I peeked through the partially open door and saw the back of Mom's new blond do. She sat ramrod straight in an orange vinyl chair, ready to do battle. Monica slouched in a high-back leather chair, looking bored. Between them, a desk boasting Playbills, scripts and a mock Tony statue. I could easily imagine Monica stroking the golden trophy and delivering a teary acceptance speech behind closed doors. How long was she going to cling to that dream? For a moment I actually sympathized with the woman.

“Hello?” I stepped inside uninvited. “Mom. It
is
you.”

“We thought we heard your voice,” Nic said.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were going to hang with Dad.”

“I was,” she said, rising from her seat and clutching her purse in both hands. “I am. I just stopped here first. Thought I'd peek in to see how Archibald was faring with his lessons. Then I remembered Monica's office was here and…”

She trailed off, her cheeks flushing as she looked from my high-school rival to me.

Monica smirked and any empathy I felt vanished. “Really, Evie. If you wanted to be in the musical that badly, you could've talked to me yourself instead of sending your mother.”

Wow. I'd never known someone to hold a grudge so fiercely for so long. And just because I'd beat her out for lead roles in the spring and fall productions of our junior and senior year. Talk about shallow. It's not as if I slept with her boyfriend. Or bribed Mrs. Grable with promises that Dad could lower her mortgage rate. I'd landed the parts fair and square. Well, except in Monica's eyes. Like I said, professional jealousy can be toxic.

Her petty dig bounced off me, but Mom looked ready to swing her potent pocketbook.

Nic interceded. “Pity Evie's not in the show. Talent aside, she also brings the Baron of Broxley to the table. Word of his visit to Greenville is spreading throughout the state thanks to that newspaper article. I'm thinking the TV news stations would be all over a small-town celebrity-studded benefit.”

“I'm sure you're right, Nicole,” Mom said with a take-that-Monica smile. “Ticket sales would probably double, and who knows what other advantages media coverage would provide.”

“Yes, well…” Monica shuffled papers, visions of being
discovered
no doubt dancing in her head. “Carla Beck is a little iffy in her role. And a tribute song at the afterparty
might
be a nice touch,” she said without looking at me.

I smiled. “I'll think about it.” I looped my arm through Mom's and whisked her toward the door. “You don't mind if Nic and I join you and Daddy for lunch, do you? We're famished.” We were headed for the tavern anyway. The designated rendezvous with Arch and Beckett.

I spared Monica a parting glance and a fake smile. “Have a nice day.”

My smile turned genuine when Nic mumbled, “Bitch.”

“Language, Nicole,” Mom said, though her tone lacked real censure. “I'm sorry if I embarrassed you, Evelyn,” she continued as we escorted her down the hall. “It's just that I haven't seen you perform in a long time and I know your dad would enjoy seeing you on stage, not to mention Connie Grable. She asks about you whenever I run into her. To this day she views you as a shining star.”

My heart pounded with mixed emotions. I was shocked and flattered that Mom had asked Monica to include me in the show. Apparently it wasn't the first time. Knowing she genuinely wanted to see me on stage was also touching, considering how she'd looked down on that part of my life for so long. And I knew the extent of Dad's support. He'd bought the tavern so I'd have a place to sing, for crying out loud. But these days every time I thought about getting on stage and subjecting myself to people's opinions, I felt ill.

Her clothes aren't tight enough.

Her skirt isn't short enough.

She's not showing enough cleavage.

She doesn't have any cleavage.

Her hips are too big.

Her lips are too thin.

And those were just a few of the complaints I'd heard over the last few years. If not about me directly, about a fellow performer. The last time Mrs. Grable and my fellow high-school thespians had seen me perform I'd been eighteen. Now I was forty-one and far less successful in the business than they'd expected. Although I'd been more successful than Monica. I simply didn't feel the need or desire to compete.

I did, however, want to show off, just a little, for Mom and Dad. “How about if I sit in with the band at the tavern tonight?”

She patted my hand. “I'd like that, Evelyn.” We'd almost reached her car when she dug in the heels of her pink track shoes. “Wait a minute. Where's Archibald?”

Drat! “He's still upstairs with Randolph.”

“The man has two left feet,” Nic said, not unkindly.

“He needs extra practice and I was making him nervous.”

“I can understand that,” Mom said. “It's not easy performing in front of people. I don't know how you girls do it.”

“Call us crazy,” I said as we piled in her car.

Mom smiled. “I've been calling you that for years, dear.”

M
ORE ADEPT WITH
electronic gizmos than me, Nic text-messaged Beckett to let him know we'd caught a ride to the tavern. His car was still in the lot, the key hidden under the bumper. I obsessed on what was going on inside the dance studio. It reminded me of the Simon the Fish sting, when Arch had sent me off to shop with Gina while he and Beckett engaged in mysterious grifter activities. I realize that, as a team, every player has their part. I just wanted a bigger role. To hell with paying my dues.

My mood was anxious when we entered the Corner Tavern. I expected the next hour to drag, but that front-page article doubled Dad's afternoon business. At least thirty people, men and women, slipped into the tavern for a quick lunch or a lazy beer. Dad stepped in as a second bartender. Mom helped out in the kitchen. I fielded questions about the Baron of Broxley and my life in Atlantic City as a “specialty performer.” Nic piqued interest, as well. The two of us worked the room like a special event party, drawing from real life, as well as our character profiles and improvising when necessary. It reminded me of old times—but fun times. Waiting for Arch and Beckett to show up was downright brutal, so I welcomed the distraction.

At one point Mom took a break and joined me for lunch. I was sitting at a table dipping French fries in ketchup and telling her about the time I'd twirled a rifle in the Tropicana atrium dressed as Calamity Jane, when Arch came up behind me and kissed the back of my neck. “You missed the excitement, Sunshine.”

My heart stuttered, partly from his sexy presence, partly because I was dying of curiosity. I braced myself for his tale. Since I didn't know specifics, I'd have to improvise. I revved up for the challenge. “What excitement?”

“In a minute, lass.” He dropped into the seat next to me. “I'm in dire need of a drink.”

“How did your lesson go, Archibald?” Mom asked. “Did you work up an appetite?”

“I could eat a wee bit, yeah?” He caught the passing waitress's attention, pointed to my burger and fries. “I'll have what she's having and a pint of whatever import you have on tap, please.”

Mooney-eyed, Tina handed him a cocktail napkin and her pen. “Could I have your autograph, Baron?”

“Sure, lass.” He scratched a message and sent her off with a smile.

“That must happen to you all the time,” Mom said.

“Only in the States.”

“Speaking of, will you be returning to Scotland anytime soon?”

“Depends,” he said with a glance toward me.

“Evie loves to travel, don't you, dear?”

“Mom.”
I sipped my soda, trying to appear nonchalant. “So what did I miss? Did Joe Kitt burst in and snap shots of you and Mr. Gish midwaltz? I can imagine the spin he'd put on that one.”

“Thankfully, no. And the lesson was going profoundly well, Marilyn—thank you for asking—until the phone call.”

“What phone call?” I asked, feeling as curious as Mom looked.

“Larry someone-or-other called from Florida.”

“Larry Ruben,” Mom said, “Randolph's…friend.”

“Close friend, I gather, as he took the news quite hard.”

“What news?” Mom and I asked at the same time.

“Not entirely sure. Some sort of crisis, yeah? Larry was distraught and Randolph was desperate to lend emotional support in person. In my estimation, the man was too shaken to get behind a wheel. After giving him a lift to his apartment, where he quickly packed a bag, I asked Northbrook to drive him to the airport.”

Mom touched a hand to her heart. “Heavens, it must've been terribly serious for Randolph to pick up and leave like that.”

“As I said, some sort of crisis. I wouldn't worry,” he said, giving her other hand a quick squeeze. “Randolph insisted it wasn't of the medical nature, yeah?”

Mom relaxed against her chair. “Just like Randolph to want to be there for his…friend. Such a thoughtful man.”

I choked on a fry.

Arch patted my back, then smoothed his palm up and down my spine. Though meant as a comforting gesture, my nerve endings sparked from the
zing-zap
connection. I actually felt light-headed. Maybe it was the adrenaline. I don't remember Michael ever rendering me dizzy with a simple touch. It made me sad because it meant something had been lacking in our intimate relationship. That realization steered me down a road I didn't want to travel just now. Must. Focus.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mom asked.

“Went down the wrong pipe.” I sipped my soda. “I'm fine.”

“I wish the same could be said for Randolph and his friend. I hope he sends word through the dance studio as to how Larry fares and when he'll return,” Mom said.

“I'm sure you'll be hearing from Mr. Gish soon,” I said.

Arch's food arrived and Mom turned the conversation toward his charity work. I knew in that instant she'd bought his story hook, line and sinker.
Jeez Louise.
But then, why shouldn't she? Arch had delivered the plausible tale with the utmost sincerity. The scenario played out in my mind like a Lifetime channel movie. In a few days she'd receive a letter or wire from Gish along with six thousand dollars. He'd explain how the building project had fallen through and that he wouldn't be returning because Larry was shattered and needed him. He'd wish her well and say something about how much he'd enjoyed their friendship. He'd promise to keep in touch, but, of course, he wouldn't.

In reality, Randolph Gish—or whatever the rat bastard's real name was—would be serving time in a Washington state jail.

It was over. We'd salvaged my mom's pride and money and bagged a scum artist to boot. On the inside I performed my signature victory dance. Only my dance was slightly subdued because I still didn't know specifics. Like how they'd gotten Gish to cough up the money. Who'd actually written the letter? How did they get Gish to leave with Beckett without making a scene? It shouldn't matter, but it did. Even though I'd played an active role in the sting, I still felt like an outsider. Talk about anticlimactic.

Time dragged as Arch finished his meal and chatted amiably with all who dropped by our table, including my dad. Again it occurred to me that Arch got along ten times better with my parents than Michael had. Unlike my ex, he seemed genuinely interested in my family and comfortable in Greenville. The warm fuzzies intensified when he mentioned heading back to the Appleseed to shower and change before coming back to the tavern tonight. He was as keen on watching me sing with the band as my parents. His enthusiasm warmed my heart. The twinkle in his eye heated other parts of my body. It made it difficult to determine my priorities. Interrogate him about Gish and then jump his bones? Or vice versa.

“Let's find a coat closet,” I whispered in his ear, still unsure as to which would come first—questions or kissing.

Arch grinned. “I'm going to need more room than that.”

Zowie.
Not sure what that meant, but it zapped my libido like a live wire.

I located Nic, who was sitting in a booth sipping ginger ale and allowing a cute guy sporting a John Deere cap and a smitten grin to drool all over her. “We're leaving,” I said.

“Where's Northbrook?”

“He gave Mr. Gish a ride to the airport. Some sort of personal crisis,” I said, keeping up pretenses in front of the infatuated local.

She looked over my shoulder at Arch, then back at me. “Think I'll hang out here,” she said, smiling at her new hunky friend. “I'll call you later.”

“Um…” I leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Don't you think Northbrook would be a little jealous if he knew—”

“We had a fight,” she said in a normal tone.

A real fight? Or a fake fight? “Did I miss something?”

“It was fun while it lasted, but his heart wasn't in it,” she said with a fake pout and a glance toward her friend. “I'm calling it quits.”

I didn't know what she was talking about. I hoped to hell Beckett did. “Does he know?”

She smiled. “He will.”

Ooookay.
I vamoosed, pondering her strange behavior.

Arch met me at the front door. “Where's Nic?”

“Back there, encouraging the interest of some beefcake tractor guy.” I frowned. “She said she's breaking up with Beckett. I mean, Northbrook. Do you know anything about that?”

“No.”

“She's in a mood today.”

“I noticed.” He narrowed his eyes. “I can hear your wheels turning, Sunshine.
Dinnae
worry
aboot
how this affects the overall ruse. Whirlwind affair gone bad. Simple as that. Happens all the time, yeah?”

Not exactly the words I wanted to hear considering
we
were engaged in a whirlwind affair. “Yeah.”

“Except where we're concerned,” he said, clearly reading my mind. He quirked a knee-melting grin. “Look at it this way—for the time being, it's just you and me and the entire B and B, eh, Sunshine?”

Zing.
“What are we waiting for?”

I
F IT WEREN'T FOR
fear of Joe Kitt tailing us with his telephoto lens, I would've indulged in some racy inclinations while Arch drove. Instead I behaved like a good girl, tightening my seat belt so I couldn't ease over and palm Bad Boy's erection.

“Now that we're alone,” I said, trying to sidetrack my naughty thoughts, “tell me what really went down with Gish.”

He slid on his sunglasses as we left the shaded streets for the sunny countryside. “What matters is that you get it all, yeah? Your ma's money and pride and knowing Gish is going to pay for his crimes.”

“Well, yeah. But I'm dying to know how you and Beckett pulled it off.”

“We fucked with his head.”

“Yes, but—”

“Evie.”

“What?”

“You know the scenario in a movie where a soldier refuses to talk with his family
aboot
what he saw or did when he was at war?”

“Sure.”

“What
aboot
the homicide cop who withholds the grim details of his job from his wife and kids?”

His expression was relaxed, his tone controlled. Uh-oh. “Are you saying you don't want to talk about your work?”

“I'm saying that I think you've glamorized what Chameleon does, yeah? It's not much different than what I used to do—and I know how you feel
aboot
that.”

I opened my mouth and he cut me off with a raised hand. “I know. Now when I con, it's not for personal gain but the greater good. I'm beginning to regret the day I used that phrase on you.”

“I don't understand why you're angry.”

“Do I sound angry?”

“No. A dead giveaway that you're two seconds from blowing your cork.”

He regarded me over the rims of his shades with a cocked brow. “My tell, yeah?”

“Now that you mention it.”

“I promise I
willnae
…blow my cork. It's just lately…I'm not always proud of what I do, you know?” He focused back on the road and my stomach did a little flip. I'd never heard him talk like this. And apparently he wasn't done. “I may be working on the right side of the law, but the tricks of the trade are the same. I deal in deceit, something that goes against your nature. You're striving to be a bad girl, but it's the good girl I adore. That I admire, yeah?”

My heart jackhammered in my chest.

“I understand that you
dinnae
want to go back. I just
dinnae
want to see you lose touch with what makes you shine.”

On the surface, that statement packed a heck of an “aw” factor. Truly it was a sweet sentiment, and I confess my heart fluttered like the wings of a hyper butterfly. But I also worried if I peeled away the pretty layers, I'd learn an ugly truth. “Are you saying you don't want me to be part of Chameleon? Are you asking me to choose?”

“I worry that subjecting you to deceit and manipulation on a regular basis will desensitize you. It's the way of things, yeah? But I also acknowledge that you are a skilled actress with brilliant improvisational skills, full of potential and surprises. Watching you work the jailhouse yesterday and Gish today…it gave me a bloody hard-on.”

Sweet
and
sexy. Holy smoke.

He pulled into the driveway, parked and cut the engine.

My mouth went dry when he tossed his sunglasses on the dash and angled to look me in the eyes. “If I did ask you to choose—”

“Please don't.”

“I just want to know you're in love with me and not my world.”