Everybody Loves Evie

by Beth Ciotta

  “You’ll be posing as a hospital patient if you don’t get into dry clothes.”

  Just then, Woody blew in, two hangers dangling from his fingertips. A nurse’s uniform and a nun’s habit.

  Milo’s ass vibrated. He ignored the incoming call, frowned at Woody. “You’re joking.”

  “All of the women’s clothes are in Hot Legs’s size,” he said.

  “Who’s Hot Legs?” asked Evie.

  “Gina,” Milo said. His primary female operator. Arch’s previous conquest. The woman who’d put Evie through the wringer on that cruise. Those two had clashed like a pit bull and a poodle. Hell would freeze over before Twinkie would wear anything worn by Gina “Hot Legs” Valente.

  “She’s taller and thinner than you,” Woody said, “so I figured anything with pants was out. These are sort of shapeless, so—”

  “I’ll risk pneumonia,” Evie said with a tight smile. “Thanks all the same.”

  Woody looked clueless and Milo had to bite his tongue. No wonder your girlfriend left you. He may as well have called Evie short and dumpy. From her pinched expression, that’s exactly what she’d heard. Women had an uncanny way of twisting a man’s words when it came to their appearance. He’d learned long ago that when a lady friend asks, Does this make my ass look big? the safest answer is a simple no.

  “You don’t look so good, ma’am,” Woody said, digging a deeper hole. But he was right. She was flushed, perspiring and shaky on her feet.

  “Yeah, well, you don’t smell so good.”

  Woody, who’d been trying to win back his girlfriend by changing everything from his wardrobe to his brand of toothpaste, looked crushed. “You don’t like my cologne?”

  “How to put this kindly?” she said with a notable slur. “No.”

  Milo studied her hard. “How many shots did Pops give you?”

  “One,” she said, holding up two fingers.

  Woody whistled. “Oh, man. She’s—”

  Milo cut him off before he could say crocked. Knowing his caretaker/bartender he wouldn’t have knowingly poured more than this half-pint could handle. Obviously she had no tolerance. “Nix the clothes,” he said to Woody. “Tell Tabasco rehearsal’s canceled. Our star’s under the weather.”

  “Don’t tell him that!” she cried. “It makes me sound like a diva. As long as I have a voice, I can sing.”

  “But you’re hoarse,” said Milo. And looped.

  “So I’ll sound like Janis Joplin.”

  “Did Joplin sing jazz?” Woody asked.

  “No, and neither do I.”

  “Actually,” Milo said, “she recorded a rendition of ‘Summertime.’”

  “Oh, right. Joplin did do Gershwin.” She snorted. “Not literally, of course. Regardless, jazz is not in my repertoire.”

  “Only kind of music Agent Beckett allows,” Woody said.

  She crinkled her nose and Milo smiled. “My club. My rules.”

  “Dictating the artist’s song list,” she grumbled, then sneezed. “I already feel at home.”

  Bitterness laced her tone and stabbed at Milo’s conscience. Again the phone vibrated, and he thought about what Arch had said about her wanting to ditch her old life. Thing was, he’d seen her perform—singing, dancing, acting. She possessed charisma and talent. What’s pushing you to abandon your God-given gifts, Evie? He hated that he cared. “So you’re willing to work as the club’s house singer?”

  “As long as I don’t have to sign a contract. I’m agent-free—or is that a free agent? Whatever. I’m acting on my own behalf and I am a man of my word.”

  Milo bit back a smile, thinking she was cute when loopy. “Fine by me.” He’d utilized Michael Stone’s services once. After meeting Evie and learning how he’d screwed her over, he liked the smooth-talking bastard even less.

  “What should I tell Tabasco?” Woody asked, eyeing Evie, then Milo.

  Evie spoke first. “Do you have a clothes dryer in this joint?”

  Woody nodded. “In the basement.”

  “Tell him I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”

  Milo guesstimated she’d be down for the count in ten, but he jumped on the chance to get her out of those wet clothes. “I can loan you some jogging pants and a sweatshirt while you wait.”

  She nabbed the nurse’s uniform from Woody. “This will do. Thanks.” She weaved into the bathroom.

  Woody escaped down the stairs.

  Two doors slammed shut and Milo’s ass vibrated. “What?” he barked into the cell.

  “Dinnae bite my head off. You’re the one who hung up on me, yeah?”

  Arch sounded calm—but then, he always sounded calm. Milo knew him well enough to know he was agitated. He pushed, hoping to confirm or negate suspicions that Arch had fallen head over heels. “Something came up.”

  “That why you’re trying to get Evie oot of her knickers?”

  “Jealous?”

  “Concerned.”

  “Not much of a difference.”

  “Enough of a difference.”

  Just then, the topic of discussion stepped out of the bathroom looking like Nurse Goodbody. Milo’s mouth went dry.

  “Still there, mate?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Not looking at him, she tugged up the plunging neckline. “Where’d you get this nurse’s uniform anyway?” she slurred. “Frederick’s of Hollywood? Maybe I should have opted for your shirt, Beckett. It would’ve covered more.”

  “What the—”

  “Call you back.” Milo snapped the phone shut. He imagined Arch scrambling to book the next flight back to the States. Wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Yesterday he’d been bent on guarding their partnership. Today he considered the possibility that he’d learned all that he could from the grifter. Maybe it was time to break off with Arch and the Agency, strike out on his own. It would certainly make life simpler.

  Growing pains.

  He studied Nurse Evie Goodbody, registered another kind of ache. Christ.

  She palmed her forehead, groaned. “Something’s wrong.” The color drained from her face. “Help me,” she said, just like in his dream. And toppled into his arms, just like in his dream.

  Only there was nothing sexy about this moment. She was feverish and semiconscious. Milo swooped her up and placed her on the sofa.

  “Must be allergic,” she said.

  “To whiskey?”

  “Echi-something.” Her eyes closed. Her limp hand pointed. “Purse.”

  Milo found a black purse under her soaked suit jacket. He rooted through the contents, marveled at how much junk a woman could cram into a small space. He palmed her ringing cell, glanced at the caller ID. Nic. Man? Woman? Friend? Family? Someone who’d be aware of Evie’s medical history? He allowed the call to roll over to voice mail, dug deeper and nabbed a small plastic bottle. Echinacea. An herbal remedy for colds.

  Milo uncapped the bottle, tapped out a few capsules and read the inscription. “Hell.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “MIDOL?” NICOLE, MY chain-smoking, designer-chic friend, spread a coverlet on top of my duvet—as if I wasn’t warm enough—and settled on the end of my bed.

  “Yup,” I croaked, feeling as foolish now as I had several hours earlier when Beckett had informed me of the mix-up. “It’s Coco’s fault,” I said for the second time today. “My neighbor’s poodle. A while back I agreed to dog-sit, not knowing Coco was cuckoo. He chewed up two paperback novels and destroyed the cardboard box containing the pain relievers. Needing a container, I swapped out the herbal capsules to salvage the Midol. At the time, the cramp stuff was more important than the cold stuff. Only I forgot about the swap.”

  “Only you,” Nic said with a grin.

  Beckett had said the same thing.

  I’d have to commit the mortifying scene to my diary. Someday it would strike me as funny. Maybe.

  Doped up on Robitussin, Midol and whiskey, I’d suffered slurred speech, noodly limbs and severe fatigue. But I didn’t p
ass out. Partly because I was too stubborn and embarrassed. Partly because Beckett had plied me with hot tea and questions. He must’ve been desperate to keep me alert and talking. Surely he wasn’t that interested in my entertainment background. After a couple of hours, the storm had subsided and he finally agreed to drive me home. But only if I called someone to check in on me. Like I couldn’t take care of myself. Okay, I screwed up my medication, but that was a freak accident. Swear. “That’s what I get for not looking at what I put in my mouth.”

  “I could comment on that,” Nic said. “But I won’t.”

  Jayne’s angelic face heated to a shade that nearly matched her fiery ringlets. “Madame Helene warned me that a loved one was at risk.”

  “Madame Helene’s a nut,” Nic said, not for the first time.

  Ah, yes. My two best friends: Yin and Yang. Where Nic was the realist, Jayne was the spiritualist. A bit flighty and a lot gullible. Nic and I loved the Bohemian whack-a-doodle but questioned her faith in a certain bangle-wearing whack job. The notorious Madame Helene.

  “Loved ones are always at risk,” I pointed out calmly. “Everyone’s at risk. Every day. Not just physically but emotionally. Intellectually.”

  “Deep,” Nic teased.

  I blew my nose into a tissue. “Just saying there are people out there who will take advantage.”

  “Cynical,” Jayne said.

  “Educated,” I said, thinking about Arch and his sucker-born-every-minute mentality.

  My fuzzy brain worked double-time trying to determine how much I could tell my friends about the Chameleon Club and the players I’d met thus far. I hated lying to them, but I didn’t want to divulge any secrets that would get me kicked off the team. As it was, I’d been benched. “Did you say you brought chicken soup?”

  “Along with crackers and ginger ale,” Nic said. “When you called to say you were sick, we figured we should pass on the chips and margaritas.”

  Jayne scrambled off the bed. “I’ll heat up the soup. We can drag in a couple of TV trays, have supper together and, if you’re feeling up to it, Evie, you can tell us about the cruise and jolly old England.”

  Nic smiled and squeezed my toes through the covers. “Mostly we want to hear about Arch.”

  The mention of the man who’d yet to return my call filled me with equal parts anger, sadness and anxiety. Had he been arrested by Scotland Yard? Run down by a double-decker bus? Or was he simply ignoring me?

  “You all right?” Nic asked as she rose.

  “Peachy,” I croaked, then blew my nose. “Maybe you guys should go. I’m probably contagious.”

  “We haven’t seen you in almost three weeks. We’re not going anywhere.” She squeezed my toes again, which was pretty affectionate for Nic. “I’ll help Jayne with the sick-people supper. Call if you need us. Or maybe you should just bang on the wall. You haven’t got much of a voice left.” She smiled. “Good thing you don’t have to sing tonight.”

  “Yeah. Good thing.”

  As soon as she left the room, I pushed myself into a sitting position and nabbed my cell off the nightstand. Three voice messages. Heart pounding, I connected and listened.

  The first message was from my mom, mentioning the upcoming theater benefit. “Connie Grable still asks after you, Evelyn,” she said. “I know you’re busy, but the least you could do is attend her special night.” Then she hung up. Huh. Although they were teaching colleagues, it’s not as if Mom and Mrs. Grable were best buds. Plus, Mom had never encouraged my artistic interests. I clearly recall her trying to talk me out of joining the drama club in the first place, thinking my time would be better spent boning up on algebra. Like any amount of studying was going to help me to understand quadratic equations. I’m lucky I can balance my checkbook.

  I replayed her message, considered. Did she need me to help her to square things with Dad? Nope. That couldn’t be it. She blamed me for the failure of my own marriage. I’m the last person she’d ask for matrimonial advice. What then? Did she miss me? The possibility made me all warm and fuzzy. Or maybe it was my chenille sweats and thick socks.

  I saved the message and moved on to the next one.

  Dad. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I listened to his succinct message. “I’m thinking it’s time we discussed your moving home, little one. Don’t call me back on your dime, I’ll call again tomorrow. ’Bye, now.”

  Okay, something was definitely up. Did he want me to move in with my mom so she wouldn’t be alone? Did he plan on making their separation permanent? Or, knowing I no longer had a husband to lean on, did he worry I’d fall flat on my face? I wasn’t fond of any of those possibilities.

  I skipped to the next message fully expecting to hear my brother’s businesslike drone.

  “Hey, Sunshine.”

  Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Not a John Boy twang but a Highlander lilt. Arch’s voice flowed through me like heady dark ale.

  “Got your message. Glad you’re home safe. Dinnae let Beckett work you too hard, yeah? Take care, lass. Cheers.”

  “That’s it?” I couldn’t believe it. No invitation to call him back. No clue as to when he’d be returning to the States. Could his message be any more impersonal? Friends, just friends, I told myself and tried not to feel depressed that Arch was honoring my wishes. A modicum of resistance would’ve been nice.

  I tossed the phone into the nightstand drawer and slammed it shut.

  Nic peeked in. “You rang?”

  “No. I…no. Sorry.”

  “You look ticked.” She carried in two TV trays and set them germ distance away on either side of the bed.

  “I’m just bummed about this cold.”

  “I’m thinking you’re bummed because you’re here and Arch isn’t.”

  “We’re just friends.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since always. We had a fling. Period. No emotional ties. No promises. Just great sex.”

  “Sounds perfect and totally unlike you.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve changed.”

  “Don’t go changing too much,” Nic said with a quirked brow. “We’re pretty fond of the old Evie.”

  “You’ll like the new and improved Evie even better,” I said. “No more moping over Michael. No more wasting my time trying to land casino gigs.”

  “I’m liking your attitude, girlfriend. But you do need a paycheck.”

  “As it happens, I have a new job.”

  Jayne bopped in carrying a bed tray loaded with a bowl of soup, a plate of saltines and a glass of ginger ale. She placed it over my lap. “What did I miss?”

  “Evie got a new job,” Nic told her while eyeing me with curiosity.

  “A day job?”

  As in a real job, aka a nine-to-five. Shudder. “No. A singing job.”

  “Sounds like your old job,” said Jayne. “What casino?”

  “Not a casino,” I said. “A club. The Chameleon Club.”

  Nic narrowed her eyes. “Never heard of it. Where is it?”

  I stated the address and got the anticipated groans. “I know it’s not in the best area and it’s not a casino lounge or an upscale dance club, but it’s a steady gig—Wednesdays through Sundays. And the pay is decent.” Although, come to think of it, I had no idea what the pay was. Maybe Beckett had mentioned it. I couldn’t be sure. Half of our conversation was a blur…like the ride home.

  “When do you start?” Nic asked

  “As soon as I get rid of this cold.”

  “Did Michael book this gig?” Jayne asked.

  “No. He won’t be handling me anymore.”

  Nic snorted. “You can say that again.”

  Maybe I should. Saying it out loud, stating that we were over personally and professionally, worked better than medicine. “Strange,” I said, hand over heart. “My chest feels lighter and I can breathe easier.”

  “That’s because you’re getting a nasty infection out of your system,” Nic said. “That man’s been plaguing you for months. Wait’ll he learns
you’re finally and totally over him. His frickin’ ego will be crushed.”

  “Too bad you couldn’t rain on his parade before he left for Paris,” Jayne said.

  I cocked my head, unsure if I’d heard correctly. “Paris? As in France? As in the Eiffel Tower? The Louvre Museum? Champagne and decadent desserts?”

  Jayne flushed.

  Nic sighed. “I thought we agreed to wait until she was feeling better.”

  “It slipped out.”

  I sipped ginger ale to dissolve the lump in my throat. “Tell me.”

  “Michael and Sasha eloped,” Nic said.

  “They’re honeymooning in Paris,” Jayne added.

  The city I’d dreamed of visiting since I was a little girl and first saw Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron dancing and singing in An American in Paris. The city of amour. The city Michael had promised he’d take me to someday. Instead he’d taken Sasha. “C’est la vie,” I said as blandly as possible, then spooned chicken soup and focused on not clenching my jaw.

  Jayne screwed up her face. “I thought you’d be upset. Don’t you care that he didn’t tell you about the baby or the marriage, that he just whisked off the other woman to the city of your dreams?”

  “Sasha’s no longer the other woman,” I said, careful not to choke on the words. “She’s his wife. And, no, I don’t care. I’ve moved on.”

  “The new and improved Evie,” Nic said with a skeptical gleam in her eye.

  “Oh,” Jayne said, looking befuddled.

  “Consider me enlightened,” I said, speaking to her New Age sensibilities.

  “But—”

  “This soup is delicious,” I said. “Aren’t you having any?”

  Jayne eyed Nic.

  Nic eyed me. “Only if you tell us about the Scottish hunk you boinked and dumped.”

  Jayne blinked. “You dumped Arch?”

  “Yeah, but first they had great sex,” Nic said.

  “Creative monkey sex,” I said, knowing that I had to tell them something about the last two weeks. Since I couldn’t talk about Chameleon, that left sex. Since I wouldn’t be having it anymore, at least not with Arch, the least I could do was relive the best romps with my best buds. Arch wouldn’t mind. In fact, I could envision his cocky smile.