Lair of Dreams (The Diviners #2) (15 page)

“Good morning, good morning!” Evie called as she flounced down the halls of WGI wearing a broad smile that masked the hangover from the previous night’s party. As promised, Evie had popped out of the cake at midnight. As expected, she’d popped right into a boozy party that went until well into the wee hours. She’d kill for another few hours of sleep. In the hallway, the day’s hopefuls clamored to be put on the air. Every morning, there was a line of new talent looking to make a name on the radio.

“I can sing just like Caruso,” one fellow explained before launching into an aria so loud Evie was fairly certain it could be heard out in Queens.

“What about me?” another man with a nasal voice piped up. “I can do fourteen different bird whistles!”

“Oh, please don’t,” Evie muttered, rubbing her temples.

As Evie dropped off her cloche and coat with the coat-check girl, another of Mr. Phillips’s many secretaries, Helen, hurried toward her. “Miss O’Neill! I’ve been looking for you. Mr. Phillips would like to speak with you. Immediately.”

Evie’s gut roiled as Helen ushered her into Mr. Phillips’s private office, an enormous corner room of gleaming cherrywood walls on the tenth floor with a view of Midtown Manhattan. A gold-framed oil painting of a godlike Guglielmo Marconi inventing the wireless took up an entire wall. His painted expression gave no hint as to Evie’s fate.

“Wait here. He’ll be in shortly,” Helen said and closed the door.

Was Mr. Phillips firing her? Had she done something wrong? By the time she heard Mr. Phillips’s patrician voice telling his secretary to “hold all calls,” she was so anxious she could’ve climbed the pretty walls.

Mr. Phillips swept into the room with the sort of calm confidence that had helped him make a fortune in the stock market. His suits were tailored in London, and he had an apartment in the city and a house out on Long Island where he hosted legendary parties attended by film and radio stars. But radio was his one true obsession, and WGI was his baby. Talent that Mr. Phillips didn’t like had been fired mid-show: An emcee or act would be ushered out of the studio during a musical number and immediately replaced with a new act.

“Good morning, Miss O’Neill,” he said now, taking the seat opposite her. The sun glinted off his silvery hair. “You’re front-page news today, it seems.”

He slid a stack of newspapers toward her. The
Daily News
. The
Herald
. The
Star
. Every one of them carried a station-approved glamour shot of Evie, along with a screaming headline:

SWEETHEART SEES HIM AS HER GROOM.

LOVE IS IN THE CARDS FOR DIVINER GAL.

FLAPPER OF FATE IN SECRET ROMANCE.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” Mr. Phillips asked.

“I… I can explain, Mr. Phillips,” Evie said. Under the table, her foot tapped like mad. He would fire her, send her packing, and everything she’d enjoyed the last few months would be gone. When she saw Sam Lloyd again, Evie would need Theta to hold her back to keep her from killing that boy in every way she could imagine—and she had quite an imagination. Evie took a deep, calming breath.
Use your vowels
, she told herself.
Everything sounds better with proper enunciation.
“You see, it isn’t quite what it seems.…”

“No? I certainly hope it is what it seems, dear girl,” Mr. Phillips answered, his eyes brightening. “It’s spectacular!”

“It… it is?” Evie squeaked.

“Indeed it is. WGI has been flooded with telephone calls all day. The switchboard operators’ fingers are exhausted. People are crazy about your engagement. They can’t get enough! They want to know everything about it. Why, it’s the biggest thing to hit New York since—well, since you announced you were a Diviner. The ‘It Girl’ has found her ‘It Boy.’”

A tickle nagged the back of Evie’s throat. “Oh, gee, well, I wouldn’t exactly say Sam is my ‘It Boy.’”

Mr. Phillips waved her words away. “The point is, my dear girl, that you and your lucky fellow have made the WGI family very happy. Finally, we’ve got a leg up on NBC. You and your beau are going to put us over the top. Already, the advertisers are calling. They want to support the station that has the Sweetheart Seer and her fiancé.” He smiled. “And when our advertisers are happy, I am happy. You are about to become very famous, my dear.”

“I am?”

“Yes. What would you say to being on the air two nights a week? With a small raise, naturally.”

Two nights a week? The only other people with that sort of clout were stars like Will Rogers and Fanny Brice. Evie couldn’t keep the smile from spreading wide across her face. “That’d be the berries, Mr. Phillips.”

“Consider it done. And, of course, we’ll want to arrange press for the happy couple.”

“Oh. Well, gee, I-I don’t know. It’s all rather new,” Evie said. Her voice had gone high, like she’d been given ether.

“Nonsense.” Mr. Phillips glowered, his bushy brows coming to a terrifying, angry V mid-forehead. “We’ll arrange it. The public’s appetite must be fed. I want you and your fellow”—Mr. Phillips stole a glance at the newspaper story—“Sam out as often as possible. Every night if you can. Now that Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald are in Europe, Americans are hungry for a modern couple to take their place.” He lowered a finger at her. “You two are it.”

Evie burst into uncontrollable, nervous laughter.

“Is something the matter, Miss O’Neill?”

“Everything’s jake,” Evie said in a somewhat strangled voice. “Could I make a telephone call, please?”

In the privacy of Mr. Phillips’s office, Evie waited for Sam to answer and looked out the tenth-floor windows at tall buildings enveloped by winter fog. Down below, the people hustling along Fifth Avenue seemed rather small. Evie liked being this high; she felt quite powerful, indeed. She’d like to stay up here among the clouds. Evie picked up the day’s paper and stared at her name in bold print. Yes, she liked this very much. She just had to get Sam on board.

The operator broke the silence. “I’ve got that call for you, Miss O’Neill.”

Sam’s voice crackled over the line, filled with smirk. “Well, if it isn’t the future Mrs. Lloyd.”

“Daaarling,” she trilled. “I’ve missed you.”

There was a brief pause on the other end, then: “Uh-oh.”

Through the crack in the door, Evie could see Mr. Phillips and the WGI secretary pool hovering, hanging on her every word. She perched on the gleaming edge of the lacquered desk and laughed like they’d taught her in elocution class, low in her throat, with her head thrown back as if she were catching the wind in her hair. It was supposed to be alluring and high-class, the devil-may-care laugh of a lady of leisure. “Hahahaha. Oh, you! Darling, I simply
must
see you. Shall we say luncheon at noon? The Algonquin?”

Another pause. “Are you feeling okay, Sheba?”

“Now, don’t be late, dearest. We have
so much
to discuss, and you know that every moment away from you is like torture.
Adieu!
”

Evie hung up before Sam could say another word.

On her way out, Evie shared the elevator with Sarah Snow. Evie noticed her stockings right away—gray herringbone, very chic. For
an evangelist, she was quite fashionable. That was a large part of her appeal. God’s flapper, some called her. She gave the subject of Jesus a little hotsy-totsy. A missionary’s daughter whose parents had been killed in China when she was only thirteen, Sarah Snow heard the call at the tender age of fifteen. By the time she was twenty, she’d crisscrossed the country twice, holding tent meetings and preaching about the evils of liquor, dancing, and socialism. She’d married at twenty-one and lost her husband to tuberculosis before she’d turned twenty-three. Now, at twenty-five, she was trying to reach her flock on the radio—Moses on the Wireless. That she called for a return to simpler times appealed to plenty of Americans lost in a world turning too fast for them to find their footing. That she was a passionate speaker brought scores to her revival meetings. That she was pretty didn’t hurt a thing.

Still, she didn’t have nearly the following that Evie did. In fact, the gossip around the station was that the only reason Sarah had managed to hold on to her show was that there was nothing better to slot into that hour, and it would look bad to fire a foot soldier for Jesus.

“Congratulations on your engagement, Evie,” the evangelist said, giving one of those saintly, closed-mouth smiles that Evie couldn’t have managed if she practiced in a church mirror for a year.

“Thank you, Sarah.”

“Is he a Godly sort of fellow?”

Evie suppressed a loud “ha!” “Well, he certainly does know how to make a girl appeal to the Lord.”

“I wish you every happiness. I heard they’re putting you on two nights a week now. Is… is that true?” Another closed-mouth smile. But Evie sensed the worry behind it. Sarah Snow might have her eyes on the cross, but her heart was full of ambition. It almost made Evie like her more. Almost.

“Yes. It’s true,” Evie said brightly.

Sarah faced forward again, her eyes on the golden arrow counting down the floors. “I suppose everyone loves a great romance.”

Evie’s smile faltered. “I suppose so.”

Evie blew into the Algonquin and shook the damp from her cloche. The maître d’ led her through the packed, oak-paneled dining room. Every head turned as Sam rose to greet Evie.

“Lamb Chop!” Sam clasped her hands and gave a small sigh.

“Makes me sound like dinner,” Evie muttered through clenched teeth.

“Does it, my little Venison De Milo?”

Evie glared. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Sam whispered into her ear, “More than you can imagine.”

A waiter appeared. “Shall I bring you the Waldorf salad, Miss O’Neill?”

“Yes, thank you. And coffee, please.”

“Mr. Lloyd?”

Sam gave a small sigh. “Usually I feast on our love, but since the lady’s having something, I’ll take a Reuben. Extra horseradish. And an egg cream.”

“As you wish, sir,” the waiter said. “You two must be very happy.”

“Over the moon. Who’d’ve thought a regular schmoe like me could land a gem like Baby Doll here,” Sam said.

Evie had to lock her hands around her knees to keep from kicking Sam under the table. Once the waiter had gone, Evie leaned forward, her voice low. “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you, pal?”

Sam shrugged. “I heard we were in a romance. Thought I’d play along. But if you’d rather not, I’ll call the papers right now and tell ’em the truth.”

“You’ll do no such thing, Sam Lloyd! You got us into this mess. Now we’re stuck.”

“Is that so? Tell me why I shouldn’t fess up to the news boys.”

“Do you know how many calls the radio station got today about us? One thousand!”

“A… thousand?”

“One-oh-oh-oh, brother. And they’re still calling! Mr. Phillips
wants to put me on two nights a week. This is going to make me famous. More famous.” She glared at Sam. “You, too, I suppose.”

Sam rubbed his chin, grinning. “I bet I’d be good at being famous.”

“How lucky for us all,” Evie snapped. “The point is, if you tell them it was just a joke now, I’ll look like a joke, too. Nobody wants to back a joke. Makes people grumpy. There’s only one solution, I’m afraid. We’ve got to play out this hand for a bit.”