Lair of Dreams

“Ah, gee, sport. What would I know, a bum like me?”

“Where’d you hear about Project Buffalo?” Sam pressed.

“What are you two talking about over here?” Evie said.

T. S. Woodhouse’s gaze flicked from Sam to Evie and back again. He smiled. “I was just wondering which headline would be more interesting tomorrow: ‘Sam ’n’ Evie: Still Sparking’… or ‘Splitsville’?”

Sam glared at Evie. “You told him about Project Buffalo?”

“I-I… it isn’t what you think, Sam.”

“Oops. Looks like I’ve sparked a lover’s quarrel,” Woody said, triumphant. He took out his pencil. “Anything you’d like to say for the late edition?”

Sam took Evie’s hand, pulling her over to a corner of the dais. “How could you do that? I told you: no reporters. You promised to keep it a secret between you and me, Evie. I trusted you,” Sam said, his words quiet but angry.

“Sam, could we talk about this later?” Evie matched his tone. “I’ll explain everything, but…” She nodded toward the large crowd. “People are watching.”

“Oh, sure. I see. Wouldn’t want to disappoint your adoring public,” Sam said, hurt joining the anger. He didn’t trust many people, but he’d trusted her. “Well, I don’t care anymore, Evie. I’ve had enough. You know what? Maybe I’ll just blow this whole thing wide open. Tell you the truth, I’m tired of going to parties every night, anyway. I’m tired of playing your pretend fiancé. Tired of you. Just tired.”

A secretary gestured for them. “Miss O’Neill? Mr. Lloyd? You’re needed.”

“Sam… please.” Evie reached for Sam, but he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Come on. Let’s get this over with,” he said and walked away.

The Ziegfeld girls danced their way through a Diviners-inspired musical number. Theta was giving it her all, but even her talent couldn’t save the lousy song, and Sam hoped Henry hadn’t written it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Evie glancing over at him nervously. She looked miserable. Maybe he shouldn’t be so hard on her, but he couldn’t help it. He was furious with Evie. Project Buffalo was his life, not hers. She knew what it meant to him. How could she be so cavalier about it?

The dancers cleared off. Mr. Ziegfeld spoke a few words, and then Sam and Evie were on.

“Gee, that was swell, Mr. Ziegfeld,” Evie chirped into the WGI microphone. “It doesn’t take a Diviner to see that this show will be the elephant’s eyebrows!”

“Isn’t she terrific, folks? And how about a hand for that lucky fella of hers, Sam Lloyd?” Mr. Ziegfeld gestured to Sam, who gave a halfhearted wave. He came and stood next to Evie, but they were miles apart.

“Evie! Sam! Evie!” the reporters called. T. S. Woodhouse raised a finger again and again. Evie answered the other reporters’ questions but refused to call on him.

“Gee, Miss O’Neill, I’ve got the distinct impression you’re ignoring me, and I’m all balled up about it,” Woodhouse shouted, garnering chuckles from the crowd.

“Why, Woody, I couldn’t ignore you if I tried,” Evie said pointedly.

“It’s about this silly rumor I heard floating around town that maybe this romance is a buncha hooey. Daily News readers want to know: You two lovebirds on the level, or is this some kinda scheme cooked up by WGI to keep the ink wet on headlines and make the radio station money?”

There was murmuring in the crowd.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand about true love, Mr. Woodhouse. You manage to cheapen everything,” Evie spat back, defiant, but Sam could hear the panic in it. “Sam and I happen to be mad for each other.”

“Yeah?” Woodhouse sneered. “I guess that’s why you’re standing so close together.”

As if on command, Evie’s hand shot out for Sam’s. Sam didn’t return the gesture.

“Ah, yes. True love,” Woodhouse said, just like W. C. Fields. The remark had done its work, though.

“When’s the wedding?” a man in the crowd shouted, a challenge.

“Yeah, when’s the wedding?” a reporter chimed in. “You never say. Or maybe there’s not gonna be a wedding?”

“Sam, are you excited about the big day?” another reporter asked.

For the first time, Sam looked over at Evie. Her eyes were wide and she clutched a handkerchief tightly in one fist. This charade meant everything to her, he knew. She bit her lip, and he knew she was pleading with him silently: Please don’t spoil it with the truth. He’d gone into this phony romance scheme with his eyes open. But somewhere along the way, his feelings had changed. He’d wanted more. He’d let his guard down. And now she’d gone and sold him out. He could do the same to her right this minute. He could tell everyone the truth about their cooked-up romance. It would serve her right.