“I’m fine, Mama,” Ling said, George’s track medal heavy in her pocket.
Mrs. Chan placed her hands at her hips. “I’m your mother. I’ll decide if you’re fit enough. Oh!” She broke into a smile. “I almost forgot. You just missed your friend from the science club. The freckled one. Henry.”
“Henry was here?”
“Yes. He left you a note.” Her mother searched under a stack of receipts. “Is he Irish? Looks Irish. Ah. Here it is.”
Mrs. Chan handed over Henry’s folded note, which Ling had no doubt her mother had already read. She hoped that he hadn’t said anything too revealing. Taped to the letter was a ten-dollar bill.
Dear Miss Chan,
Greetings! I had great success in locating the Louis particle of which we spoke. In the interest of science, let us please repeat our experiment. If this suits you, I suggest that we perform the experiment this evening at precisely the same time and in the same manner as last evening. If you find this agreeable in the name of science, please ring me at the New Amsterdam Theatre, where I am attempting to steer those lost, immoral souls away from a life of sin. The money is a donation for the poor, naturally.
Sincerely,
Henry B. DuBois IV
Secretary and Chief Musical Director
Science Club
Nicely done, you idiot, Ling thought, smiling a bit.
“Who is this young man?” Ling’s mother asked. Her expression wavered on the knife’s edge between suspicion and hopeful expectation.
“An annoyance,” Ling answered, cutting off further inquiry. “I’ve been tutoring him in his schoolwork. He’s a little dumb. May I use the telephone to call him back?”
“Ling!” Mrs. Chan sighed and jerked her head toward the kitchen. “Go on, then, but be quick about it. There’s work to be done. And remember: A bit of kindness goes a long way, my girl.”
Ling made her way to the telephone in her father’s office adjoining the steamy kitchen and put a finger in her ear to tune out the rattle of pans, the hiss of hot oil on the stove, and the rat-a-tat call-and-response of the cooks and waiters—the noisy, sometimes contentious comforts of home. A weary voice answered at the New Amsterdam and announced that Mr. DuBois wasn’t yet in.
“I see. Could you deliver a message? Please tell him that Miss Chan has considered his proposal, and her answer is pos-i-tute-ly.”
“There she is! It’s the Sweetheart Seer! Evie—over here! Evie!” Fans clamored as Evie emerged from her chauffeured Chrysler, waving to them and blowing kisses. Reporters stood ready with their notepads. T. S. Woodhouse tipped his hat. His expression was trouble. Evie acknowledged him with a polite smile.
“There’s Sam!” someone shouted as Sam came whistling up the sidewalk, shaking hands and waving genially to the crowd.
“Sam! Sam!” they called, and Evie had to fight to keep her smile fixed in place. Sharing the spotlight with Sam was irritating, but she could make it work for four weeks.
“Pork Chop!” Sam ran to Evie and kissed her hand. In the streets, people cheered.
“Oh, aren’t they the dreamiest couple you ever saw?” a woman in the front row said.
“Pouring it on a little thick, aren’t you?” Evie whispered in Sam’s ear, never losing her smile for the public.
“Nothing succeeds like excess, Baby Vamp,” he said, leaning in close. “Besides, when this circus is over in a few minutes, you’re gonna do me a big favor.”
“Now, wait a minute. I—” Evie’s retort was cut short by an electric squawk as Mr. Phillips stepped up to the microphone and the speakers carried his voice out onto Fifth Avenue. “Ladies and gentlemen, WGI is delighted to present New York City’s liveliest couple since Scott and Zelda! Their love has taken the city by storm! And now you can hear Miss O’Neill on this very station two nights a week on the Pears Soap Hour! Without further ado, let me present to you: the Sweetheart Seer, Evie O’Neill, and her very own sweetheart, Sam Lloyd!”
“Hold it!” A cameraman’s flash popped. “Thanks.”
The reporters shouted for Sam and Evie’s attention. But Evie knew who to turn to first.
“Mr. Woodhouse?”
“Why, thank you, Miss O’Neill,” Woodhouse purred. “Or should I say the future Mrs. Sam Lloyd?”
Evie’s eyes flashed. “Miss O’Neill is just fine for now.”
T. S. Woodhouse’s pencil hovered over his notepad. “I’m sure we’re all dying to know how you two lovebirds first met.”
