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“The papers say a lot of things. Is it because he’s a brooder, a real Heathcliff?”
“He isn’t a brooder. He’s just a very deep thinker. He’s… philosophical. Some girls happen to find that charming.”
“Yeah, real swoon-worthy. Frankly, I never understood why girls go for that. It’s like the fella’s announcing he’s a miserable time, but I swear, that’s like honey for some dames. Misery honey.”
Evie’s eyes flashed. “Maybe you’re the one who’s miserable. You’re certainly conceited.”
“At least I know how to make a girl laugh.”
“And pull her hair out.”
“You know, some girls like that hair-pulling,” Sam said.
He was being deliberately provocative. Evie got up in his face. “Then remind me to shave my head bald.”
“Wait! Just answer me this: Does he make you happy?”
“If you must know, he makes me feel like I’m the only girl in the room.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Why was he doing this to her? “Are you one of those fellas who only likes a girl if another fella wants her? Maybe you should ask yourself that question. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to dress for dinner,” she said, moving past him.
Sam reached out and held her hand softly. “Evie…”
For just a minute, she was reminded of their fake romance. Except that the expression on his face seemed very real. Was it real? Was anything with Sam real? No. Sam-n-Evie, the romance, had had its chance. It hadn’t worked. This was just Sam being his usual pot-stirring self. And once he had a girl wrapped around his finger, he lost interest. She knew too well from experience.
She let go of his hand. “I don’t want to be late for dinner.”
Sam leaned his head back against the wall, thumping it gently. “Swell job, Lloyd. You schmuck.”
After a delicious private dinner that featured more silverware than anybody knew what to do with, they retired to the library, where they played cards and waited until they could steal into the room with the punch card reader. They listened to the hubbub of servants taking coats and men welcoming one another, of Marlowe ordering “our best port,” even though Sam had the idea that these were the very people who’d voted for Prohibition, then turned around and decided the rules didn’t apply to them. The men’s voices went fuzzy with distance as they retreated to another part of the house, and then it was silent. The grandfather clock in the foyer struck half past nine.
“Can we go now, Freddy?” Sam cajoled.
“Yes,” Jericho said, leaving his cards on the table. “And don’t call me Freddy.”
Jericho led his friends toward the former soldiers’ room. “Quickly,” he said, ushering them inside and shutting the door.
“Don’t see me,” Sam said, waving his hands over it. “That should keep anybody’s eyes from glancing this way for the next five minutes or so.”
Just above them, they could hear vague noises from Marlowe’s club meeting: The crack of a billiards game. Muffled laughter. Low talking. They were safe for now.
“So this is where my brother was before…” Evie said, giving the room a once-over. She longed to touch everything in the hope that some trace of James lingered here.
“It’s this way,” Jericho said gently, and led them toward the back. He opened the closet door. Sam whistled.
“So that’s it, huh?” he said, stroking a hand across the tabulating machine. “I’ll say this for Marlowe, this is a beauty. The one at Macy’s wasn’t like this. Say, Jericho, gimme a hand with this thing, will ya?”
Jericho dragged the machine from the closet as if it weighed no more than a sack of potatoes.
“I coulda done that,” Sam said.
Henry patted him sympathetically on the back. Ling shook her head.
Sam plugged in the machine. He pushed a button and it hummed to life.
“Here goes nothing,” he said, and fed the first card into the intake slot. A series of slim metal fingers bobbed up and down as they attempted to type out a report. The machine wheezed and shuddered.
