Everybody Loves Evie. Beth Ciotta

I was too tired to do the math. I told myself to journal my frustrations, only I was too tired to hold a pen.

      “Just friends,” I mumbled. “Coworkers.” I repeated those words like a mantra over and over until I started to drift.

       Just. Friends.

      It triggered a tender memory: spooning with Arch and quoting lines from Titanic.

       I don’t know this dance.

       Just go with it.

      Right.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      I WOKE WITH A START. I’d been dreaming about Arch. About pulling a con, only I screwed up—or, as Arch put it, cracked out of turn. You’re not up to this, he said, only he’d morphed into Michael, who had his arm around a young girl with a swelled tummy, and when he spoke again he said, You’re too old for this.

      It was a crummy, awful dream.

      Fuzzy-headed, I lay there for a second, willing away a sense of failure and loss. I rolled to my side, wanting to snuggle with my Scottish lover, only he wasn’t there. Right. He’s in London. I’m at home. And Michael and Sasha are shacked up and celebrating future parenthood. Not that I cared. Okay, that’s a lie. But obsessing would only agitate my TMJ.

      I massaged my tight jaw and squinted at the alarm clock. Eleven-thirty in the morning.

      It took a minute to register.

      Eleven thirty-one.

      Head thunk. The next morning!

      I kicked off my duvet, collected my wits. I’d fallen asleep around this time yesterday, woken up in the middle of the night, unpacked, showered and journaled in my diary. Wide-awake, I’d booted up my laptop, thinking maybe Arch had e-mailed—he hadn’t—and ended up clicking on Amazon.com and ordering books about con artists and scams. Eyes and heart heavy, I’d snuggled under my cover, waited for Arch to call—he didn’t—and at some point fallen back to sleep.

      I shoved my tangled hair out of my bleary eyes. “I’m supposed to be somewhere,” I rasped.

       The Chameleon Club.

      “Crap!” The curse came out a garbled croak. Clasping my throat, I flew into the bathroom. I was hoarse. My throat hurt and my nose was stuffed. I blamed it on a screwed-up body clock. On three weeks of travel. On the drastic changes in climate—balmy Caribbean to chilly London to windy and damp Brigantine. I sneezed, then coughed. “Great.” My first day on a new job and I was sick. If I lingered too long over my appearance, I’d be late. “Damn!”

      I primped and dressed in record time. Minimal makeup, ponytail and as close to a conventional men-in-black suit as my funky wardrobe would allow. Medicated on Robitussin and herbal cold caplets, I grabbed my purse and sailed out the door. Barring a flat tire, speeding ticket or head-on collision, I’d arrive at the Chameleon Club five minutes ahead of schedule.

      I didn’t factor in the possibility of torrential rains.

      On the short drive to the Atlantic City Inlet, the dark, fat clouds that seemed to be hovering exclusively over my car exploded. I’m not the world’s greatest driver on a clear, sunny day. I know this. If I hydroplaned, I was screwed. So I slowed to a crawl. Death grip on the steering wheel, I swiped off my MIB shades, leaned forward and squinted through my blurry windshield. The wipers weren’t wiping as much as streaking. Or maybe I needed glasses. I was over forty, after all.

       “You’re too old for this.”

      The need to meet with Beckett and to start this new and exciting phase of my life intensified with each sluggish mile. I’d purposely taken the back route so I wouldn’t have to navigate Atlantic or Pacific Avenue, the city’s main drags, the streets that paralleled the boardwalk casinos. I no longer felt welcome or wanted within the gambling venues that had once provided the bulk of my work. My last audition had been disastrous, and as it had transpired only a few weeks before, the wound resulting from the insensitive behavior of the baby-faced execs was still fresh.

       As a professional, Ms. Parish, I’m sure you understand that we’re looking to please our demographic.

      Meaning they wanted someone younger. There was a time when you paid your dues in roadside bars or summer stock, when you earned a booking in a casino venue. Those days were gone. These days the number-one priority wasn’t experience, but sex appeal. In demand? Young, slender females, willing to dress provocatively. Perky boobs were a plus. Since I was perfect for that job, and since those execs had managed to uncork my bottled angst, my response had been less than gracious. Wanting to prove I met their physical requirements, I’d flashed a thousand-watt smile in tandem with my perky 32Bs. They’d responded by having me escorted off property by security. No Hollywood ending for me. Typical.

      My jaw ached like the devil. Stop clenching, Parish. The last thing you need is another lockjaw episode. Go to your happy place.

      Unfortunately, my happy place was in London, with Arch. Arch, who hadn’t returned my call.

      I sneezed into a handful of tissues. “It’s only been a day and a half,” I rasped. “He’s not your husband. He’s not your significant other, lover, crush or whatever it is they’re calling it these days. He’s your friend. F-R-I-E-N-D. Friend.”

      The self-directed lecture helped a little. Anything to keep me grounded. Lord knows I didn’t need another worry. I was stressed enough. Stressed because of the blinding rain. Stressed because I was running late. Stressed because I was obsessing on my washed-up career. “I don’t want to go back. I want to zoom forward.”

      I turned onto North Maine Avenue and focused on the Chameleon Club a few blocks ahead. No more auditioning. No more rejections. The enormity of my relief took me by surprise. There was a time when I believed I’d been born to entertain, period. But after my boneheaded behavior at that botched audition, I’d been certain I’d never work in this town again. A traditional nine-to-five had loomed in my future, and given my specific skills, prospects were limited and frightening. I’d dreaded a normal life. I’d dreaded never again hearing the sound of applause.

      Today, this moment, I didn’t care if I stepped foot on another Atlantic City stage. Ever.

      The world is our stage, Arch had told me when we’d first met. As a con man’s shill, I’d still be acting, but on a grander, more important scale. Evie Parish: Crime Fighter. I’d always felt that I was meant for something bigger. This, I thought as I sniffled and steered into a puddle-ridden parking lot, is it.

      The rain poured. The wind howled. The herbal medicine sucked. It had yet to curb my sneezing or clear my sinuses. All I felt was sluggish. Damn jet lag.

      I reached beneath the front seat and yanked out a compact umbrella. The club was only a few feet away. Nothing was going to keep me from this appointment. Not rain nor snow nor shoe-sucking mud. I rolled back my shoulders, forced open my door and braved the elements.

      Holding on tight to my flimsy umbrella, I sloshed across the parking lot, frowning when I read the sign: Please Use Boardwalk Entrance. The famous Atlantic City boardwalk stretched the length of town along the ocean and curved around to the lesser-known, more secluded Inlet. No casinos here. Gardiner’s Basin, a historic region hugging the bay, offered an aquarium, a small maritime museum and old-fashioned fun. Unfortunately, I was navigating the wasteland smack between the Basin and downtown AC. Run-down buildings and vacant lots. No fun to be had here unless you got a thrill out of the possibility of being mugged.

      I scaled the steps leading up to the boardwalk and squealed as the gusting wind blew the rain at a hard angle. Umbrella or no, I’d be soaked by the time I reached Beckett. I barely cared. At this point I just wanted to get inside.

      Fate had other ideas.

      My heel was just narrow enough to wedge into a large gap between two