Evie sighed. “Oh, Pie Face, really. Will this be a tragic screed on the dangers of capitalism? Because I must tell you, capitalism makes some darling dresses! Besides, it’s my money, not yours.”
“It is darling,” Mabel said.
“Just like you,” Evie said, peeping over Mabel’s shoulder in the direction of the Bennington’s revolving front door.
“What are you looking for? You’ve been doing that since we left Gimbels.”
“I was, um, just making sure Uncle Will wasn’t around,” Evie lied. “I don’t want to run into him. You understand.”
Mabel nodded. She broke into a grin. “Gee, this has been swell, hasn’t it? The two of us together, just like old times?”
They’d enjoyed a perfect day of ice-skating in Central Park, followed by the shopping trip to Gimbels, where Mabel had burst into giggles as Evie played elevator operator, crying out, “Fourth floor: Hair bonnets and enema bags! Ladies, Gimbels has you covered from top to bottom!” But it all felt so brief and fragile. Mabel missed Evie terribly—they hadn’t seen each other in ages—and Mabel worried that Evie’s new, exciting friends would eclipse and ultimately replace her. Mabel didn’t drink, and frankly, she’d found the one party she’d attended with Evie to be dull and meaningless, populated by shallow people who didn’t think much about the rest of the world.
But it didn’t stop her from wanting to be included.
“Say! I’ve got a terrific idea. Why don’t you stay over tonight?” Mabel said. “I’m sure my mother won’t mind.”
Evie raised an eyebrow. “Your mother thinks I’m the Devil.”
“She doesn’t! Much. Oh, forget about my mother. We could dance to Paul Whiteman records, play Pegity, and eat coffee cake till our stomachs hurt.”
“Sorry, Pie Face, but I can’t. There’s a party at the Whoopee Club. I promised to pop out of the cake at midnight.”
“Oh. I see,” Mabel said, deflated. There was always a party these days.
“Really. I am sorry.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“El-o-cution les-sons,” Evie said, drawing out the words in exaggerated fashion. “And Radio Star is coming to WGI to take my picture. Well, everybody’s picture, but I’m in it, too.”
“Sounds… glamorous.” Mabel hoped she didn’t sound as pathetic and envious as she felt. “I wish I were more glamorous instead of… me.”
Evie put her fist on the table. “Nonsense! I won’t hear a bad word spoken about Miss Mabel Rose. She’s a fine girl. The finest.”
Mabel rolled her eyes. “Hip, hip, hooray!”
“You are special. You are the only Mabel Rose in existence,” Evie insisted.
“I suppose that’s why men fall at my feet daily. It’s my fine qualities that draw them in,” Mabel lamented. “If I weren’t so ordinary, maybe Operation Jericho wouldn’t seem hopeless.”
Evie stirred her cocoa intently and hoped that Mabel couldn’t see the blush blooming in her cheeks. “Maybe Jericho was carrying a torch for another girl,” she said carefully. “Some old flame. And he had to be rid of the ghost of her before he could start courting you.”
Mabel perked up. “Do you really think so?”
Evie managed a smile. “I’d bet my new stockings that’s it. Do you know what? I don’t think you should wait around for Jericho. You should be bold! Show up at the museum and offer assistance. Tell him you’ve had a message from the spirit world that the two of you are supposed to catalog ghosty things and then go dancing.”
“Evie!” Mabel giggled.
“Or you could make him jealous.” Evie waggled her eyebrows. “What about that other fellow who gave you his card… Arthur Somebody-or-Other?”
“Arthur Brown,” Mabel confirmed. “I haven’t seen him since October. Besides, my parents don’t like him.”
“Why not? Did he vote for Coolidge or something?”
Mabel giggled. “No! Arthur’s too radical for them.”
Evie put a hand to her forehead. “Stop the presses! Someone is too radical for your parents?”