“Tell me about the kiss. Did he kiss you a lot?”
“No. Just the once. What happened was—”
“Did he say anything to you first?”
“Not… well, he—”
“What was his expression? Could you read anything in his face?”
“Evie! Will you please let me tell the story?” Mabel pleaded into the receiver.
“Sorry, Mabesie.”
Mabel continued. “We went to the Kiev Tearoom—”
“Ugh. They have such sad little blintzes. If blintzes could frown, those would.”
“And in the beginning,” Mabel said, without stopping for Evie, “it wasn’t going terribly well, to be frank. But then, then he asked me to dance, and, oh, Evie. It was so romantic. Well, to be perfectly honest, it was terrible until we got the gist of it. Why, oh, why didn’t I let you teach me how to dance?”
“One of the great mysteries of our time. And the kiss?” Evie asked, biting her lip.
“I’m getting there. He walked me to my door. He was very quiet and—”
“Regular quiet or brooding quiet?”
“Evie, please.”
“Sorry, sorry. Go on.”
“He said, ‘Good night, Mabel,’ and then he… just… kissed me.” Mabel gave a little squeal.
Evie closed her eyes and pictured Jericho’s face in the first light of morning.
“I can’t stop playing it over in my mind like the best Valentino picture ever, except that I’m Agnes Ayres, and Jericho is Rudy.”
“Well, he’s no Rudy,” Evie grumbled, “but I get the gist.”
Mabel was telling her something else, but Evie didn’t want to talk about it anymore. She’d done the right thing by Mabel and, most likely, by Jericho. She’d thrown him over. Why did doing the right thing feel so awful? Did that mean it wasn’t the right thing, or did right things always feel awful, which would in fact be a terrible deterrent to doing right?
“Evie?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Oh. Sorry, Mabel. There was a, um, a spider. On the floor. Dreadful!”
“Eek! You’d think such a fancy hotel wouldn’t have spiders.”
“Yes, I’ll… uh… I’ll just call down for a bellhop. Sorry, Mabesie.”
“Wait! What do you think I should do?”
“I wouldn’t rush into anything. Boys like girls who seem to have other beaus. They’re fickle that way.” Evie sniffed. After all, she’d been pretty easily forgotten.
“Jericho isn’t that sort of fellow,” Mabel insisted.
“Trust me, they’re all that way.” She was mad at Jericho. She had no right to be, but she was anyway.