LITMIR.BIZ

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busy wallowing in my postdivorce funk and pitiful work schedule to give two figs about curtains, wall hangings and knickknacks.

      Bleary-eyed, I scanned the living room—strike that—sterile room, wondering how I’d been immune to the starkness for so long. Maybe I was just hypersensitive since I’d spent the past week in Arch’s grandfather’s apartment. The Bloomsbury flat was twice this size, but you could barely move what with all the clutter. In addition to the late resident’s own artistic creations, the flat had exploded with eclectic collections of paintings, sculptures and ceramic figurines. Not to mention art-history books, mystery novels, videotapes and impressive antique furnishings. Helping Arch sort through and decide what to sell off or give away had been difficult because, to me, everything was worth keeping. Bernard Duvall had surrounded himself with a lifetime of charming treasures.

      I’d created a shrine to midlife crisis.

      Mental note: tomorrow buy something cheery and useless. Even toss pillows would be an improvement.

      Pillows made me think of bed, which made me think of sleep. But first I needed to make a few calls. I kicked off my cushy suede clogs and plopped down on my sofa—a boring contemporary piece that I’d picked up on sale. At the time I hadn’t cared that it was monochromatic gray. Mental note: opt for colorful, whimsical toss pillows.

      I reached into my I Love Lucy travel tote for my cell phone. My fingers connected with my journal—the keeper of my innermost thoughts.

      Although I had little trouble expressing myself to Arch, in general I internalize. It stemmed from a suppressed childhood. My mom, a conservative high-school math teacher, didn’t understand my liberal artistic temperament. My brother was as uptight as Mom. My dad, though a right-brained workaholic, seemed to get me more than they did. Knowing I bottled my emotions, he gave me a diary when I was a kid, telling me when my heart and mind got jammed to pour my feelings onto the page. I’ve since filled a hundred diaries. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But you see my point. Diaries were a staple in my life. I pulled out the newest—a gift from Arch—and placed it in my lap. A bright yellow journal featuring a photo of tropical skies and a brilliant ball of fire. Sunshine. Aware of my nightly habit, he’d bought the thoughtful memento in the islands.

      I opened the book and smiled at the chicken scrawl on the inside cover. For private stuff. Arch

      I basked in his kindness while turning to the next page and my own purple-penned scribbles. I’d titled the first page The Chameleon Chronicles. I’d already filled a good twenty pages with my adventures in London. I’d also penned a few hopes and fears and some personal stuff about Arch. Private stuff. Stuff I didn’t intend for him to ever know. Especially since we were now absolutely, officially, just friends.

      Frowning, I set aside the journal and snagged my cell. I immediately checked the battery. Sometimes I forgot to recharge it. Okay, a lot of times. According to the bars, I had full power. At least one of us had juice.

      Falling back against the blah-boring sofa, I checked my messages, imagining fifty calls from Arch begging me to return to London. I cannae live withoot you, yeah?

      But instead of a Scottish accent, I heard the nasal twang of a high-school rival. “Evie? Monica Rhodes here. Since you’re too busy to attend the Greenville Civic Theater’s upcoming benefit, I wondered if you’d solicit one of the casinos for a donation. Surely you know people. A weekend stay would bring a tidy sum at the auction. I would have e-mailed, but you don’t respond in a timely manner and I’m in a hurry to wrap things up. I asked your mom for your number. Hope you don’t mind.”

      “Actually, I do,” I said, even though I was talking to a recording. Monica Rhodes had been the president of my high-school drama club. Later she’d snagged the role as director of our hometown’s civic theater. She was and still is a bossy, competitive witch. I’d responded to her e-vite three days after receiving it. For me—someone who’s not glued to the Internet—that was timely. Unable to attend

      due to work, I’d written. A big, fat lie, but I had my reasons. I’d listed them at length in my diary.

       “As you know, Mrs. Grable is moving to Florida to enjoy her golden years. Several of her past students are reuniting for a special benefit performance and going-away party. As one of her pet pupils, I thought you’d want to contribute—”

      I cut Monica off midsentence, something I’d never do in person. Nice girls don’t interrupt. Except I wasn’t so nice anymore. I’d tarnished my conservative, respectable crown when I’d taken up with Arch. I was learning to speak my mind, stand my ground. I was … evolving. Even though I had fond memories of my high-school drama teacher, I wasn’t eager to be reminded of who Mrs. Grable thought I’d been destined to become. A big-time star. I wasn’t thrilled about attending a party and having to meet my thespian classmates’ spouses. I could hear it now.

       Where are you performing, Evie?

       I’m between bookings.

       When’s your next engagement?

       I’m considering my options.

       Where’s your husband?

       Boinking a lingerie model.

       Kids?

       Me? No. But there’s a bun in the model’s oven.

      You can understand my reluctance to commit. I made a mental note to send Monica an e-mail—no way did I want to actually speak to the petty woman—explaining the improbability of obtaining a donation from an Atlantic City casino for a civic theater in Greenville, Indiana. Instead I’d offer a personal monetary donation for the cause. For now, I wiped Monica from my mind, punched auto-dial and focused on a true friend.

      Nicole answered on the second ring. “Please tell me you’re home.”

      Her husky smoker’s voice was music to my ears. I’d been so consumed with Arch these past days I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed my best buds. Nicole Sparks, a tall, lithe beauty with mocha skin, green eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor, and Jayne Robinson, a not-so-tall kewpie doll with big brown eyes, vibrant red curls and a fascination with the supernatural. Both closing in on forty. Both seasoned performers. Both hurting for work.

      “I’m home.” Such as it was.

      “For how long?”

      Nic was nothing if not blunt. I steeled myself before asking, “What do you mean?”

      “First you split for the Caribbean for several days—”

      “A last-minute booking.”

      “So you said, although you never filled us in on the particulars. You returned home ahead of schedule with a bandaged head and flew out again the next day. Said you were meeting a friend in London. Only after significant badgering did you admit said friend was the hunk you lusted after on the elusive cruise-ship gig.” She paused, and I knew without seeing her that she’d just lit a cigarette. Nic had a few vices, but smoking, as far as I was concerned, was the worst. “We’re thrilled that you’re getting some nooky, Evie. God knows Jayne and I have been trying to hook you up for months. But why all the secrecy?”

      “He’s not married, if that’s what you’re worried about.” I wasn’t sure about a lot where Arch was concerned, but I was one hundred—okay, ninety-nine percent—sure that he was single.

      “We’re worried about you,” she said. “When I called with the news that Michael had gotten Sasha pregnant, you said you didn’t care.”

      I palmed my upset stomach. Motion, not morning, sickness mixed with suppressed bitterness. “I don’t care.”

      “Bullshit. The only reason you never had a baby was because Michael said he didn’t want children. And now—”

      “Now he’s with someone

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