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wiggled her fingertips coyly at an imaginary friend, keeping her gaze fixed beyond the pirate’s shoulder.
    His black eyes narrowed. He pointed questioningly at his chest.
    She moved her gaze deliberately back to his face then widened her eyes, feigning surprise. Lowering her lashes demurely, she shook her head and pointed behind him.
    He turned around. Since there was no one behind him but an extremely confused-looking waiter, she took the opportunity to do the only sensible thing she could think to do: She fled through the crowd to the other end of the bar.
    On her way, she bumped straight into Margery.
    “Ah, there you are, lambkins,” Margery said as if he’d been looking for her. She eyed him wryly, knowing full well he’d been holding court with his fans and had likely forgotten all about her. While she didn’t doubt his affection for her was sincere, she also knew stardom was his first and foremost love.
    He led her to his barstool, insisting she take it. Then, noting the slight difficulty with which she climbed atop, he shook his finger lightly under her nose. “You’ve been drinking cocktails, haven’t you? Jack’s doing, I suppose.” He clucked his tongue. “You’re far too young to be drowning yourself in gin, toots. Leave that to the old roués like Jack and myself.”
    Lucy laughed, forcefully dismissing the gorgeous dark fellow from her thoughts. “Then what should I drown myself in?”
    “Why, champagne, of course.” He turned to his fans and announced, “Step lively, m’dears! We’re celebrating Lucy’s return to the fold. You
do
know who she is, don’t you?”
    “Margery!” Lucy protested, hot blood rushing to her cheeks. None of these people were likely to have the vaguest notion who she was. She’d only had credited roles in three productions—
    “I should say I do!” a plug-shaped youngster with fair, curly hair announced in triumphant, if slightly slurred, tones. “That’s Miss Lucille Eastlake.”
    Lucy’s eyes grew round with astonished pleasure. Someone had recognized her! She laughed. No . . . much to her horror, she realized she was tittering. She cleared her throat and attempted to look as though being recognized was standard for her. “You’ve seen me perform?”
    “Well, no,” the young man admitted. “I don’t go in much for warbly stuff. You were in a pack of cigarettes. On the back of a card. I saved it. You were April.” He leaned closer to her, eyes wide and earnest. “But”—his whiskey-soaked breath washed over her face—“if I ever were to spend money on a ticket to a show like that, it’d sure be yours and that’s the truth.”
    She tried not to laugh. He earnestly believed he was complimenting her. “Why, thank you.”
    He rocked back on the balls of his feet, grinning with gratification, clearly more inebriated than she’d originally suspected. Butthen, so was she. “ ’low me to introduce meself. The name’s Charlie. Charlie Cheddar.”
    “Charlie?” Margery exclaimed indignantly. “You mean to say you are named ‘Charlie’ and yet you have never heard Miss Eastlake sing ‘In the Moonlight, Charlie’?”
    “No,” the boy stuttered, nonplussed. “I haven’t.”
    “And never shall now,” Margery said ominously, “seeing how the
The Debutante’s Complaint
ended after only a five-month run. Too bad. The critics universally acclaimed Miss Eastlake’s late second act song in the unappreciated and underutilized role of the maid, Poppy, to be the highlight of the show. The sole highlight, unfortunately. So I’m afraid you’ve lost your chance. Pity, seeing as your name is Charlie and all.”
    “Oh!” The boy looked stricken.
    “Unless, well, unless you could convince Miss Eastlake to sing it . . .”
    “Margery!” She should have expected this sort of nonsense from him. He was a diligent booster of his friends. Even when they didn’t want to be boosted.
    “Oh,
would you
?” Charlie Cheddar breathed.
    “I’m sure