On the other hand, wasn’t it silly to call now before she really knew about the part? Wouldn’t it be better to wait until she was sure and not make the same mistake Amy had made with her mother?
Peggy was still standing indecisively beside the telephone booth when the elevator behind her clanged open to release a second wave of people. The flood engulfed her and flowed on to the door.
“Watch it, lady,” growled an irritated voice. “You’re blocking the road.”
Hastily Peggy moved out of the way. “Sorry,” she said, backing into a delivery boy on his way into the building with a full load of packages.
“Why don’tcha look where yer going?” the delivery boy muttered, glaring balefully at her over the top of his packages.
“Sorry,” Peggy murmured again. She decided she’d better get out of the line of traffic, but as she turned toward one of the side doors, a hand reached out and held her back.
“Excuse me,” said a familiar voice, “but can you use the services of a good, reliable Boy Scout? I’m kind, honest, trustworthy, true—”
Peggy spun around with a gasp of surprise. “Randy! What are you doing here?”
The tall, lean figure of Randolph Brewster, the young playwright Peggy had met when she first came to New York, hovered over her. “I sent my spies out early this morning.” He laughed. “They tracked you down to this place.” He moved closer and took her arm. “Well?” he asked expectantly.
Peggy looked at him sharply. “Who told you about that?” she demanded. “Honestly, Randy, can’t a girl have any secrets?”