Page 17 of New Orleans Rush

Bea had once asked her mother, a woman who spent her life chasing fun and adventure, why she’d married Franklyn Baker, a man who often sucked said fun out of life. Her mother had stared at her wedding ring, a sad smile on her face. “We loved each other very much back then. He was wild, so full of life. I was dating someone else when we met, a man I cared deeply about, but your father was irresistible. And we had you. I have no regrets.”

Molly Baker had left six months later, before Bea’s thirteenth birthday. Now her mother snapped photos of her adventures, from skydiving to visiting animal sanctuaries, choosing her whims over family obligation. She and Bea shared snippets of their lives through texts and pictures, like a couple of hashtag friends. Mothering or daughtering never entered into the equation.

The zigzag photo could wait until later.

To Huxley, she said, “Let’s get back to work.”

He opened the door to help her into the box. “The illusion is the size of the space. The way it’s painted on the outside makes it look narrow, but there’s extra room inside.”

He gripped her hips and moved her to the left. “When I close the box, you place your hands through the two openings. I’ll pass you yellow handkerchiefs, and you’ll wave them around. This confirms the hands throughout the number belong to you. After I make a show of proving the metal blades are solid, I’ll insert two blades into the box, here and here.” He gestured to her neck and waist. “But it’s also an illusion. The black handles cover the full width, but the blades themselves are shorter. They only cleave the right side. By squishing yourself to the left, they’ll miss you. Then I shove the middle of the box.”

Huxley’s voice was brisk, but she kept replaying his moment of vulnerability, and his pained words, I very much want to have fun.

“I’m sorry,” she said hesitantly. “About my goofing off before. I mean, it’s not odd for me to act silly, but it’s also my nerves. Even being on stage without an audience is making me sweaty.”

He looked her in the eye again, staring so long she glanced at her red heels.

“It’s not uncommon,” he replied, drawing her attention back up. “I used to get nervous before going on stage.”

“Yeah?”

“Full sweats. Could barely swallow. But Fox helped me out.”

“By reading your mind and telling you to picture the audience naked?”

“Yes and no. He was the only one who figured out that I panicked, but the naked thing never worked for me.” Huxley’s attention dipped down her torso, and his jaw slackened. Was he picturing her naked now? Her body responded to the possibility, but he strode past her and said, “I’ll be back.”

He returned swiftly and pressed something silky into her hand. “Fox gave me this. Told me it belonged to the Great Blackstone—a famous magician in the twenties and thirties. He said it would calm me. He didn’t make a big deal about it, but I kept it in my pants pocket and would hold it before I walked on stage. I’d picture Blackstone levitating a woman off a couch or vanishing a bird cage. It turned my focus from the audience to the acts. Maybe it’ll help you.”

Bea stroked the red handkerchief in her palm. “I can’t accept this.”

“Nonsense.”

“What if your stage fright returns?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I think you need it more than me.”

The gesture touched her, but she couldn’t accept it without offering something in return. As it stood, he was driving around in a car she’d vandalized. “Okay, but…” She grabbed her purse from the stage edge, which was filled with essentials, including glitter pens and stickers, and pulled out the perfect gift for Huxley. “I insist you take this.”

She held out her miniature Cotton Candy My Little Pony doll.

His serious façade threatened to crack. “You want me to have a pink pony?”

“Not just any pony. It’s the thirty-fifth anniversary re-issue of the 1983 classic.”

Forget cracking. A smile stretched across his handsome face. “Thanks, but it’s not necessary.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” She forced it into his hand and touched the corner of his mouth that no longer tilted down. “See this? You don’t smile enough, but I bet when you look at Cotton Candy you won’t be able to fight the feeling. She’ll make your life more fun.”

Her hand drifted back to her side, and the amusement on Huxley’s face shifted into something more intense. July-fourth-fireworks intense. A marching-band-playing-in-her-chest intense.

“Having you here makes things more fun,” he murmured while thumbing his pink toy. “Even when you’re testing my patience.”

His chest swelled more deeply, rising almost as quickly as hers. Her heart raced so fast it made her dizzy. Huxley was kind one minute, barking orders the next, with glimpses of vulnerability in between, but this admission made her weak in the knees. It also gave her a mission.

She tucked the silky handkerchief into her pocket, sucked in her middle, and flattened her twisted waist against the side of the box. “Then let’s master this trick, shall we?”

Huxley’s moment of vulnerability vanished, and his lie-detector face resumed, but that didn’t change her plan. Since she couldn’t pay to fix his Mustang and was crashing in his theater, she owed him more than free assistant services. Her mission unfolded before her, daunting yet critical. Not only would she try to overcome her stage fright and wow their paltry audience, she would do her best to inject more fun into Huxley Marlow’s life.