Page 26 of New Orleans Rush

“If a brother is reading your mind,” Della said, “you must have met Fox.”

“The sneaky one.”

“You could say that.” Something unreadable flickered across her face. “I’ve known the boys since we were kids. They tend to—”

“If I buy these three, can I get a deal?” An older woman with liver-spotted hands held up a matching bracelet and necklace, as well as a pair of earrings.

Della chatted with the woman, explaining how she used a magnifying glass and tweezers to assemble the more detailed sections. Her half-eaten sandwich forgotten under the table, she closed the sale.

A steady stream of customers continued. So steady, Bea hopped into the booth and handled the money as it came in, calculating and making change. Della pointed here or there, asking her for a gift box or small bag. They worked around each other in the cramped space, hips bumping, apologies offered. Laughter followed one hand-boob collision.

An afternoon lull later, Della offered Bea half of her half-eaten po’boy. “Some big blogger mentioned my table recently. It’s been nuts since.”

Bea tried to reply, but her mouth was filled with fried-shrimp goodness. She answered between heavenly bites. “Your work is the nicest in the market. There’s a flow about the pieces—rhythmic almost. It reminds me of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, but with crystal.”

Della licked sauce from her palm. “That means a lot from a fellow artist.”

She didn’t recall writing that information on any interview questionnaire. “Do you read minds, too?”

“Don’t I wish.” She wiped her mouth and tossed her napkin in the garbage. “Huxley mentioned you were a painter of sorts.”

Bea froze mid-swallow. Had he found her hidden art supplies? Her self-portrait? If that were the case, he’d no doubt have tracked her down and demanded answers. Or money. Then she remembered their lunch conversation about the art school she couldn’t attend. He’d also driven her decorated Beetle briefly and would have seen her portrait studies. She wondered what he thought of those. “Painting is more of a hobby. For now, at least. But I started a new project I’m excited about.”

“If you need to bounce ideas with anyone, I’d love to check it out.”

“I’m happy to share my art with anyone who shares a po’boy.” Even though the prospect made her queasy.

Her previous experimentations had been private work, studies in her car, her old apartment, sketchbooks she’d left in Chicago. Only her father had seen most of her work, his easy praise one of his few good qualities. Sharing it with others was a daunting prospect, but it was what a friend would do, and she didn’t have many of those.

Her Chicago acquaintances were waitress colleagues who griped about crap pay and long hours, not girls who messaged or kept in touch. Painting had always come first for Bea, saving her pennies second. She’d assumed she’d meet her people once in art school, but maybe she’d meet them at magic theaters and flea markets.

Della rearranged a few bracelets. “How’s the assistant training going?”

“I’m a regular Vanna White. I do lots of walking in circles and fanning of my arm. I’ve also learned how to fasten a straitjacket, which will pad out my résumé nicely.”

“Important skills,” Della agreed dryly.

“I spend the rest of my time dodging Huxley’s growls.”

She snickered. “That man gives good gruff.”

He also had a voice that could melt butter. Bea couldn’t keep from nosing around for gossip. “What did you mean before, about him having been through a lot?”

“They lost their father a while back.”

“He mentioned it.”

“Huxley was there.”

Her heart pinched. “When it happened?”

Della’s dark eyes turned hazy, like the memories filled too much space to focus. “He blames himself, I think. Went on a bender that night and got in a shit-ton of trouble. Nearly died in the hospital.”

Bea pictured his mangled ear and burned eyebrow. “The scars on his face?”

“The ones on his body are pretty gnarly, too. Not my story to tell, but it’s all a reminder to him of what he lost. And being older, he’s taken on the responsibility of the theater and keeping his brothers in check. Their mother’s also a piece of work. Basically, he spends his time treading water.”

“He doesn’t have time for fun,” she murmured, repeating his words.