Page 28 of New Orleans Rush

But Molly wasn’t a Dear Abby type of mother. She was the first friend you’d invite to a party, and the last one you’d ask for advice.

Without a motherly mother, Bea focused on how right things felt with Huxley, and what she’d accomplished since her move: landing jobs as a magician’s assistant and jewelry seller, acquiring somewhere to sleep and produce her art. All things to improve her life. New beginnings that, if nurtured, would keep improving, as long as Della was wrong about Huxley being a boomeranging rebound.

11

Time needed to slow down. It needed to freeze or travel in reverse. Anything to stall the inevitability of stepping on a stage in front of people. Bea couldn’t force her hand to open her dressing room door. Her knees shook. The incessant knocking on the door didn’t help.

“Show starts in ten, Rainbow Brite. Get your colorful self out here.” Axel knocked as he spoke, tapping his knuckles to the tune of “We Will Rock You.”

She was colorful in her fishnets and silver sequin bodysuit, especially since she’d sewn herself a half-skirt of red and gold feathers. It extended from her lower back to just behind her knees, like a wide peacock tail. Her matching headpiece gave the costume a seventies flair. Her lips were Cherry Bomb red. Her eye makeup made her gray eyes pop.

She still wanted to fold herself inside the closet until Christmas. “There’s been an incident. I can’t perform.”

“Sure you can.”

“All my hair fell out.”

“Bald is in fashion.”

“I stabbed myself in the eye.”

“I’ll give you an eyepatch and call you Pirate Brite.”

“I’m narcoleptic. I’ll pass out in the middle of the routines.”

“We’ll charge extra for people to watch.”

Axel’s quick-witted retorts weren’t helping. A heart attack was imminent. She smooshed her red handkerchief between her fingers and tried to focus on the silky fabric. It made a feeble dent in her fear.

“Beatrice, it’s Huxley.”

Her irregular pulse went extra haywire at the sound of his voice. She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. This was the first she’d heard his deep baritone since his confessional. He’d been conspicuously missing when she’d hurried in from her day with Della, and she’d spent the last hour locked in the dressing room, freaking out. She was vibrating with excitement to see him, chastising herself for that pleasure with Della’s concerns in mind. She was also a second from face-planting and chipping a tooth.

The sound of a key fitting into the lock clicked. The knob turned. “I’m coming in.”

The door opened.

Huxley stepped inside.

She swayed on her feet.

He didn’t glance at her until he’d closed the door. When he did, the remaining air in her lungs evacuated. He was in full costume: gold button-down, galaxy cape, top hat, that striking face. His eyes looked different, wider and warmer. He stared at her like they’d never met.

“I’m Bea,” she said, in case her outfit had confused him.

“You’re breathtaking,” came his rough reply.

She swayed again. “Is that why I can’t breathe?”

He swallowed and passed a hand over his mouth. “Nervous?”

“I can’t move. My feet are stuck.”

He glanced at her shiny red heels. “Breathtaking,” he murmured again, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Do you have the handkerchief?”

She raised his generous gift with a trembling hand.

“Good. And do you remember how many people attended our last show?”