Page 74 of New Orleans Rush

Lost in the moment, she didn’t notice him, but he was entranced. Cast under her unicorn spell. She was so full of life. Of fun. Of laughter. Her silliness filled the growing cavity in his chest. It swamped him with something new, a deeper affection that had him looking at the mostly cloudy sky above and seeing only shafts of light.

Love. Pure, unadulterated love poured into him.

That’s what he forgot, what he should have said as they’d stood outside the apartment, at their cars, joking about long-distance texts.

He should have told Beatrice Baker he was in love with her.

He honked, and she jumped. Unlike most people caught singing in their car, she didn’t get embarrassed and stop. She sang harder. She shook her shoulders and bobbed her head, making a perfect fool of herself. He fucking loved her for it, and he needed to tell her. Now. Before she left. Before this strange cavity in his chest widened.

He lowered his window, palms turning slippery, but the light changed. She blew him a kiss and drove ahead. He edged forward and waited to make his left turn. He waited for the hollow in his gut to shrink.

Trevor was waiting for him at the theater, paint-splattered workpants on. “Wasn’t sure we’d get it done in time, but the guys hauled ass.”

Huxley stepped back to take in his theater. The second story windows weren’t streaked with cracks. The columns and cornices gleamed red, white, and gold in the partly sunny light, no chips visible. The brick exterior was freshly painted. New exterior lights hung over the Marlow Theater sign, and the gutters ran in a straight line. Max Marlow would be proud.

Huxley was proud.

As frustrated as he’d been with his inability to fund this restoration until now, he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this. Beatrice wasn’t the only reason he’d been happier and sleeping better, seeing sun through the gray. For the first time in years, he felt worthy of wearing his father’s top hat and cape. Never again would he let his theater fall into such disrepair.

The interior still needed major TLC, but he’d finish it slowly, as money came in. He’d keep introducing new routines. New music. Find ways to entertain crowds and fill seats.

He’d keep Max Marlow’s legacy going strong.

He handed Trevor his final payment. “Can’t thank you enough. Anytime you want to attend a show, let me know.”

The big man massaged his dark beard. “Can’t say magic shows are my thing, but I have a twenty-year-old stepdaughter who just about fainted when I told her I was working on a project here.”

That kind of female fanfare had Axel written all over it. Huxley shuddered. He’d never strip on stage, but Axel was apparently born to strut his stuff. “Tell her to mention your name when she calls for tickets. She can bring a few guests.”

Trevor clapped him on the back. “She’ll go nuts for that. Gotta run to a big job. Don’t you dare scratch the paint.”

He’d bubble wrap the building if he could. As it stood, he’d oversee ongoing upkeep instead of winding back here again.

Edna shuffled past him to her ticket booth, pausing briefly to scowl at Trevor’s back. “Those hooligans done making a racket? It’s hard to work with all that hammering and yattering.”

By “work,” Edna meant solving her crossword puzzles.

Unfazed by her ornery attitude, Huxley admired his repaired building. He pictured his father at his side, proud arm slung over his shoulder. Maybe he’d visit him tonight, a quiet theater evening while Beatrice was away. “Dad would love it,” he said to Edna.

She scoffed. “You Marlow boys aren’t the brightest lot.”

He scratched his cheek, unsure where that zinger had come from. “Then why do you still work for us?”

“I believe in charity work.”

He was too pleased with the completed façade to unpack that riddle. He lifted his phone to snap photos of Trevor’s work. His court date was in two days, and the session would be cut and dry. He’d reinstate the Marlows good name. It was smooth sailing from here.

Except it wasn’t.

Huxley was determined to surprise Beatrice with a gift, but he painted about as well as he knitted, which was pitifully. His afternoon was spent huddled in front of a large canvas, unsure how the purple he’d intended had turned brown.

“Stupid paints,” he mumbled as he fisted his brush.

His painting was supposed to depict a wild unicorn leaping from one rainbow to another. Free and colorful, like his watermelon girl. He’d used his pink pony as the model but the painted version resembled more of a mutant-horse with a penis attached to its head. He still couldn’t wait to see her reaction to his efforts.

Evening had come and gone and he hadn’t eaten dinner. He hadn’t even tackled the background yet. The only times he’d stopped were when his phone had buzzed with texts.

Like now.