***
“Tell me again about the magic,” Emma asked Monica.
Early morning sunlight filtered through the trees and streamed into the kitchen through a wall of glass. The kitchen didn’t offer a view of the ocean as the loft where Emma worked did, but it overlooked the forest of towering pines that bordered the house’s rear yard. Emma recalled the views from Claudio’s apartment: through the bedroom window a dark, narrow alley, and through the front windows the brick and brownstone buildings across the street. If you stood deep in the corner of the main room and peered westward through the window furthest from that corner, you could glimpse the drab steel cables of the Manhattan Bridge. Not the whole bridge itself, just a few of the cables.
Moving to Brogan’s Point had taken some getting used to, but the views from her current home were vastly superior. Unfortunately, her enjoyment of the view wasn’t going to last. God knew what views her next home would have. The pavement beneath her cardboard box? Maybe a flap, with “This Side Up” and an arrow printed on it?
She and Monica sat side by side on stools, their coffee steaming in mugs on the granite island occupying the center of the room. Monica was working her way through a bowl of oatmeal, but Emma had no appetite. Just sipping her coffee was a struggle.
“What magic?” Monica asked.
They were both dressed for work, Monica in crisp slacks and a tailored blouse, Emma in her paint-spattered overalls. She didn’t have any students today, and she intended to make as much progress as possible with her Dream Portrait of Ava Lowery. She didn’t hold out much hope that Max would find her a studio any time soon, if ever, and she needed to get Ava’s portrait done and a nice, fat check from Ava’s parents in her pocket before she ventured out to find a studio on her own.
“That magic jukebox at the Faulk Street Tavern. What’s the story with that?”
Monica scooped a dab of oatmeal onto her spoon and consumed it slowly, licking her spoon as if it were a lollipop. “According to legend,” she said, her voice taking on the stentorian quality of a documentary film narrator, “sometimes the jukebox will play a song that speaks to only one or two individuals in the bar. No one else will especially react to it, but the people it’s aimed at will be changed by it.”
“Changed in what way?”
Monica shrugged. “Changed in a way they need to be changed.”
As explanations went, that was pathetically vague. “So someone could hear a song and realize she needs a haircut?”
“I think the change is more profound,” Monica said. “It’s just a myth, though. Don’t you dare cut your hair.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Emma said, then hid behind her mug, taking a long, scalding slurp of coffee. She didn’t want Monica to think she’d been changed profoundly by that song yesterday. She wasn’t even sure she’d been changed at all. Max, yes, but not her.
Then again, the insomnia she’d endured last night was a change for her. Usually, when she couldn’t sleep, it was because she was so energized by a project. She’d been known to stay up half the night working on a canvas, fueled by adrenaline and goaded by her muse. But the previous night’s sleeplessness had nothing to do with her art. It had to do with Max Tarloff. She’d lain awake, restless and edgy, picturing the mesmerizing glow in his striking blue eyes as the song had wrapped itself around him and Emma. She’d visualized the delectable shape of his mouth. She’d imagined that mouth on hers, imagined it grazing down her body…
A wave of heat washed through her. She shifted her legs on the stool and took another drink of coffee, praying that Monica wouldn’t notice how ridiculously turned on she was. By thoughts of their landlord, of all people! By thoughts of the man who would be kicking them out of the house the instant their lease was up, if not sooner.
“So the song from the jukebox changes the person who paid for it, right?” Whatever bizarre effect “True Colors” had had on her and Max, neither of them had put money into the machine and punched the numbered buttons for that song. Surely its magic had been intended for someone else. They were just collateral damage.
Monica shook her head. “No one can choose what song will come out of the jukebox,” she said. “No one even knows what songs are inside the jukebox, except that they’re all old. According to Gus, they’re all songs that were hits while you could still get records on vinyl. The jukebox can’t handle CD’s or MP3’s.”
“And you can’t choose which song it will play?” Now it was Emma’s turn to shake her head. “People put in money and then they simply have to accept whatever song comes out?”
“Yep.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Well, no one is forced to put money into the machine. And it’s only a quarter for three songs. The price hasn’t changed in decades. For twenty-five cents, people are willing to take a chance. It’s kind of fun. You put in a quarter and then the jukebox surprises you.”
Some surprise. If that song meant Emma would be plagued with insomnia for the rest of her life, she’d be pretty damned pissed. If, on the other hand, that song compelled Max to find her a new studio…well, she couldn’t be pissed about that.
“Who’s Gus?” she asked.
“The owner of the Faulk Street Tavern. That tall woman with the short hair behind the bar.”
“I wonder if any of the songs ever changed her. She’s in there listening to the jukebox every day.”
“I don’t know.” Monica glanced at her watch and slid off her stool. “I’ve got to go. If Max stops by, be nice. He seemed a little less prickly last night.”
“That’s because you were so sweet,” Emma pointed out. “I don’t do sweet very well.”
“It’s time you learned. The sweeter you are, the less likely he is to boot us out of the house before the lease is up.”
“All right.” Emma stared at the strong black coffee in her mug. Maybe she ought to stir some sugar into it. Sweet coffee might sweeten her mood.
She remained on her stool, staring into the mug while Monica rinsed out her dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher. Would Emma’s next residence have a dishwasher? Would it even have a kitchen? Would she have to eat off an aluminum mess-kit, like a soldier in the midst of a battle?
She was in the midst of a battle now, and the thought of eating caused her stomach to clench. She supposed soldiers felt the same way. Not knowing your future could sure suppress your appetite.
At least she wasn’t getting shot at.
She refilled her mug and trudged up the stairs to the loft. Sleepy or no, distracted or no, she had to get back to work on Ava’s Dream Portrait. Painting could be magical, as she’d told Max yesterday at the bar. Perhaps if she wielded her brushes, if she finished the castle, and added the unicorn and a dazzling, bejeweled crown to the picture, some magic would rub off on her.
The right kind of magic. Magic that would provide her with enough money to live on and a roof over her head—and the ability to get a good night’s rest. Was that too much to ask for?