True Colors by Judith Arnold Page A

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?
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Andrea Simonetti seemed perturbed. “Monica
had a friend visiting her,” she told Max. “There’s nothing in her
lease banning visitors.”
    “This is a bit more permanent than a visit,”
Max told the broker. The real estate company where she worked was
located inside a building that looked like an actual house, with
shingles and shutters and a cute brick chimney, although the house
sat on Main Street and was abutted by a driveway that led to an
asphalt parking lot in back. Andrea’s office was the size of a
small bedroom, but instead of a bed, it contained a broad desk with
a computer humming on it, and the walls were adorned with a few
framed certificates attesting to Andrea’s professional status and
several dozen glossy photographs of houses for sale.
    “In other words, the friend is living in your
house,”