Page 103 of Old Flames

“Not really,” Jules said. “We have the same complexion, but that’s it. She’s the image of her father. She has his eyes, and might have his obstinacy, too.”

“Her father?” Leo repeated, startled. “Who’s that?”

“Who do you think?” she asked.

“Not that fucking bastard?”

“Yes, that fucking bastard.”

“Christ.”

Leo also had something to share: The Bible held a secret.

“Her name is Juliann Cook. She died in 1886.” He showed her a photo of the handwritten record. “The answer was under our noses all this time. Now that we have her name and year of birth, we can easily find out more. I’m willing to bet she died the night of the fire.”

“If not that night, then days later,” Jules said, recalling the firefighter’s speech at her apartment. “Smoke inhalation, most likely. She went searching for him that night.”

“Makes sense,” he said. “De Leon would have spent his free time at the San Carlos Institute to join political meetings or hang out with friends. He worked at one of the cigar factories and was probably sending money home to bankroll the revolution. When the fire wiped out his only source of income, he would’ve had no choice but to leave.”

“He must’ve been devastated,” Jules said. “I believe he loved her.”

Why had she been so quick to paint De Leon as a cowardly lion? He was as much a victim of circumstance as anyone. The villain in this story was Jacobsen. May he never rest or know peace.

“They never stood a chance,” Leo said, grim.

Jules agreed. “Not a chance in hell.”

Not with the prejudices of the time or her father’s scheming ways. Society would not have welcomed them, her father would not have allowed it, and fate itself seemed determined to tear them apart.

With damp fingertips, Leo reached out and swept Jules’s bangs to the side, the way she liked it. She shivered at his touch. “In the modern version of the story,” he said, “their namesakes make it.”

“They better.”

Jules had renewed her promise to marry him and was intent on keeping that promise. She would never leave him or push him away. It was the privilege of her lifetime to love and be loved without the interference of laws, societal norms, or controlling parents. She wasn’t Juliann Cook reincarnated, but her life was touched by similar misfortune. Her mother and father never stood a chance, either. Ruby had loved Levingston. Jules knew that now. She’d never spoken ill of him, kept his lighter like stolen treasure, and had gone so far as giving Jules his nickname, “Levy,” as a keepsake.

Not every Romeo and Juliet fought to stay together. Some gave up the fight and moved on, though forever dogged by regret.

Jules dialed Ayesha’s number. Of everyone on the group chat, she was the most disturbed. Ayesha answered briskly. “First of all, what are you still doing down there? And what’s this about a cryptic note from Aurora? I’m so confused.”

Since when is Vicky such a blabbermouth? Jules wondered. These developments had likely surpassed the limits of Omertà Girl Code.

“If I tell you, promise you won’t freak out.”

“I’m already freaking out!” Ayesha wailed, then took a minute to send her kids off to an activity or another. “Goodbye, my little darlings! Behave! Love you! Bye!” After a brief silence, she said, “They’re gone. It’s just me and my coffee. I’m listening.”

Jules took a breath. She started with the garden and chronicled the events without embellishment or meaningful insight. First this happened, then this happened, etc. When she was done, Ayesha said, “My God, Jules . . . You must write this down.”

“For a book?” Jules grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. “I don’t think so. It’s too soon for that.”

“Not a book!” Ayesha scoffed. “Get a piece of paper and write a letter to yourself. It’ll help you make sense of all this and see connections you might’ve missed. Connect the dots between you and your namesake. Give it a try. It works for me all the time.”

Jules promised to try. She ended the call, rolled out of bed, and headed to the tower for stationery. Seated at the desk, she began. Dear July . . . The blank sheet of paper challenged her. She didn’t have the words to tell this story, not even to herself. Every incident was tied up in trauma and emotional turmoil. This exercise was not helping and, feeling anxious, she gazed out the window. The view astounded her.

The modest garden was spectacular in the morning light—an enchanted garden. Every flower sought the sun. The hibiscus was bursting with vibrant red blooms. The mango tree was heavy with ripe fruit. The grand sycamore stood tall. The palm trees swayed, almost in greeting. Hummingbirds and butterflies fluttered about. What was this magical transformation? Was this the effect of rose-colored glasses? Did joy impose an extraordinary filter on the plain and ordinary? Surely it was just another sunny day in paradise, nothing more.

Jules might have gone her whole life wondering if her mother hadn’t offered the answer. She heard the voice deep in her heart, tender and trustworthy. Well done, baby girl. Well done.

Jules buried her face in her hands, ready to weep. No tears came, no sadness followed. She was at peace—and free.