Page 11 of Old Flames

If nothing else, he could get some writing done, continue drafting an outline for the South Carolina project. The setting mattered. His debut, The Forever Toll, was set in the suburbs of New Jersey, where he was born and raised. The second, in Coney Island, where his family had spent most of their summers. The third was set in London, a good excuse to live abroad. The fourth in France, for the same reason. Now he had his sights on South Carolina.

“I like it,” he said.

“It’s settled, then.”

The tour was over. He followed Daphne down the stairs. On the main floor she pointed to a pair of French doors. “Those open to the balcony,” she said. “The doorknob is stiff. You’ve got to jiggle it a little.”

“Got it,” he said.

“Don’t forget. Welcome cocktails in the garden at six. Everyone will want to meet you.”

“Lucky me.”

“Loosen up! You’re in Margaritaville.”

“In that case, I’ll take mine on the rocks!” he called after her. But at second thought, no.

Daphne shut the door on her way out. Exhausted, Leo fell face-first onto the sofa under the bank of windows.

A chorus of laughter stirred him awake, alerting him to her arrival. He wouldn’t know her by the sound of her laugh. He’d never heard it. She hadn’t so much as cracked a smile at him. But he was guided by instinct.

Leo rolled off the sofa and raced to the double doors. He jiggled the knob and threw the doors open. On the balcony he had a clear view of the courtyard.

There she was.

He hadn’t accepted Daphne’s last-minute invitation out of the goodness of his heart or for the love of literature, the respect of cultural exchange, or the desire to explore Key West. He would’ve turned her down in a heartbeat. But he’d made the mistake of tapping the link she’d sent him and scrolled through the list of participants, the usual author bios and thumbnail photos. One name stood out, and suddenly Leo had a change of heart. Key West was such a singular place. Plenty to draw inspiration from. Why not give it a go?

That was roughly what he’d told Daphne over the phone. His true motivation was more complicated. One night, almost ten years to date, a waitress lent a lighter to a stranger in an alley and lit his imagination on fire.

Looking down at her now, he willed her to meet his eyes, but she was busy chatting with the others. He recognized Vicky Paraíso, whom he’d met in Tokyo, from her head of curls and wicked laugh. The tall, elegant Black woman was Ayesha Eze Grant. She and Leo went way back. Daphne was there to greet them.

While the others chatted, she stood to the side, laughter swirling around her. When prompted, she handed her luggage to the same porter that had taken his. She accepted the glass of champagne that he’d turned down. Champagne in this heat? She sipped and took in her surroundings. Her gaze skimmed the cool blue facade of the inn, framed with crisp white trim, the wide plank steps that led up to the wraparound porch, and the bronze plaque over the door that read Est. 1882. Nothing escaped that perceptive gaze. He should’ve known the night of their first encounter that he was talking to a fellow writer.

Look up.

The “turret” was the most striking detail of the property. Someone had been held captive up there, Aurora or someone else, he just knew it. How could she miss it? Wasn’t she intrigued?

She didn’t raise her eyes. She followed the others up the stairs and into the house. Frustrated, Leo returned to his room. He’d come to Key West to answer one question: Would he see that same old flame in her eyes? It was a long way to travel to answer an inconsequential question. A lot had changed in ten years. They weren’t the same people. But he’d made it a point to follow his curiosity, and it had taken him here, to the southernmost point of the continental US.

4

They landed in Miami and still had to travel the airport in search of the car rental kiosk, having opted to drive to Key West. The midsize sedan the literary society had reserved on their behalf didn’t appeal to Ayesha. Jules and Vicky left the task of fighting for an upgrade to her.

“We should stop at a beach along the way,” Vicky said. “Islamorada, maybe?”

“Have you cleared it with Ayesha?” Jules asked, retreating into the warmth of a hoodie. The airport was freezing.

Vicky looked around to make sure Ayesha wasn’t within earshot. “Is it me or is she uptight? Way more uptight than before? As if she doesn’t know how to have fun.”

“Definitely,” Jules said. “But if she’s used to traveling with her family, taking charge, managing the kids, she likely can’t switch it off.”

“How do we get her back to factory settings?” Vicky wondered. “I left my real mom at home. I don’t want a travel mom.” Right away, Vicky caught herself and apologized. “Sorry! That was insensitive.”

“It wasn’t,” Jules assured her. “I don’t want a travel mom, either.”

Vicky tugged on the ties of her hoodie. “Are you okay?”

“Just cold.”