Page 12 of Old Flames

“You look glum,” she said. “Don’t get into one of your moods.”

“What moods?”

Vicky narrowed her eyes at her. Don’t make me say it!

It had a clinical name: persistent depressive disorder. Jules had gone to therapy, taken medication. Last year, she put an end to all that. Now she reconsidered her decision to drop those therapeutic options. The last few weeks had been unsettling. She was feeling a bit . . . untethered.

“I’m tired. That’s all.”

“Why didn’t you sleep on the plane? You spent the whole flight working. Don’t let a deadline push you over the edge. You can ask for an extension, you know.”

“That’s not it,” Jules said.

She’d spent the flight revising a lecture that no one in their right mind would pay attention to, not on a warm spring evening in a city full of options, all because he would be there.

“Whatever it is, snap out of it,” Vicky said. “Repeat after me. We’re here to have fun.”

Jules dutifully repeated the mantra but did not believe a word. Her enthusiasm was waning.

Ayesha returned with a sleek key fob, triumphant. “I got an SUV! Way more comfortable and safer, too. You’ll thank me when we arrive rested and in one piece.”

“I intend to arrive with a sunburn and a slight buzz,” Vicky informed her. “But good job, though.”

“What do you mean?” Ayesha said. “We’re not stopping along the way. Don’t forget the garden party at six.”

“Toss me the key,” Jules said. “I’ll drive.”

“And we’re stopping at a beach,” Vicky announced. “Islamorada.”

“But—”

“Don’t worry,” Vicky said. “We’ve got plenty of time. It’s only noon.”

Slightly panicked, Ayesha turned to Jules for backup.

“We’re taking a beach break,” Jules said flatly. “Let’s go.”

Leaving the airport was the equivalent of stepping out of a freezer and straight into a furnace. Jules tore off the hoodie. They found the SUV at a lot and climbed in. Vicky set the satellite navigation to the address of a state park, and they were on their way. The beach break could only do them good, Jules reasoned. Ayesha had to loosen up, Vicky deserved a beach break, and Jules had to snap out of her mood.

The beach detour restored them. They’d changed into bathing suits and waded into the water. The waves smacked them around in the best way possible. Jules felt the tension of the last few weeks dissolve into sea salt. Floating like a starfish, she stared up at the faultless blue sky and wondered what the hell she was so stressed about. What was a damaged kitchen in the grand scheme of things? The world was on fire. If anything, this trip was a much-needed mental health break. They would make the most of it. They’d do all the things required of them and then make their way to Duval, hit one bar after another, stay out late, sleep off their hangovers, fill up on whatever breakfast was on offer at the inn, and start over until it was time to go home. When she returned to the city, fingers crossed, her apartment would be close to habitable again. She’d move back in and attempt setting roots once more.

Their spirits were high when they climbed back into the SUV and hit the road. They sailed along the oversees highway, bridge after bridge, No Name Key, Big Pine Key, Little Torch Key, and so forth, one bait shop, one dive shop, one motel after another, the windows down and the sea breeze teasing their hair. Jules snuffed out the memory of L.J. White and watched as the imaginary smoke rose and curled and dissipated into thin air.

They arrived in Key West when there was no more road to travel, Mile Marker Zero. Ayesha needn’t have worried. There was plenty of time to spare. By six they’d be garden party ready.

When they pulled up to The Aurora Inn, Jules verified the address, despite the lawn sign that read: Welcome Authors! Key West Loves the Arts. Ayesha pulled out the postcard they were sent and compared the property to the rendering. With a crinkle between her thin brows, she said, “Not what I expected.”

Jules killed the engine. The Aurora lived up to its hype. Though she couldn’t put her finger on it, there was something off about the property. On the postcard the historic house gleamed. Before them, it retreated into the shadows. Its windows stared out blankly at the busy streets.

“Definitely haunted,” Vicky said grimly.

“Suddenly the Hilton doesn’t look so bad, right?” Ayesha asked.

They couldn’t leave if they wanted. Daphne Narcisse was at the gate, ready to greet them. An attendant had their luggage out of the trunk in no time. They were welcomed like royalty, offered champagne. Next minute they were ushered into the lobby. Daphne showed them an oil painting of the shipbuilder, and a miniature portrait of his wife kept under lock and key. She reassured them that the inn wasn’t haunted. “I’m the biggest scaredy-cat,” she said. “I wouldn’t be staying here if it was.”

From the pergola Jules, Vicky, and Ayesha, in their garden party finest, assessed the other guests with a clinical eye. Fifty or so members of the literary society had gathered to welcome them. They wore tropical colors and warm smiles. Jules found their lightness and ease intimidating.

“Richard Carlisle’s flight is delayed,” Ayesha informed them. “It’s unsure when he’ll arrive.”