Page 14 of Old Flames

Vicky and Sebastien went on to chat about the weather, more specifically the oppressive heat, and the wisdom of hosting a garden party during a heatwave.

“What do you make of Mathis?” Vicky asked her new friend.

It wasn’t like Vicky to crowdsource opinions on a man. If she liked a guy, she’d walk up to him, flirt a little, and ask him out. She wasn’t one to wait around to be picked. She’d learned early on, in prep school, that the wallflower got stomped on.

“He goes by Matty. I met him a while back, before he was married.”

“Oh? Is he still married?” Vicky asked.

“Nah, but no surprise there. Four out of five marriages blow up in your face,” Sebastien said. “And, yeah, I know. I’m a hypocrite with this rock on my finger, but the numbers don’t lie, honey.”

“True! Congrats on your engagement!” Vicky exclaimed. “Your proposal was all over social media.”

Sebastien hooded his eyes with his left hand, flashing the rock.

“You make a cute couple.”

“Thanks. My fiancé is working,” he said. “He couldn’t tag along this time. Usually when I travel, we make a thing of it.”

Jules would remind Vicky that she, too, had someone waiting at home, someone who was babysitting her cat, but she wasn’t one to dump cold water over hot coal.

“He’s engaged to the painter Alexandre Montclair,” Vicky informed her. “The next Basquiat.”

Jules took a long sip from her cocktail, struggling to stay engaged. It wasn’t that she was unfamiliar with Montclair’s work. Something had caught her attention. Not an actual thing, but a shadow, dense and dark, moving amid the shrubs around the pergola, and . . . gone. She could not shake the feeling that she’d seen something she wasn’t meant to. But what “thing” exactly? Why hadn’t the others seen it? Vicky and Sebastien, unbothered or unaware, went on chatting. Meanwhile, she’d broken into a cold sweat.

It was at that precise moment that her companions realized that she hadn’t contributed anything substantive to this conversation. They turned to her now, Sebastien with apprehension, still unsure of his standing in the group, and Vicky with concern.

“Are you alright?” Vicky asked.

It was the second time today that she’d had to ask. Jules thought she’d cleared her mind of the dark clouds but clearly she hadn’t. “I’m fine,” she said. She was hallucinating, but fine. “A little headache that’s all.”

“It’s these damn drinks,” Sebastien said. “Too sugary and complicated. Give me a tequila and lime any day.”

“Vodka soda,” Vicky said.

“When was the last time you had a drink of water?” Sebastien asked. “You may need to hydrate.”

They had a point, but it was more complicated than that. Was it the garden? The scent of jasmine, which ordinarily she loved, was overpowering. The air was thick with it. And for some reason, Jules was chilly again. At some point, she’d moved out of the shade to stand in the sun and still could not feel its warmth.

“I’m tired, that’s all.”

Vicky was advising her to take a melatonin before bed when her attention shifted. “There he is!” she said. “The man of the hour.”

The announcement was unnecessary. Jules felt his arrival. A current of excitement had moved through the garden, the party crowd, and her very being.

For the occasion, Jules wore the dress that hadn’t made the cut for her housewarming party. It was perfect for this event. The crisp white fabric lay nicely on her bronze skin. The halter neckline showed off her bare shoulders and back. Her newish pixie cut freed her neck from the weight of her hair. Leaving her room earlier, she’d felt beautiful. Even before Vicky had announced the man of the hour, Jules knew someone was watching her, thinking the same.

“He’d be my draft pick for the weekend,” Sebastien said.

“Approved. We met in Tokyo. He’s hot,” Vicky whispered.

“London,” Sebastien said. “We had the most intense, interesting conversation. Like real deep, you know?”

“Heads up!” Vicky said. “He’s coming this way!”

“Nope!” Sebastien volleyed back. “Daphne intercepted him.”

“Penny Dreadful has his drink,” Vicky observed. “What is it? Looks like a Brain Hemorrhage. I fucking can’t with these cocktails!”