Page 22 of Old Flames

“One last question,” Vicky said. “Do you need meds?”

“Vicky!”

Jules looked around to make sure Leo hadn’t overheard. He was walking ahead, speaking with Matty. Vicky’s question wasn’t indiscreet. Her friend hadn’t crossed any lines. Jules was open about this sort of thing. Her prescription dose was often party chatter. In their circles, everyone was on something. Life was tough. They had to cope somehow. However, they were no longer in the city with their ragtag friends. This was a very different circle and Jules wanted to put her best foot forward. Why? She couldn’t say.

“Barbara’s doctor can get us anything,” Vicky said. “Just ask.”

“Thanks, but I’m good.”

Jules was far from “good.” She was accustomed to hearing things, but now she was seeing or feeling things, which ratcheted up her paranoia. If she was having an episode of some kind, shouldn’t she seek treatment? Vicky’s inquisitive gaze hooked into her, and Jules squirmed like a caught fish. She prayed for mercy, hoping Vicky would release her into the gulf and set her free.

Interstitial

Friday, March 23

Sebastien Smith & Victoria Paraíso

Introduction: Sebastien Smith is the author and illustrator of LA Endless Nights, the Hugo award-winning fantasy graphic novel series. Victoria Paraíso’s paranormal romance series, Love Everlasting, is a USA TODAY bestseller with a cultlike following. Please silence your phones and give a warm welcome to our authors!

Sebastien Smith

My origin story is not twisted or complicated. A kid watching reruns of Scooby-Doo in his pajamas while munching on a box of Honey Nut Cheerios. I hated that the monsters or ghosts always turned out to be ordinary crooks in disguise. Kids know better. Ghosts are real. Monsters hide in our closets. Something is lurking in the basement.

When I was ten, my grandpa, “Pops,” died in his sleep. Before his body was discovered, he came to my bedroom to say goodbye. I was awake, reading in bed. He showed up at my door, smiled, waved, and gave me one last tender look. He knew I was “different.” He knew I had a tough road ahead. He did not want to leave me so soon. Somehow, without saying a word, he said all this and more.

He walked away just when my grandma started wailing in their bedroom across the hall. But Pops had severe knee pain, and it struck me that for once he was not limping. At his funeral, I didn’t cry. I knew he was okay.

All my books are dedicated to the grandparent who gave me a peek beyond the thin veil that separates this world and another, one in which an eighty-five-year-old disabled man could regain his step. And if that small miracle was possible, what else? . . .

Victoria Paraíso

I came prepared to talk about a writer I admire greatly, Mary Shelley, and not just her novel, Frankenstein, but also her life. Her mother was a feminist writer, as I aspire to be. My heroine, Clara Everina, is named after one of her children. She was a passionate lover, and famously kept the heart of her late husband wrapped in silk in her desk drawer.

Tonight, I’d like to talk about Maria Paraíso instead.

My Puerto Rican grandmother moved with her family to New York City in the 1940s. She grew up poor and married out of necessity. But she was scrappy and ambitious. Mostly, she had faith in her abilities, her God-given talents and gifts. Faith and belief were not enough in a world designed to hold women back. She needed credit and capital. To start her business, my sweet, artistic grandfather presented himself as the hard-nosed entrepreneur. He took out the loans and leased the warehouse. Still, she had to fight for every inch of market share. Abuela Maria describes the predatory lenders, slumlords, and competitors as “a pack of bloodsuckers.” Is it any wonder I write about vampires? . . .

7

Dinner was at La Terazza, yet another historic home converted into a hospitality haven. In a small lounge off the ladies’ room, Jules, Vicky, and Ayesha were at the mirror, reapplying lip gloss and fluffing their hair, when Ayesha, consciously or not, took aim at Vicky.

“I appreciated your talk,” she said. “I never bothered to read your books. Maybe I will.”

Vicky bristled at this. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

“I meant no offense,” Ayesha said.

“Well, too bad,” Vicky said. “I’m offended! Do you know how condescending you sound?”

Jules pocketed her lip gloss and ducked for cover.

“Historical vampire romance is not my preferred genre,” Ayesha said. “I’m not a twelve-year-old girl.”

“I write adult fiction,” Vicky countered. “Why don’t you just admit you think I’m a joke.”

“Forget I said anything,” Ayesha said, ready to quit the thorny discussion. “I see I hit a nerve. I’m sorry you can’t take a compliment.”

“You insulted her work,” Jules said, walking into the line of fire. “Don’t insult her intelligence, too.”