Page 3 of Old Flames

Then she stepped through a gate of another kind.

They did not speak again. For the rest of the evening, she averted her gaze as she carried out her tasks. At the end of the night, he lingered at the door, lurked around, but did not spot her. Reluctantly, he followed a few of the others to a bar next door.

Four years passed. He was at the Strand, killing time before the reading of his third book. He browsed the tables, picked up a “hot new release,” a fantasy novel with a striking black-and-gold cover. A new author on the scene: July Levy Jones. He flipped it over and, finally, there she was, staring back at him.

Interstitial

Dear Miss Levy Jones,

It is with great pleasure that I reach out on behalf of the Key West Society of Literary Arts to invite you to speak at our annual Spring Break Lecture Series from the 23–26 March, 2026. Our aim is to promote literacy by acknowledging all genres. This year’s theme is A New Era of Speculative Fiction.

Over the weekend, our guest lecturers will have the opportunity to explore cultural landmarks and immerse themselves in our city’s history.

Should you accept our invitation, we will be delighted to offer you—in addition to an honorarium of $500, travel, meals—and accommodation at The Aurora, a historic inn.

To confirm your attendance and participation, please RSVP by December 1.

Daphne Narcisse

Creative Director

Key West Society of Literary Arts

Part I

1

Jules thought she’d know, down to the millisecond, the moment her life would go up in flames. But when the time came, she had no clue. On a whim she decided to throw a party. The day had been spent prepping for it. She scrubbed her bathroom clean and filled the claw-foot tub with ice. She dusted, vacuumed, tidied up her kitchen, set up a bar, and dumped plastic containers of food into vintage serving bowls. She texted detailed directions and parking instructions to a dozen or so guests. After a shower she slipped on a backless dress, then thought better of it and fell back on a trusty black mini. Finally, when all there was left to do was wait, she scooped her vintage lighter off a trinket tray, lit a rose-scented candle, and watched the flame dance.

The apartment did not yet feel like home. Her furniture looked out of place and her bookshelf, yet to be assembled, was stashed in a closet crammed with boxes of books. She hoped the familiar scent of the candle would warm up the space. Inviting her friends over for a housewarming party was another step toward that goal. Since losing her mother ten years ago, Jules had felt rootless. Buying a home was meant to fix that. Her Realtor had taken her to see the railroad-style apartment in Greenpoint on a gorgeous Tuesday afternoon. She’d gasped when he guided her in. Compared to her studio apartment, the one-bedroom was palatial. South-facing windows poured light onto the oak floors and made the vacant space sparkle. By noon the next day she’d put in an offer.

The buzzer.

Soon her living room was full of people. Missing was her closest friend and fellow author, Vicky Paraíso, who was sure to arrive fashionably late. It was January, two days into the New Year. The hot food went largely untouched. All anyone wanted was a stiff drink and a warm spot to gather and escape the cold.

The last guest to arrive was slated to be the last to go. His name was Bobby, a musician who fell into the “friend of a friend” category. He planted a kiss on her cheek, grabbed the lighter off the trinket tray and climbed through the kitchen window to the fire escape, as graceful as a cat. She joined him a little later with a small bowl of mixed nuts. The Manhattan skyline twinkled in the distance.

“You didn’t say it was a housewarming,” he said. “I would’ve bought a gift.”

“Like what?” Jules asked.

He shrugged. “A bottle of something or other.”

“I’ve got plenty of those.”

In her line of work, Jules learned to read faces. She could see straight into the beating hearts of total strangers and discern a person’s true intentions from a flicker of a lash or a squint of an eye. Bobby’s shifty gaze told her everything she needed to know about him. He was good for a weekend. He’d ghost her next week. Good thing she only needed one night.

“Nice place,” he said. “How did you find it?”

He meant how could she afford it—a one bedroom in a co-op building with an elevator and a virtual doorman, whatever that was, costing just south of one million dollars. She’d worked through college, wrote two bestselling books, ghostwritten a couple others, taught at the local university for years to save up a downpayment until (bam!) she sold the film rights to her fantasy series to a prestige cable network.

“Luck.”

He laughed. “If I kiss you, will some of that luck rub off on me?”

Direct and to the point. “Give it a try.”

He leaned in and brushed his lips to hers. Jules made up her mind right then. The holiday, the housewarming, the heatwave . . . she had a grim need to keep the party going.