Page 32 of Old Flames

Jules had felt no fear when her mother had appeared to her, only curiosity and some lingering resentment at her cold demeanor. Then again, why would she fear her own mother? Had she encountered the ghost of a vengeful pirate, for example, she might have reacted differently.

“Fine. I’ll keep an open mind,” Vicky said. “But just in case, wear this.”

She removed one of her necklaces and fastened it around Jules’s neck. An evil eye, dangling off a gold chain.

Interstitial

2:20 a.m.: Vicky left her room and crossed the hall barefoot. She knocked. He answered.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Wonderful. Neither can I.”

2:45 a.m.: Daphne checked for the string of rosary beads under her pillow. Reassured, she fell asleep.

3:00 a.m.: Ayesha startled awake.

11

For the day’s field trip, Daphne surprised them with a caravan of mini golf carts. They were a more subdued and self-reflective group, but the sight of the colorful carts and the ensuing battle to determine who would buddy up and, more importantly, who would drive, brought back the sense of play they lost after the previous night’s hurly-burly.

Daphne addressed them in the lobby. “I spoke to Carlisle’s sister. He was transported safely back to Tennessee. The hospital is running tests, but he’ll soon be sent home to recuperate. Though we’re down one man, it won’t change things . . . not too much, anyway. We’ve invited a local content creator to pay tribute to our friend this evening.”

They agreed it was a thoughtful touch. As Vicky put it: “He was a dick, but he didn’t deserve to go out like that.”

“Jules,” Daphne said, “we’re moving you to Sunday, if you don’t mind.”

Jules shrugged a bare shoulder. “I’m cool with it.”

As for Leo, he was cool with sharing a golf cart with Jules with the caveat that he let her drive. Only a fool would refuse.

They were off to the home Hemingway had shared with his second wife, Pauline Pfeiffer. They hit the road in one long caravan. Behind the wheel, Jules’s cool demeanor slipped. “Could we forget last night’s kiss?” she asked.

Leo played the question a few times in his mind before replying. “Give me one reason.”

She gave three. “It’s been a weird couple of days. I’m not in my right mind. And shit happens on Duval Street. So let’s forget it. Cool?”

“No.” He slipped on his sunglasses. “Not remotely cool.”

Forget? How could he? The scene played on loop in his mind. There was no off switch. “The kiss” was the prize at the bottom of a cereal box, the trophy at the end of the race. He’d bit and tasted her, held her to him, felt her softness. She’d dug her fingers into his shoulders, clung to him. And if they weren’t on a busy sidewalk, he would’ve liked to slip off her top to feel the silk of her skin.

Forget it? She could if she liked, but his memories were his own.

“It was just one kiss. Let it go!”

Her flippant tone was forced.

“I refuse,” he said coolly. “The memory of that kiss will sustain me for the rest of my life. Nothing short of a lobotomy will make me forget.”

At the traffic light, she scoffed. “Do what you like, but we won’t talk about it anymore.”

“Why? Was it so terrible?”

An icy glance. “No.”

“I know it! I was an eager participant,” Leo said. “It was fucking great.”

“Are you done?”