Page 33 of Old Flames

“Not yet. What do you mean you’re not in your right mind?”

She looked at him. Had she said that?

“This is because of the ghost tour,” Leo concluded. “It rattled you.”

“I don’t want to talk about that tour anymore.”

“Is this what you came to my room to tell me last night?” he pressed. “Because I don’t think it is.”

Of all the parlors in the inn, the one in his suite had become the hangout spot. When she arrived at his door, flustered, he’d wished he could send the others away. Why hadn’t he taken her someplace quiet to talk? If he had, they might not be having this conversation now.

“How do you know I didn’t come to join the canceled séance?” she asked.

Leo tried to control his smile. “I just do.”

She didn’t answer. The light turned green. Hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, she swerved his questions. But he wouldn’t let her get away.

The night they met, all those years ago, Leo made the mistake of letting her walk out of his life. They say when you know, you know. He’d felt that spark between them. He knew, and he should’ve asked her out, or at least asked for her name and number. Alternatively, he should’ve waited for her to end her shift and offered to take her home by cab, by foot, or horse and buggy—whatever means. He should’ve done something. Instead, he let her walk away. He spent that evening with some of his fellow honorees. After the dinner, they celebrated at a nearby bar. Some left early. Some stayed late, got drunk. He was part of that second group. Then he showed up at his parents’ home in the middle of the night to boast, and it was the last time he was welcomed there. That wasn’t the point of this. The point was he’d learned his lesson. But pressuring her wasn’t the answer. His strongest, most tactical move was to give her exactly what she asked of him.

At the public parking lot, she cut the engine and spent an unusually long time rummaging in her small leather bag only to come up empty-handed. “Look,” she said, “I might’ve had something to tell you last night, but I forgot. It was late. I was tired. Okay?”

“Okay.” Leo swung out of the cart and went around to give her a hand, which she begrudgingly accepted. “I’ll forget if you want me to,” he said. “And I won’t ever bring it up.”

She froze, her hand in his, and when she faced him, her eyes were glassy with uncertainty.

“JULES AND LEO! LET’S GO!”

Daphne, again.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s not make Daphne’s job more difficult than it is.”

The Hemingway property was bordered by a stone wall to protect its privacy. Every day, hundreds paid the entry fee to invade said privacy, roam the gardens and wander through the house. They snapped photos and admired the delicate wrought iron balconies, the elegant crystal chandeliers, and the furniture and artifacts preserved from the time the famous author occupied the rooms.

The tour started in the living room where they were introduced to Babe Ruth, a dark six-toed cat who might or might not be a descendant of Snow White, the original six-toed cat that was gifted to Hemingway. Leo wasn’t paying too close attention. Jules hadn’t left his side. Babe Ruth, on the other hand, raised his sleepy head off the seat of the antique chair, twitched his ears, and, as they approached, slunk away.

“That’s unusual,” their guide said. “These cats aren’t bothered by visitors. They ignore everyone and keep on napping.”

He went on to regale them with tales of Hemingway’s wars and marriages. The man couldn’t sit still, stay put, or commit to any one person. He chased the high. He strayed, returned. This home held the remnants of a marriage that was doomed to fail. The guide gave them an overview of the couple’s glamorously laid-back life right up to the bitter end.

Leo followed Jules up the steep and narrow stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor.

“Let’s pool our resources and buy this house,” he said. “It’s big enough to share.”

“Ha!” she laughed. “Do I look like I’m made of money?”

“You’ll make some,” he said. “Your books are exceptional.”

“You’re only saying that because—”

“No.” Leo had to stop her right there on the landing. “Whatever you’re about to say is false. I love your books. You should know that.”

It was a tepid confession considering how he truly felt about her writing. From the day he purchased that first volume at the East Village bookstore, he was devoted to her work with the passion most people reserved for collecting rare and precious objects. Special editions lived on his bedside table. He read the ebooks on trains and listened to the audio on long walks at night. Naturally, he had opinions. He didn’t love the ending of the first novel or the rushed death of an important character in the second installment. It didn’t change the way he felt. If anything, his criticism stemmed from his devotion. He was a fan, and he hated that he might’ve said or done something to make her think otherwise.

She ran a fingertip along the glass case holding one of Hemingway’s beloved typewriters. “Great. Now I’ve got to pretend to love your books, too.”

“You better. My ego can’t take it.”

The linked rooms were warm, but worth it for a glimpse of the narrow bed Hemingway shared with his wife, the books and sculptures on display, and the large painting that featured the fuzzy white cat that had started the six-toed cat franchise. It was an artist’s home, though Pauline Pfeiffer had retained ownership after the divorce, which was only fair. The property was a gift from her wealthy uncle. Leo was reminded of that chilly day in October when Francesca had politely invited him to vacate her exquisite London flat. He and Hemingway likely shared that same dread, paradise lost. But he’d learned his lesson. If you wanted something, you had to get it for yourself.