Page 40 of Old Flames

Jules blinked and suddenly the world around them burst with activity. A large group of kids in colorful matching T-shirts swarmed the grounds. In every corner, a visitor aimed a camera at cats. A new tour had begun inside the house. New arrivals crowded the ticket kiosk. It wasn’t just the two of them standing among the trees. She would’ve never known it.

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Saturday, March 24

A Tribute to Richard Carlisle by Emily Russell

Presentations By: Mathis Taylor & Ayesha Eze Grant

Emily Russell

Sweet Adelaide is the story of a young bride who, having broken free from a controlling marriage, dies in a tragic accident. Lying on the cold ground, her one regret is having fled her home. In the afterlife, she returns to terrorize the woman who has taken her place. When I first read it, as a teenager, the moral of the story was obvious. Bad things happen to women who break with tradition, who rebel, who run away. The Southern woman’s place was in the kitchen, preferably in a single-family home on a quiet street of a sleepy suburb. She was only to emerge for a quick trip to the grocery store. Revisiting the novel this week, as a young adult, my opinion hasn’t changed. Despite this, I appreciate Carlisle’s mastery. The Gothic novel faithfully depicts a highly structured society of the sort I longed to break free from. I feared I’d be trapped in my hometown forever or when the time came, I’d be too afraid to leave—or worse, having left and tasted freedom, I’d fight my way back.

Sweet Adelaide serves as a portal, should we, as a collective, want to revisit and reckon with the ghosts of our past . . .

Mathis Taylor

Thanks for the warm welcome. This Brit appreciates it. We’ve been having a lovely time ransacking your city. This morning, we had the privilege of touring Hemingway’s home. The typewriters shamed me. Consider the tools of our trade. These days I rely on a Mac laptop, a notebook full of half-baked ideas, and a cup of tea. I also draw from an inexhaustible well of childhood trauma, irrational fears, and contradictory emotions. The exploration of those fears is what compels me to return to my writing desk. Before we delve into all that, I would be remiss not to plug my latest release, The Beasts at the Gate . . .

Ayesha Eze Grant

I’ll confess. I wanted so badly to impress you, all of you, that I risked losing the chance to connect. Which is tragic considering connection is what I’ve longed for my whole life. Indulge me, please, as I set aside my carefully prepared remarks and share something a bit more personal.

My first novella, “A Hole in the Sky,” is the story of a girl living under occupation, who cannot safely leave her home. Her only escape from her hypervigilant family, as the title suggests, perhaps too literally, is through a hole in the sky, a doorway to paradise.

I had no intention of bringing up an unpublished novella today. However, I wrote that piece one autumn when, briefly, I shared a New York apartment with Victoria Paraíso and July Levy Jones, who are sitting right over there. And like my young character, I, too, sought to break away from my loving but overbearing family. Briefly, that apartment became my portal to another, more playful and colorful world for as long as it lasted . . .

13

After the evening’s lectures and before dinner, they had a minute to breathe at the literary society’s observation deck. It offered a view of the city they otherwise would never have. The vista extended to the twinkling ocean, punctuated by the steeple of the church with the haunted graveyard and, closer by, the octagonal shape of Aurora’s tower. Their tower, for now. All of that to behold, but Leo only had eyes for Jules.

She’d stepped aside from the group to lean over the balustrade and offer her face to the waning sunshine. He approached her, as always, heart lodged in his throat.

“I’d like to catch the sunset at Mallory Square before we leave,” she said, as if picking up a conversation they’d started long ago. “It’d be criminal not to.”

“What’s criminal is that we haven’t been to Old Town Books,” Leo said, pointing to the corner store. A group signing was scheduled tomorrow evening after the lectures, but it should have been their first stop.

“That’s where Emily works,” she said. “Wanna go?”

“Now?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s right there. We’ll ditch the others.”

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that?”

“Settle down,” she said. “It’s just a bookstore.”

“You don’t know what a good bookstore can do to me.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said. “If we leave together, the others might follow.”

The others were taking photos of the view. Vicky was recording a video for TikTok. They’d likely not notice their departure, but he wasn’t about to argue. “Good strategy. I’ll stay here and watch you go.”

She studied him, as if puzzling something out. He hoped she had all the information she needed. Leo’s mind was made up. His feelings for her, as confusing and complicated as they were, were immutable. He could not go over or under or around, he had to tackle it straight on. She walked away, leaving her floral scent behind.

Old Town Books operated as a nonprofit, but there was no way to know it. The small space was fitted with floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with new releases and special editions of the classics. The aroma of coffee and moody jazz music added to the ambiance. The store manager, whom they’d met at the garden party, welcomed them from behind the register. His name was Mike. “Hey, you two!” he said. “We’re setting up for tomorrow’s event. Look over there.”

Mike pointed to a display table with everything from Sweet Adelaide to Sebastien’s beautifully illustrated graphic novels. It moved Leo to see Jules’s works stacked next to his.