Page 49 of Old Flames

Jules blinked and went to work, buttoning her shirt. “Happy? Look at what you’re missing out on now.”

“It’s fine. What I want can’t be accomplished here in this stairwell.”

She doubted that. “What exactly do you want?”

“If you’re not ready to talk openly, then you’re not ready to know.”

The door swung open. Matty poked his head through the doorway.

“Sorry to disturb,” Matty said. “Thought you’d like to know the drinking games have begun.”

“Can’t do it,” Leo said. “I’m driving.”

A convenient excuse. After Matty was gone, she cocked a brow at him. “We all have our secrets, don’t we?”

“Some more complicated than others,” he replied.

“Well, if you’re still holding out for the prize behind the curtain, congrats! You’ve won a brand-new car!”

“July, I’m serious.”

He was so serious, she could map the lines of worry and confusion on his face and find the exact points where the emotions intersected. The problem was: she couldn’t hold it against him. Someone ought to rescue her from the ghost in the garden, from the machinations of her mind, from her own recklessness, but she could not let this go on. For his benefit more than hers, she had to nip this dark rose in the bud.

Jules went to him, kissed his jaw, and scraped her lips on the stubble there. “I’m serious, too,” she whispered into his skin. “Do me a favor. Mind your fucking business.”

They returned to The Aurora around witching hour. Jules waited in her room for the others to settle in for the night, staring out the window. The garden’s stillness was unsettling. But Ruby was traversing a realm to communicate with her. Whatever her motives, she wouldn’t let her down.

It was time. Jules left her room, crossed the sleepy lobby, and stepped out into the garden. She marched straight to the bench and waited. The tower was dark, but the light in Leo’s room was on. Jules could feel his hands on her body. Though she’d showered, his scent lingered. Her heart was like a broken toy, the bits rattling loose inside it. As it turned out, she could be cruel, but only to good people who were trying to be nice to her. Why had she pushed him away? If she ever needed help, it was now.

Jules lowered her eyes, focused, and rehearsed what she might say. The rustle of the palm trees quieted her mind and ushered that deeper darkness, so complete it extinguished the stars. The night expanded, and there she was. She emerged from the flower bed, eyes like coal, limbs like dried kindle, brown skin pale like ash, surrounded by white jasmine. Jules wished her heart would swell with love, but it didn’t. Her blood ran cold, but she would not make the same mistake twice. No distractions. She got straight to it, starting by reminding Ruby who she was in case she’d forgotten.

Jules rose onto shaky legs. “I’m your daughter, your only child. You were the only person I ever loved. One day we will be together again. Mama and baby girl. For now, I want to ease your mind. Please don’t worry about me. I’m well and successful. Remember those silly stories? Translated into sixteen languages. You’d be proud. My only regret is that I can’t share my success with you.”

Though Jules addressed the apparition directly, she thought of her as a go-between, hoping she might pass the message along to her actual mother, who was resting in peace. With her hands joined as if in prayer, she waited for a reaction. Time stretched on and just when doubt settled, she watched Ruby, her mother, her very young mother, fold over and scream without uttering a sound or a word, her impassive face now distorted in anger and obvious resentment. The intense emotion sent Jules tumbling backward, hands clasped over her mouth.

A floodlight switched on. The back door to the main house opened and squealed shut. In the night, someone said, “Everything alright, miss?”

Jules closed her eyes, knowing that when she reopened them Ruby would be gone.

At four in the morning Jules crawled into bed, profoundly humiliated. How selfish, how self-centered of her to rattle on like that, to boast about her accomplishments as if it mattered. She’d stupidly bought into the notion that the departed hovered above in some heavenly landscape, beaming down on their loved ones with admiration and pride. At her graduation she was told: We know your mother is with us, cheering you on. When her first book was published, they said: Your mother is so proud of the young woman you’ve become. We know it.

If they were to be believed, her mother was forever beaming with pride, never stewing with resentment. Ruby was young when she died. She had more living to do. Who said her sole ambition was to live through her daughter? She had dreams and ambitions of her own.

After high school, Ruby left her home in New Orleans to find work in New York City’s theater district as a costume designer. She’d only been in the city six months when she got pregnant with Jules, thus fulfilling her devout grandfather’s prophecy that she’d never amount to anything. Ruby’s mother was a widow who supplemented her livelihood as a seamstress by making dolls from scraps of cloth. She cut Ruby off. To her family she was an embarrassment, and Jules, the product of sin and debauchery. Jules’s grandmother never once inquired about her, never made her a doll for Christmas.

And here Jules was, thinking about herself again. There was a Ruby before she crashed into her life, disrupting her plans. A Ruby before July. A rebellious, reckless Ruby. That was the version who returned. It explained so much. Jules had trouble connecting with the lady in the garden because she appeared too young to be her mother. That Ruby wanted the future she’d planned before Jules hijacked it. And she was grieving; that much was clear. Jules knew enough about grief to detect it even in the vacant eyes of otherworldly beings.

17

Daphne had promised them plenty of downtime over the weekend. When it rolled around, they’d been too exhausted to leave the property. Sebastien retreated to the art studio he’d set up in a parlor room. Vicky and Matty lounged on the deck. Ayesha hopped on FaceTime with her family. Only Leo would duck out without a word, but when he returned a couple hours later the old house pulsed with life. His laughter swirled down the halls and filled the rooms. Jules had spent her downtime in the garden, with the aim of discovering in daylight the mysteries that occurred only in darkness. Unfortunately, nothing she experienced in the night felt real in the day. This morning was no exception.

Jules woke up with a crippling headache. She took two painkillers and curled up on the window seat. She could hardly believe what had happened the night before. If a security guard hadn’t checked on her, she might’ve dismissed the whole thing as a fever dream. Then she recalled Ruby’s young face distorted by pain and Jules doubled over and caught her head between her hands.

Today’s schedule was packed. Jules was relieved. She peered down at the garden from her window. A break from otherworldliness would be nice. Then she spotted Leo by the pergola, chatting up the gardener.

It was his one superpower, his ability to chat up just about anyone. The gardener, a wiry man with shocking red hair, had only ever nodded her way and carried on with his work. With elaborate hand gestures, he appeared to explain the process of growing, pruning, loving, and maintaining the tropical flowers. Leo listened intently.

Later, when she joined the group for breakfast, a slim bouquet of blue flowers rested on her reserved seat.