Page 5 of Old Flames

With a few taps on her phone screen, she had the answer. The invitation was lingering in her inbox. “I thought this was spam!”

“Better RSVP!”

Jules had never signed up for anything faster. Usually, her writing took her to subdued, sedate locations. Having never been there, she couldn’t pass up on Key West. Sharing the experience with Vicky would be a bonus. Jules wrote time-travel fantasy novels. Vicky was the author of a bestselling vampire romance series. Her rabid fandom was named: The FANGS. Though their books were shelved in the same section of most bookstores, they were seldom invited to the same book conferences or events.

With a few more taps on her phone, Vicky completed that task, and the unofficial girls’ trip was confirmed. Good thing, too, because the year was off to a rough start. Jules also planned on returning with tan lines and a couple graphic tees, a hangover, and hazy memories of nights out on Duval.

Vicky scrolled the website hunting for more information on the conference. She froze. “Oh, shit.”

“What is it?” Jules asked.

“This seminar is an NYU reunion show!”

It took Jules a second to understand, and a second more for a fuller picture to come to mind. They occupied two seats of the three-seat row. That one empty seat, between them, was a stage set for drama. Knowing what they knew, they startled anyway when they heard the familiar voice.

“Hello, ladies.”

Ayesha Eze Grant. Or Karma, coming to bite them in the ass.

She got settled in that middle seat. From the relative safety of her window seat, Jules took in the newcomer’s sharp profile. Dark and radiant, hair smoothed into a low bun, not a wisp out of place, she looked amazing. It was good to see her again—until she said, “This week is not going to be one long bar crawl, I hope.”

No “hello” or “how are you?” which wasn’t surprising the way they’d left things.

For one brief semester, Jules, Vicky, and Ayesha had shared an apartment in Greenwich Village. What should’ve been an easy, breezy living arrangement had quickly turned prickly.

Jules could barely recall the layout of that apartment. At the time she was juggling grad school, a couple of odd jobs, and, it had to be said, actively grieving her mother. She had very little time or patience for Ayesha’s polite requests to keep the bathroom tidy or the refrigerator in order. All reasonable requests, but at twenty Jules wasn’t a reasonable girl. As for Vicky, who was only cosplaying as a broke grad student, who was accustomed to servants keeping bathrooms tidy and refrigerators in order, and who sprang for quarterly cleaning services, the untidy apartment felt authentic to the college experience.

It lasted one semester. During winter break, Ayesha traveled to Nigeria for Christmas and never returned. In early January, she sent a cousin to collect her things and turn in her keys. Ayesha had gone on to do impressive things. Her books laced contemporary life with Nigerian myths. She’d won awards and was hailed as the “Face of Afro-futurism.” Now, sitting between them, she was the face of smug satisfaction. Her barb had wounded them both, but only Vicky lashed back.

“What else is there to do in the Keys?” Vicky asked.

“Take in the culture,” Ayesha suggested. “I’m looking forward to touring Hemingway’s home and the San Carlos Institute. Check the website. It’s all there.”

“Funny,” Vicky said. “When I checked the website, it said they were taking us snorkeling, on a ghost tour, and to Sloppy Joe’s, Hemingway’s favorite bar.”

Jules had not checked the website, but she assumed the lecture series was an excuse to gather a handful of authors at the seaside location for a good old time under the guise of cultural exchange and intellectual discourse. Wasn’t that always the case? Hadn’t they promised plenty of downtime? She originally planned on skipping some of the outings to get work done. Her editor was waiting on the revisions. The final installment of her trilogy, The Century Game, had been delayed long enough. Ayesha would no doubt mine every opportunity for cultural enrichment when she ought to scope out the inn for an Adirondack chair, crack open a Corona, and chill the fuck out.

Ayesha moved on to her next mental bullet point: lodging. “Do you know the inn is a historic home? It was built in the 1800s by a Bahamian master shipbuilder.”

“Do you know it’s haunted?” Vicky asked.

Ayesha narrowed her eyes at her. “No, it’s not!”

“Oh, yes, it is!” Vicky dangled her charm bracelet with an evil eye and various other talismans. “I hope you’re ready.”

Ayesha turned to Jules with pleading eyes. Jules wasn’t feeling merciful. “It’s haunted. Something about the shipbuilder’s wife roaming the halls.”

The accommodation was the one element of the trip Jules had researched. Her taste for hotel living extended to her vacation stays. Built in 1882 by William Jacobsen, The Aurora Inn on Caroline Street had columns, wood trim, a tower, and all the gingerbread details you could hope for. The brief history alluded to its “haunted past,” which Jules had dismissed as a marketing ploy.

“It’s always the wife doing the haunting,” Vicky said grimly. “Guess men don’t pull their weight in the afterlife, either.”

“Lazy bastards,” Jules muttered.

“I’ll check into a Hyatt,” Ayesha said. “I won’t stay in a haunted house.”

“Even a historic one?” Jules asked.

Vicky burst with laughter and somehow, magically, the mood changed.