Page 51 of Old Flames

“Is it valuable?” Vicky asked.

“No, not really. But it’s precious to me.”

“How long have you been searching for it?” Sebastien asked.

“Years,” she answered. “It must’ve fallen out of my luggage or something. Sorry to have caused such a fuss.”

Leo touched her shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, still clutching the object to her chest, hazel eyes glassy with tears, and looking pale, as if she had just seen a ghost.

What Jules admired most about the San Carlos Institute was the building itself. The elaborate facade topped with a crown. The high ceilings and intricate tile work that crawled up the walls. The grand marble staircase that led to grand halls where the children of tobacco workers had continued their education in Spanish. The stacks of books that commemorated the legacy of the poet and nationalist José Martí. But Jules would give everything to know what Leo made of it all. While Sebastien snapped photos, Ayesha perused discounted vintage postcards, Vicky and Matty shopped for art prints with the intimacy of a couple decorating a shared apartment (“Wouldn’t that look great in a kitchen?”). Leo shadowed the director, inquired about the provenance of the handmade tile, the age range of the schoolchildren who attended class on the second floor, and José Martí’s perspective on the Cubans’ liberation from Spain. The director turned to Jules, and what did Jules contribute? “This building is beautiful.”

“Yes, it is,” the director replied.

She could have kicked herself. Girl, is that the best you can do?

“This is the institute’s third location,” the director continued with a pinch of pride. “It started on Anne Street but moved to a larger location on Fleming, which was lost in the Great Fire. This location was built in 1890.”

The institute’s director, Dr. Emilio Flores, was a distinguished man in his sixties who walked with a cane. Earlier, he’d skipped the tour of the former classrooms, sending an assistant after them up the steep stairs.

“There was a fire?” Leo asked.

“Yes, in 1886. It destroyed much of the city.”

“Why don’t you tell them about it,” Daphne suggested. “It’s an important part of Key West history.”

“It’s a beautiful day,” Dr. Flores said. “They don’t want to hear about death, destruction, and conspiracies.”

“You underestimate this crowd,” Daphne said. “They thrive on death, destruction, and conspiracies.”

“The fire started in a coffee shop next door to the institute. We believe Spain sent the arsonists to quash the exile community’s financial support of the fight for Cuba’s independence,” he said, both hands on the ivory handle of his cane. “It was a fateful night. Our one and only steam fire engine was sent to New York for repairs. Even if that weren’t the case, the city was doomed to burn down. Strong winds allowed the flames to spread. The fire wiped out entire cigar factories and warehouses. It was a great tragedy.”

“A fire,” Jules repeated.

“She’s triggered,” Vicky explained. “A kitchen fire nearly destroyed her new apartment. She’s been practically homeless ever since.”

“I’m not homeless,” Jules protested.

“You were sleeping on Vicky’s couch,” Ayesha pointed out. “I think you meet the criteria of an unhoused person.”

“I have a guest bedroom,” Vicky said. “Just saying.”

“Excellent news,” Dr. Flores said. “I have a trip coming up.”

It was only polite to laugh at the little joke, but Jules had caught Leo’s glance before he looked away, minding his business, as she had asked him to do.

18

From the San Carlos Institute, it was a quick walk to the Tennessee Williams Museum on Duncan Street, but Leo was in no rush to leave. There’s something here, he thought, breaking away from the group to tour the rooms on his own. The beginnings of an idea. The history trapped within the walls spoke to him. A fire? Arsonists dispatched from Spain? The spark of revolution. The influence of José Martí. Doom, destruction, and conspiracies . . . if he couldn’t spin a story out of that yarn, he ought to sell Toyotas.

Instinctively, Leo looked around for Jules, eager to share. He moved away from the marble statue of Martí, an ordinary man with an impressive mustache, immortalized with an arm raised, finger extended. Jules was in the library, a clothbound book in hand, trying and failing not to look suspicious. She whipped around so fast, he concluded she was spying on him. He took a step in her direction and stopped. Mind your fucking business. The line was drawn in blood. He wouldn’t cross it. But it didn’t help that she looked so unhappy. In the reading garden at Bishop House, she’d sat apart from the group, surrounded by tropical plants, beautiful and untouchable, isolated in her inner world.

Leo turned away, but it cost him. It felt strange and unnatural to walk away from her. He had been moving toward her for so long.

The breakup with Francesca was the first domino to fall. It prompted him to leave London, return stateside, buy the car and crisscross the country, visit just about everyone except for his family, until a last-minute invitation brought him to Key West. Each fallen domino had led him to her. And now what? He didn’t know what to do with himself. Now that he’d held her and tasted her, there was no forgetting her. Not ever. Again, the question: Now what?

Vicky offered some guidance.