Page 81 of Old Flames

“Aurora was the third daughter of a Cuban family,” she said. “She was young and pretty. Her father had married her off to the master shipbuilder to settle a debt. Women were treated like cattle back then.”

“A tragedy,” Leo said.

“Even more so because her heart belonged to someone else.”

Leo drew a triangle on the page, adding Aurora and Jacobsen’s initials to the base corners.

“The boy came over from Cuba to work at one of the cigar factories,” Amaris continued. “His name was Leonardo or Leopold, something like that.”

Leo rolled his eyes and added the initial L to the top corner.

“He was handsome. All the young ladies loved him. Even Aurora’s domestic servant. That’s your love triangle.”

Interesting . . . “Do you know her name?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

He drew an X over the first triangle and drew another with initials A and L at the base and a question mark at the apex.

“They say the young man kept coming around the house after dark, hanging around the gate. When Aurora found out his true motivations, she flew into a blind jealous rage.”

“And leaped to her death,” Leo concluded.

“That’s what they say,” Amaris said, absolving herself of the sin of spreading gossip. “Understand, Mr. White, she was a young lady and not meant to compete with the lower classes. It was a final humiliation in a long string of slights.”

“It’s Leo.” His name hung between them. He made a quick joke to clear the air. “No relation.”

They shared an awkward laugh.

Leo shifted on the metal chair. “What about the fire?”

“Oh, the boy took off immediately after the fire. The cigar factory had burned down. He returned to Cuba, put it all behind him.”

“He fled the scene.”

“Exacto.”

Leo itched to take everything he’d learned to July, the triangle diagram and every scrap of information, for her to sift through, analyze, and dissect. He wanted her eyes on his work product, a feeling that was foreign to him. Solitude had always been key to his methodology, but this now felt hollow. He wanted a partner.

Leo thanked Amaris and took off on the scooter he’d rented for the week, heading to Pocket Park. It was hot, as usual. Above, a blue sky turned gray at the seams, hinting at rain. He found Dr. Flores on the bench under a mahogany tree. He wore a bucket hat and a cotton shirt, a splint on one arm, a folded newspaper tucked under the other. He wasn’t so much playing the game as simply observing the one his companions were engaged in. The director ripped off his hat at Leo’s approach. “To what do we owe this honor?”

His companions had no idea who Leo was, yet they beamed, impressed.

“What honor?” Leo asked. “I’m intruding on your free time for my own selfish reasons.”

“Nonsense!” Dr. Flores bellowed. “What can I help you with?”

“I have some questions for you.”

They migrated to a nearby table, waiting for an iguana to scurry away before settling down. “Let’s talk,” Dr. Flores said. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m interested in the Great Fire, and you’re the local expert,” Leo said. “Ever since you brought up the tragedy, I haven’t been able to shake it. I believe there’s something there.”

“It’s a dramatic tale of sabotage, loss, death, and destruction. Everything is there. We’re coming up on the 140th anniversary. The fire started over the night of March 30, my birthday of all days, and burned past dawn. It reduced the city to ashes, yet here we are, thriving, resisting hurricanes and floods, intact as a pearl.”

“Are you a poet, Dr. Flores?”

“Only in my spare time.”