Page 9 of Old Flames

“San Francisco.”

Leo had spent the past five years in England, where he published two novels and broke off an engagement. When he returned stateside, he bought a Mustang and hit the road, living a teenage fantasy, Sal Paradise but single and sober, which made things . . . interesting. But if he were going to think clearly, see clearly, be clear with himself, for once, he had to turn down the Corona and lime.

“I could never,” she said. “I hate road trips. Where are you headed after this?”

“Charleston . . . to stay with friends.”

“I love Charleston,” she said with a sigh. “Those tree-lined streets, grand homes . . . a dream!”

“My friend inherited one,” he said. “It’s haunted.”

Daphne rolled her eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. “As is this mansion,” she said, referring to the inn. “You won’t be missing out on any paranormal activity.”

She put paranormal in air quotes, which didn’t surprise him. Daphne was a Haitian American short story writer. Though her home country’s mythology was steeped in magic and mysticism, she had no use for it. Her stories dealt with the horrific conditions Haitian migrants often face. Leo was too much of an opportunist to let a plot device go to waste. He was hooked the moment he received his friend’s postcard with a message jotted in blotched ink: Set your next book here! Spooks are loose!

He stepped back to consider the alleged eeriness before him. Squinting from the sun, he took in the mansion in all its glory. Painted antique blue offset with white trim, the stacked balconies led up to a steeply pitched roof. A tower was tacked onto the main frame for no conceivable reason except for show. At the time of its construction, it must have been the crown jewel of the block. Today, though, repainted, polished, and updated in various ways, it had a tragic air. It looked down at its surroundings with disapproval. Its neighbors were in the same line of business. The property on its right advertised free in-room Wi-Fi. Its rival on the corner, for adults only, had no vacancy.

A porter took Leo’s suitcase, but he held on to his computer bag. Daphne offered him a tour of the property. “We booked all the rooms. We have the place to ourselves!”

Leo wasn’t in the mood. He was hot, sweaty, in need of a shower and a shave. He hadn’t even started on the keynote address. If he didn’t get to it, he’d end up delivering a version of the commencement speech he delivered last year at his alma mater.

“I’ll make it quick,” she promised.

The tour started in the sitting room off the lobby among ceiling fans and ferns. Daphne led him to an oil painting of a man with an expression so stern nothing could soften it, not even his cottony beard.

“Who’s this jolly old man?” Leo asked.

“I’ll tell you in a sec.”

Below the painting was a display case. Daphne opened it with a key retrieved at the front desk. The mementos on display likely belonged to the Father Time in the painting, each item bronzed with age. There was an embroidered handkerchief, a Bible, a cravat pin, a portrait locket, a compass, and a pocket watch.

With a nod to Father Time, Daphne said, “That’s William Jacobsen, master shipbuilder.” She removed the portrait locket from the case and showed him the sepia-toned photograph of a smiling young woman with golden hair. “This is his third wife. He was widowed three times.”

“You’d think the man could take a hint,” Leo said.

Daphne reached for the Bible, flipped it open to a page with a handwritten record of births and deaths:

William Jacobsen, 1821–1887

Aurora Jacobsen, née Martinez, 1870–1886

The list went on with other family events, pale blue ink on yellowed paper, but only one detail leaped out at Leo. “That’s an age gap.”

Daphne nodded.

“And they died one year apart?”

“Less than a year, really. She took her own life.”

“Hence the haunting.”

“Hence indeed. They say this house was a gilded cage, and to this day she can’t break free. If you believe in all that stuff.”

Daphne carefully put the items away and returned the key to management. Leo shook off his fatigue, got his bearings. He did believe in all that stuff, which meant that he was in the right place. Alright, Aurora. Give me what you got.

“Now comes the good part,” Daphne said. “Your room.”

His suite of rooms was a more accurate description.