Page 92 of Old Flames

“We checked out yesterday. That place is too spooky for us.”

“How can you stay there?” the woman asked. “It’s like the sun never shines over that old house.”

Leo repeated his standard answer. “I like it.”

“You look like you would,” the man said boldly.

The woman turned to July. “So happy that you have a friend! Each morning, we see you at breakfast, looking so isolated.”

Unsettled by this characterization, Leo jumped to provide context. He introduced her as a fellow author, a bestselling one at that, who needed to isolate to focus on her work. The couple didn’t seem to buy it.

“It’s okay,” July said when they were gone. “They’re not wrong. I was feeling lonely and isolated at breakfast.”

“Even though I sent you flowers?” he asked.

She shrugged. “The flowers only made me miss your company.”

Leo loved that she never masked her feelings to protect her pride. “In that case, why did you stay away so long?”

Her answer surprised and scared him. “To prove to myself that I could.”

A table opened on the terrace. Emily had joined them in time to order a grilled cheese combo and a Diet Coke. She drew a large notebook covered in stickers from her tote bag, going on about how happy she was that she hadn’t called in sick to nurse a hangover like she and her boyfriend had initially planned on doing.

“This is a pinch me moment,” she said. “I get to share my notes with two of my favorite authors!”

“You’re doing us a favor,” July assured her. “Thanks for letting us pick your brain.”

“Happy to share!”

Between sips of soda, Emily set the scene: Key West in the mid-1880s, a thriving port city. “It happened so fast. Aurora Martinez marries Jacobsen in January 1886. She dies before the first heat wave of the summer.”

“Let’s start at the beginning,” July said.

A pattern established itself. She would lead the interviews, asking questions only for clarification, never breaking the speaker’s flow. Leo would take notes in his usual way, adding sketches to illustrate his thoughts.

“Jacobsen commissions his young bride’s portrait,” Emily said. “That’s how word got out that she was practically trapped in that house and depressed. The artist was the town gossip. He led a salon and shared what he observed at each visit. It was no secret that she was unhappy. The big secret was that she was heartbroken, too.”

“How do we know this?” July asked.

“We don’t.” Emily paused to take a bite of her sandwich. “There are no hard facts here. It’s all speculation.”

“Gotcha.”

“They never met. He was hanging around the block, and she caught sight of him. They might’ve locked eyes. Keep in mind, she’s a teenager trapped in a mansion. She has too much time on her hands.”

“What’s his name?” July asked.

“Luis,” Emily replied. “He was hot. All the girls wanted him and—”

Leo interrupted her. “Are you sure? I heard it was Leopold or Leonard.”

“De Leon,” Emily said. “They’ve pinned this story on Luis De Leon, a nineteen-year-old cigar factory worker.”

“Ah.” Leo jotted down the young man’s name, grateful that it was different enough from his own.

“You’ve heard this story before,” Emily observed, disappointed.

“Not like you tell it,” Leo said.