Page 98 of Old Flames

“Unless she was exceptional, this young woman ended up in an unmarked grave in the colored section of the cemetery. That’s how it was back then, segregated even in death. For example, everyone accepts that seven people died the night of the Great Fire, which would be around the time you’re asking about. But no one cares about the deaths that occurred quietly, in the weeks and even months that followed, people who died later of smoke inhalation, burns, or other injuries. Only the wealthy or well-known citizens are ever recorded in history. Everyone else is erased. If Jacobsen was an orderly person, he’d have kept a ledger.”

A manager arrived with a chilled magnum of champagne. “Tonight we celebrate a beloved patron of the house!” he announced. “¡Feliz Cumpleaños!”

A waiter handed Leo a glass. It would have been rude to turn it down and not toast the man of the hour. The sparkling liquid twinkled in the fairy lights. He clinked his glass to the others and took it down like water. When the band started again, a woman grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor. What a waste of a warm tropical night if he didn’t dance under the stars with a stranger and shrug off the hardships of the day, forget the questions that nagged him, his ill-timed, ill-conceived marriage proposal, the fear of losing the woman he loved, and the foolish hope that she would fill his hollow soul. What the fuck was he thinking?

The band hit its stride with a cover of a Marc Anthony song, sending an electric current through the dance floor. One glass of champagne chased with whiskey. One dance led to another. Midnight faded into the early hours of a new day. Dr. Flores exclaimed it was the best night of his life. Last call, last set, and the party was over. A group of young people splintered away from the rest and planned an afterparty. They debated whether to explore a new bar in Old Town or a familiar spot nearby. But Leo, who’d lost his taste for alcohol or adventure, was done. He didn’t care what the night might bring or where it might take them. He only wanted to return to the inn and check on July. Was it too late for that? Two o’clock. She was sleeping off a migraine. He should leave her alone.

Leo thanked his host, said his goodbyes, and walked back the way he’d come.

33

July leaned against the shut door and listened as Leo’s footsteps receded. She was exhausted and discouraged, but she hadn’t lost hope. It was the night of the fire, after all, and something would be revealed. He’s been waiting three lifetimes. One hundred and forty years would equal three lifetimes, give or take a decade, considering the life expectancy of that era.

She sank to the floor as if gravity was pulling her to the center of the earth. Jules had only felt this drained, this sapped of energy, once before: the evening of the garden party. The mistake she’d made then was to go through it alone. Knowing better, she reached for her phone.

Vicky answered on the first ring. “I’ve been waiting all day. Are you any closer to figuring out who wrote the message?”

“No.” They weren’t even close. Every avenue led them deeper into a maze. “We’ve learned some interesting details.”

“Tell me everything.”

Jules shut her eyes to focus. Speaking quietly, she told her about the ever-shifting love triangle that placed Aurora at odds with a rival. “Aurora wasn’t the only heartbroken woman in this house. There was someone else, and they both loved the same man, Luis De Leon.”

“How do you know?” Vicky asked before withdrawing the question. “You know what? Forget it. Go on.”

“She lived here as a housemaid. No one knows her name, but she was roughly Aurora’s age, a year or two older, maybe, and very pretty. Before you ask how I know, there’s a photo at the library.”

“A photo?” Vicky cried. “We spent our free time drinking on Duval when we could have been at the library doing research?”

“Well, yes.”

“Great.”

Jules described the photograph of the Jacobsen house before its modern-day inn glow-up, and the young woman on the sidewalk. “It could be anyone, but I know it was her. She and De Leon were involved. That’s how Aurora came to notice him in the first place. He was prowling around the house, just not for her. Aurora had no idea. When he fled Key West after the fire, he abandoned both women.”

“Let’s see if I got this straight.” Vicky went on to summarize the facts. “Aurora had a crush on the housemaid’s man. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“A fire rips through the town, he’s out of a job, and skips out on his girl.”

“Correct, but both girls are devastated,” Jules said. “One commits suicide and the other is forgotten, never mentioned again.”

“This is messy.”

“De Leon must have left the message in Leo’s notebook,” Jules said. “Spanish was his native language. He’s been waiting three lifetimes to be reunited with a lost love. But who? Aurora or the other girl? Vicky, you’re the sharpest person I know. What do you make of all this?”

“Give me a minute.” Vicky took a moment to retrieve her dinner delivery. She returned with an answer. “That’s Aurora’s house, and she knew exactly what was going on. She might’ve been in the dark for a bit, but once she sorted it out, she made a choice. Think of it this way. She and the other girl were about the same age. They shared a home. They loved the same man, but they had a common enemy in Jacobsen. If they were smart, and I know they were, they would’ve forged an alliance. Sounds like Aurora barely knew this guy, anyway. Would she have traded a trusted friend for a pretty face? I wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t, either.”

What was true for Aurora and her ally applied to them as well. Jules would never trade anyone for Vicky and thankfully she didn’t have to. Their alliance would hold until the end, when they would rejoin on the other side.

“Remember when Ayesha said that your room was likely the former servants’ quarters?” Vicky asked.

Jules sat upright and looked around. Those soothing blue walls . . . ocean blue . . . Key West blue . . . that all too common blue of today . . . haint blue . . . “This is her room.”

“I think so,” Vicky mumbled. She was struggling to open a container, cursing under her breath. “This . . . fucking . . . thing . . .”