2
Later, Jules would look back at the kitchen fire incident and wonder if it was a sign, a not-so-subtle warning that she could
never put down roots or have anything as precious as a home. She packed her bags, left her apartment in the capable hands
of a trusted contractor, and booked a suite at a nearby hotel where she lived her Nabokov fantasies. Lolita had funded a comfortable life at a grand Swiss hotel for the author and his wife. Jules couldn’t fault him, but her best
friend, Vicky, who had a shrewd business mind, absolutely could.
“Why not stay with me?” Vicky had insisted. “Neither one of us has Nabokov money.”
“Is that really true?” Jules asked, eyeing her friend who, at twenty-one, was handed a Nabokov-sized trust.
Eventually, Vicky got her way. After a couple weeks at the hotel, Jules moved into her guest bedroom.
Jules and Vicky had met in college, freshman year.
They forged an alliance and somehow kept it going through graduate school by getting into the same MFA program.
And yet they couldn’t be more different.
Victoria Paraíso was the rare native New Yorker, several generations over, and she was rich.
Her grandmother, the formidable Maria Paraíso, had made the family fortune.
Paraíso Cocina was a canned foods company focused on Puerto Rican cuisine, started in a low-rent commercial kitchen in Queens.
Decades later, it was snatched up by a food conglomerate for millions.
Victoria Paraíso with her wavy brown hair, sparkling brown eyes, NYC accent and attitude, and Puerto Rican pride, was a bone fide heiress.
Jules did not come from money. Her mother had never earned a dime above minimum wage, and Jules had lived most of her adult
life one notch above the poverty line. Remaining criminally underemployed allowed her to pick up and travel on a whim. What
was the point of being a freethinking artist if you weren’t free? One Christmas, Vicky’s parents urged her to “get a leg up”
on the property ladder, suggesting her mother would have wanted her to settle down. Clearly, that turned out not to be the
case.
None of that mattered now. There was nothing a little sunshine couldn’t fix.
Priority Boarding Flight AJ65 to Miami Florida.
Jules and Vicky stuffed their luggage in the overhead compartment and flopped into their seats. They were long overdue for
a girls’ trip, and the lecture series in a resort town had offered the perfect, tax-deductible, opportunity.
“This is going to be fun,” Vicky said.
“Great,” Jules said. “Because this is the only girls’ trip you’re getting out of me. Enjoy it!”
Kitchen renovations, even tiny ones, were pricey.
Vicky laughed an evil laugh. “We’ll destroy Duval Street!”
Jules was on board. “They’ll never invite us back.”
Vicky squealed. “I can’t wait to bake on a beach!”
“Key West isn’t known for its beaches, babes,” Jules said.
“Don’t care!” Vicky declared. “I’m not leaving Florida without tan lines.”
When Jules had first mentioned the lecture series to her friend, back in November, Vicky had offered her a puzzled look. “Why
does that sound familiar?”
With a few taps on her phone screen, she had the answer. The invitation was lingering in her inbox. “I thought this was spam!”
“Better RSVP!”
Jules had never signed up for anything faster. Usually, her writing took her to subdued, sedate locations. Having never been
there, she couldn’t pass up on Key West. Sharing the experience with Vicky would be a bonus. Jules wrote time-travel fantasy
novels. Vicky was the author of a bestselling vampire romance series. Her rabid fandom was named: The FANGS. Though their
books were shelved in the same section of most bookstores, they were seldom invited to the same book conferences or events.
With a few more taps on her phone, Vicky completed that task, and the unofficial girls’ trip was confirmed. Good thing, too,
because the year was off to a rough start. Jules also planned on returning with tan lines and a couple graphic tees, a hangover,
and hazy memories of nights out on Duval.
Vicky scrolled the website hunting for more information on the conference. She froze. “Oh, shit.”
“What is it?” Jules asked.
“This seminar is an NYU reunion show!”
It took Jules a second to understand, and a second more for a fuller picture to come to mind. They occupied two seats of the
three-seat row. That one empty seat, between them, was a stage set for drama. Knowing what they knew, they startled anyway
when they heard the familiar voice.
“Hello, ladies.”
Ayesha Eze Grant. Or Karma, coming to bite them in the ass.
She got settled in that middle seat. From the relative safety of her window seat, Jules took in the newcomer’s sharp profile.
Dark and radiant, hair smoothed into a low bun, not a wisp out of place, she looked amazing. It was good to see her again—until
she said, “This week is not going to be one long bar crawl, I hope.”
No “hello” or “how are you?” which wasn’t surprising the way they’d left things.
For one brief semester, Jules, Vicky, and Ayesha had shared an apartment in Greenwich Village. What should’ve been an easy, breezy living arrangement had quickly turned prickly.
Jules could barely recall the layout of that apartment. At the time she was juggling grad school, a couple of odd jobs, and,
it had to be said, actively grieving her mother. She had very little time or patience for Ayesha’s polite requests to keep
the bathroom tidy or the refrigerator in order. All reasonable requests, but at twenty Jules wasn’t a reasonable girl. As
for Vicky, who was only cosplaying as a broke grad student, who was accustomed to servants keeping bathrooms tidy and refrigerators
in order, and who sprang for quarterly cleaning services, the untidy apartment felt authentic to the college experience.
It lasted one semester. During winter break, Ayesha traveled to Nigeria for Christmas and never returned. In early January,
she sent a cousin to collect her things and turn in her keys. Ayesha had gone on to do impressive things. Her books laced
contemporary life with Nigerian myths. She’d won awards and was hailed as the “Face of Afro-futurism.” Now, sitting between
them, she was the face of smug satisfaction. Her barb had wounded them both, but only Vicky lashed back.
“What else is there to do in the Keys?” Vicky asked.
“Take in the culture,” Ayesha suggested. “I’m looking forward to touring Hemingway’s home and the San Carlos Institute. Check
the website. It’s all there.”
“Funny,” Vicky said. “When I checked the website, it said they were taking us snorkeling, on a ghost tour, and to Sloppy Joe’s,
Hemingway’s favorite bar.”
Jules had not checked the website, but she assumed the lecture series was an excuse to gather a handful of authors at the seaside location for a good old time under the guise of cultural exchange and intellectual discourse.
Wasn’t that always the case? Hadn’t they promised plenty of downtime?
She originally planned on skipping some of the outings to get work done.
Her editor was waiting on the revisions.
The final installment of her trilogy, The Century Game, had been delayed long enough.
Ayesha would no doubt mine every opportunity for cultural enrichment when she ought to scope
out the inn for an Adirondack chair, crack open a Corona, and chill the fuck out.
Ayesha moved on to her next mental bullet point: lodging. “Do you know the inn is a historic home? It was built in the 1800s
by a Bahamian master shipbuilder.”
“Do you know it’s haunted?” Vicky asked.
Ayesha narrowed her eyes at her. “No, it’s not!”
“Oh, yes, it is!” Vicky dangled her charm bracelet with an evil eye and various other talismans. “I hope you’re ready.”
Ayesha turned to Jules with pleading eyes. Jules wasn’t feeling merciful. “It’s haunted. Something about the shipbuilder’s
wife roaming the halls.”
The accommodation was the one element of the trip Jules had researched. Her taste for hotel living extended to her vacation stays. Built in 1882 by William Jacobsen, The Aurora Inn
on Caroline Street had columns, wood trim, a tower, and all the gingerbread details you could hope for. The brief history
alluded to its “haunted past,” which Jules had dismissed as a marketing ploy.
“It’s always the wife doing the haunting,” Vicky said grimly. “Guess men don’t pull their weight in the afterlife, either.”
“Lazy bastards,” Jules muttered.
“I’ll check into a Hyatt,” Ayesha said. “I won’t stay in a haunted house.”
“Even a historic one?” Jules asked.
Vicky burst with laughter and somehow, magically, the mood changed.
“When did you two become so . . . strange?” Ayesha asked.
“You have no idea,” Vicky replied.
The flight took off and once they’d reached cruising altitude, a flight attendant approached with complimentary champagne. It did not take long for her to reveal her true motivation.
“You’re Vicky Paraíso, right? I’m a FANG.”
Vicky was arguably the most recognizable of the three thanks to her thriving social media platforms. Jules caught the spark
of envy in Ayesha’s eyes and bit back a laugh. She might have won over the intellectual class, but had she tapped into the
voracious fans of spicy historical vampire romance? It was doubtful she ever would.
Ever ready for a chance encounter with a reader, Vicky produced an ARC of her next release, Dreadful Love. She signed it with an airline-branded pen.
Ayesha gathered herself and, champagne glass in hand, got back to business. “How are you guys on your talks? Ready?”
The theme was “Origin Stories.” They were asked to discuss the authors and events that shaped their writing.
“I picked Mary Shelley,” Vicky said in a distracted tone. “I can talk about Frankenstein’s monster in my sleep. In fact, I do. Ask anyone.”
“How about you, Jules?” Ayesha asked.
Jules shrugged. “I whipped something up on Octavia Butler.”
Ayesha frowned. “There’ll be some big names there. You ladies better bring your A game.”
“I don’t think the Florida Keys is the place to bring your A or B game,” Jules said with a stifled yawn.
“Exactly,” Vicky said. “Don’t tell anyone, but we only signed up for the perks. We’re on a girls’ trip.”
“Fine.” Ayesha shrugged. “Make drunken fools of yourselves. Let L.J. White outshine you in the Sunshine State.”
“L.J. White won’t be there,” Vicky said flatly.
Then she held up her phone to show them the photo of the guy she was dating.
He was an investment banker with brown hair, blue eyes, straight teeth, and good breeding.
His name was Brandon Morison, but Vicky called him “Big Money.” In the selfie pic, he hugged Vicky’s pet cat to his bare chest, and the poor thing wasn’t having it.
Ayesha gasped. “Gorgeous!”
“Thanks!” Vicky said brightly. “His name is Kit Kat. I rescued him last winter.”
Ayesha rummaged through the bag on her lap for a tube of lip gloss. “I meant the man in the photo, not the cat.”
“Oh! Big Money? He’s cat sitting for the weekend.”
Ayesha wasted no time reading more into the photo than what it was, a thirst trap with a feline prop. “I love a dependable
man.”
Jules snapped her fingers to cut through the noise. “What’s this about L.J. White?”
“Don’t you ladies keep up with the events that you sign up for?”
“That’s what I was doing before you showed up,” Vicky answered.
“L.J. White is the keynote speaker.”
“Wrong. That would be old Gregory Fox,” Vicky said, back to scrolling photos.
Ayesha reached for her phone and read from an open browser. “‘Gregory Fox sends his regrets. Due to unforeseen circumstances,
he is unable to attend this year’s seminar. In his place, bestselling author L.J. White will deliver the keynote closing address.
We couldn’t be more thrilled to welcome this exceptional author.’”
“Hey now,” Vicky said. “Things just got interesting.”
Jules asked for the phone to see for herself.
Next to the short paragraph Ayesha had just read was a headshot, the same as featured on the back covers of his more recent books, the one that somehow didn’t do him justice.
It was all there—the pale complexion, the dark hair, the clever brown eyes, the half smile that softened the square jaw—but no photo she’d ever seen had captured his arresting good looks.
In the more mature face staring back at her, Jules searched for traces of the younger man she’d met in a back alley years ago. It was all there, but it wasn’t.
“Have you met him?” Vicky asked no one in particular. “He’s a sweetheart.”
“Oh, yes,” Ayesha answered. “We met on a panel some years ago. A dear friend.” She then pivoted to the topic that interested
her most. “Is it serious with Big Money?”
Vicky let out a dry laugh. “Don’t call him that! It sounds all wrong when you say it.”
“Well, what’s his real name?” Ayesha asked.
Vicky waved away the question. “It doesn’t matter, because it’s not serious.”
“He’s taking care of your pet while you’re away. Maybe it is,” Ayesha said. “You could have asked your mother to take the
cat.”
“You think Barbara would take time out from whatever she’s got going on to make sure Kit Kat takes his medicine?” Vicky asked.
“Be so for real.”
“I don’t know Barbara well enough to say,” Ayesha retorted. “That is, I don’t know Barbara at all.”
They went on like this, talking in circles, while a spark lit in the back of Jules’s mind and brought her back to one chilly
September night, ten years ago, under a full moon.
Light?
Of course.