4
They landed in Miami and still had to travel the airport in search of the car rental kiosk, having opted to drive to Key West.
The midsize sedan the literary society had reserved on their behalf didn’t appeal to Ayesha. Jules and Vicky left the task
of fighting for an upgrade to her.
“We should stop at a beach along the way,” Vicky said. “Islamorada, maybe?”
“Have you cleared it with Ayesha?” Jules asked, retreating into the warmth of a hoodie. The airport was freezing.
Vicky looked around to make sure Ayesha wasn’t within earshot. “Is it me or is she uptight? Way more uptight than before?
As if she doesn’t know how to have fun.”
“Definitely,” Jules said. “But if she’s used to traveling with her family, taking charge, managing the kids, she likely can’t
switch it off.”
“How do we get her back to factory settings?” Vicky wondered. “I left my real mom at home. I don’t want a travel mom.” Right
away, Vicky caught herself and apologized. “Sorry! That was insensitive.”
“It wasn’t,” Jules assured her. “I don’t want a travel mom, either.”
Vicky tugged on the ties of her hoodie. “Are you okay?”
“Just cold.”
“You look glum,” she said. “Don’t get into one of your moods.”
“What moods?”
Vicky narrowed her eyes at her. Don’t make me say it!
It had a clinical name: persistent depressive disorder. Jules had gone to therapy, taken medication. Last year, she put an
end to all that. Now she reconsidered her decision to drop those therapeutic options. The last few weeks had been unsettling.
She was feeling a bit . . . untethered.
“I’m tired. That’s all.”
“Why didn’t you sleep on the plane? You spent the whole flight working. Don’t let a deadline push you over the edge. You can
ask for an extension, you know.”
“That’s not it,” Jules said.
She’d spent the flight revising a lecture that no one in their right mind would pay attention to, not on a warm spring evening
in a city full of options, all because he would be there.
“Whatever it is, snap out of it,” Vicky said. “Repeat after me. We’re here to have fun.”
Jules dutifully repeated the mantra but did not believe a word. Her enthusiasm was waning.
Ayesha returned with a sleek key fob, triumphant. “I got an SUV! Way more comfortable and safer, too. You’ll thank me when
we arrive rested and in one piece.”
“I intend to arrive with a sunburn and a slight buzz,” Vicky informed her. “But good job, though.”
“What do you mean?” Ayesha said. “We’re not stopping along the way. Don’t forget the garden party at six.”
“Toss me the key,” Jules said. “I’ll drive.”
“And we’re stopping at a beach,” Vicky announced. “Islamorada.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry,” Vicky said. “We’ve got plenty of time. It’s only noon.”
Slightly panicked, Ayesha turned to Jules for backup.
“We’re taking a beach break,” Jules said flatly. “Let’s go.”
Leaving the airport was the equivalent of stepping out of a freezer and straight into a furnace. Jules tore off the hoodie.
They found the SUV at a lot and climbed in. Vicky set the satellite navigation to the address of a state park, and they were
on their way. The beach break could only do them good, Jules reasoned. Ayesha had to loosen up, Vicky deserved a beach break,
and Jules had to snap out of her mood.
The beach detour restored them. They’d changed into bathing suits and waded into the water. The waves smacked them around
in the best way possible. Jules felt the tension of the last few weeks dissolve into sea salt. Floating like a starfish, she
stared up at the faultless blue sky and wondered what the hell she was so stressed about. What was a damaged kitchen in the
grand scheme of things? The world was on fire. If anything, this trip was a much-needed mental health break. They would make
the most of it. They’d do all the things required of them and then make their way to Duval, hit one bar after another, stay
out late, sleep off their hangovers, fill up on whatever breakfast was on offer at the inn, and start over until it was time
to go home. When she returned to the city, fingers crossed, her apartment would be close to habitable again. She’d move back
in and attempt setting roots once more.
Their spirits were high when they climbed back into the SUV and hit the road. They sailed along the oversees highway, bridge
after bridge, No Name Key, Big Pine Key, Little Torch Key, and so forth, one bait shop, one dive shop, one motel after another,
the windows down and the sea breeze teasing their hair. Jules snuffed out the memory of L.J. White and watched as the imaginary
smoke rose and curled and dissipated into thin air.
They arrived in Key West when there was no more road to travel, Mile Marker Zero. Ayesha needn’t have worried. There was plenty
of time to spare. By six they’d be garden party ready.
When they pulled up to The Aurora Inn, Jules verified the address, despite the lawn sign that read: Welcome Authors!
Key West Loves the Arts. Ayesha pulled out the postcard they were sent and compared the property to the rendering.
With a crinkle between her thin brows, she said, “Not what I expected.”
Jules killed the engine. The Aurora lived up to its hype. Though she couldn’t put her finger on it, there was something off about the property. On the postcard the historic house gleamed. Before them, it retreated into the shadows. Its windows stared
out blankly at the busy streets.
“Definitely haunted,” Vicky said grimly.
“Suddenly the Hilton doesn’t look so bad, right?” Ayesha asked.
They couldn’t leave if they wanted. Daphne Narcisse was at the gate, ready to greet them. An attendant had their luggage out
of the trunk in no time. They were welcomed like royalty, offered champagne. Next minute they were ushered into the lobby.
Daphne showed them an oil painting of the shipbuilder, and a miniature portrait of his wife kept under lock and key. She reassured
them that the inn wasn’t haunted. “I’m the biggest scaredy-cat,” she said. “I wouldn’t be staying here if it was.”
From the pergola Jules, Vicky, and Ayesha, in their garden party finest, assessed the other guests with a clinical eye. Fifty
or so members of the literary society had gathered to welcome them. They wore tropical colors and warm smiles. Jules found
their lightness and ease intimidating.
“Richard Carlisle’s flight is delayed,” Ayesha informed them. “It’s unsure when he’ll arrive.”
“Let’s hope it’s delayed indefinitely,” Vicky said. “I hear he’s an ass.”
Ayesha scanned the crowd. “He isn’t here, either.”
Jules knew exactly who she was talking about. “Maybe he’s not coming.”
“He’s the keynote speaker,” Ayesha said. “That would be rude.”
Jules shrugged. “Maybe he’s rude.”
Before Ayesha could protest, Daphne gestured to her and off she went.
Vicky pointed out Mathis Taylor. A handsome man, he stood a head taller than the small group of admirers he was chatting with.
“What do you make of him?” Vicky asked.
“He’s alright.”
The raven-haired Englishman now called New England his home. Lean and limber, he had the look of an urban athlete who rose
at dawn to run five miles before clocking in at work. His author bio confirmed he ran marathons. His greatest dream was to
conquer Boston.
“I meant as a writer,” Vicky said. “Have you read him?”
“I have,” she answered. “He’s good.”
Hide Your Daughters was his most successful novel. Set in the mist-covered landscape of the English countryside, a population lived in fear of
a strange beast who claimed first-born girls. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s hot.”
“I thought we were talking about his work,” Jules said wryly.
“It’s all one piping hot bundle.”
Mathis must’ve felt the weight of their stares, because he looked up and fixed them with his gray eyes, a gaze as sharp and
assessing as their own.
“Yeah,” Jules said. “I see it now.”
She took a sip of her drink. If they’d hoped to be welcomed in the style of Hemingway, with daiquiris and mojitos, they were disappointed.
The theme of the evening was Classic Horror.
The bartender was dressed as Frankenstein’s monster, green face paint and all, and the waiters donned their Party City finest. The cocktails were ghoulish in nature.
Vicky clutched a Headless Horseman and, by the looks of it—a swish of neon green—Mathis was polishing off an Exorcist. It was all very creepy and off-putting, but they’d signed up for this.
Besides, Jules’s zombie—a Cuban rum, apricot, and grenadine concoction—wasn’t bad.
The hot author who ultimately made his way across the lawn to join them at the pergola wasn’t Mathis Taylor but Sebastien
Smith, the author/illustrator of a popular Scooby-Doo-mystery-type series set in his native Los Angeles. In the series the
ghosts were real, and the meddling kids cruised around town in a lowrider instead of a trippy van. However, independently
and under the pen name SMITH, he published immaculately drawn monster erotica. Before joining them, he grabbed a devil’s tail
off a shabby Dracula’s tray.
“Ladies,” he said. “What do I have to do to join your clique? The boys will buddy up, and I’ll be the odd one out.”
Queer, Black, tall, and handsome, he had the soulful eyes and the able hands of a true artist.
“There’s no entry fee,” Vicky assured him. “We’re down one member, anyway. We lost Ayesha to Daphne Narcisse.”
Ayesha and the creative director had hit it off instantly. Short of staff and overwhelmed, Daphne found in Ayesha a fellow
planner, a lover of to-do lists and tasks, and an eager volunteer.
“Good,” he said, relieved.
“You may not remember but we met at the Festival of Books,” Vicky said. “A group went out for tacos. It was a while back.”
“I remember,” Sebastien said with a flash of that dazzling smile. “I wasn’t sure you did.”
“Are you joking? Those tacos are a core memory of mine.” Vicky rested a hand on Jules’s arm. “This is Jules. Say hi, Jules.”
“Hi. Love your work.” That was all she managed to say. The late-day breeze carried the faintest whisper. Hadn’t anyone heard it?
“Same here,” he said. “That goes for the both of you.”