11
For the day’s field trip, Daphne surprised them with a caravan of mini golf carts. They were a more subdued and self-reflective
group, but the sight of the colorful carts and the ensuing battle to determine who would buddy up and, more importantly, who
would drive, brought back the sense of play they lost after the previous night’s hurly-burly.
Daphne addressed them in the lobby. “I spoke to Carlisle’s sister. He was transported safely back to Tennessee. The hospital
is running tests, but he’ll soon be sent home to recuperate. Though we’re down one man, it won’t change things . . . not too
much, anyway. We’ve invited a local content creator to pay tribute to our friend this evening.”
They agreed it was a thoughtful touch. As Vicky put it: “He was a dick, but he didn’t deserve to go out like that.”
“Jules,” Daphne said, “we’re moving you to Sunday, if you don’t mind.”
Jules shrugged a bare shoulder. “I’m cool with it.”
As for Leo, he was cool with sharing a golf cart with Jules with the caveat that he let her drive. Only a fool would refuse.
They were off to the home Hemingway had shared with his second wife, Pauline Pfeiffer. They hit the road in one long caravan.
Behind the wheel, Jules’s cool demeanor slipped. “Could we forget last night’s kiss?” she asked.
Leo played the question a few times in his mind before replying. “Give me one reason.”
She gave three. “It’s been a weird couple of days. I’m not in my right mind. And shit happens on Duval Street. So let’s forget it. Cool?”
“No.” He slipped on his sunglasses. “Not remotely cool.”
Forget? How could he? The scene played on loop in his mind. There was no off switch. “The kiss” was the prize at the bottom
of a cereal box, the trophy at the end of the race. He’d bit and tasted her, held her to him, felt her softness. She’d dug
her fingers into his shoulders, clung to him. And if they weren’t on a busy sidewalk, he would’ve liked to slip off her top
to feel the silk of her skin.
Forget it? She could if she liked, but his memories were his own.
“It was just one kiss. Let it go!”
Her flippant tone was forced.
“I refuse,” he said coolly. “The memory of that kiss will sustain me for the rest of my life. Nothing short of a lobotomy
will make me forget.”
At the traffic light, she scoffed. “Do what you like, but we won’t talk about it anymore.”
“Why? Was it so terrible?”
An icy glance. “No.”
“I know it! I was an eager participant,” Leo said. “It was fucking great.”
“Are you done?”
“Not yet. What do you mean you’re not in your right mind?”
She looked at him. Had she said that?
“This is because of the ghost tour,” Leo concluded. “It rattled you.”
“I don’t want to talk about that tour anymore.”
“Is this what you came to my room to tell me last night?” he pressed. “Because I don’t think it is.”
Of all the parlors in the inn, the one in his suite had become the hangout spot. When she arrived at his door, flustered, he’d wished he could send the others away. Why hadn’t he taken her someplace quiet to talk? If he had, they might not be having this conversation now.
“How do you know I didn’t come to join the canceled séance?” she asked.
Leo tried to control his smile. “I just do.”
She didn’t answer. The light turned green. Hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, she swerved his questions. But he wouldn’t
let her get away.
The night they met, all those years ago, Leo made the mistake of letting her walk out of his life. They say when you know,
you know. He’d felt that spark between them. He knew, and he should’ve asked her out, or at least asked for her name and number.
Alternatively, he should’ve waited for her to end her shift and offered to take her home by cab, by foot, or horse and buggy—whatever
means. He should’ve done something. Instead, he let her walk away. He spent that evening with some of his fellow honorees. After the dinner, they celebrated
at a nearby bar. Some left early. Some stayed late, got drunk. He was part of that second group. Then he showed up at his
parents’ home in the middle of the night to boast, and it was the last time he was welcomed there. That wasn’t the point of
this. The point was he’d learned his lesson. But pressuring her wasn’t the answer. His strongest, most tactical move was to
give her exactly what she asked of him.
At the public parking lot, she cut the engine and spent an unusually long time rummaging in her small leather bag only to
come up empty-handed. “Look,” she said, “I might’ve had something to tell you last night, but I forgot. It was late. I was
tired. Okay?”
“Okay.” Leo swung out of the cart and went around to give her a hand, which she begrudgingly accepted. “I’ll forget if you
want me to,” he said. “And I won’t ever bring it up.”
She froze, her hand in his, and when she faced him, her eyes were glassy with uncertainty.
“JULES AND LEO! LET’S GO!”
Daphne, again.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s not make Daphne’s job more difficult than it is.”
The Hemingway property was bordered by a stone wall to protect its privacy. Every day, hundreds paid the entry fee to invade
said privacy, roam the gardens and wander through the house. They snapped photos and admired the delicate wrought iron balconies,
the elegant crystal chandeliers, and the furniture and artifacts preserved from the time the famous author occupied the rooms.
The tour started in the living room where they were introduced to Babe Ruth, a dark six-toed cat who might or might not be
a descendant of Snow White, the original six-toed cat that was gifted to Hemingway. Leo wasn’t paying too close attention.
Jules hadn’t left his side. Babe Ruth, on the other hand, raised his sleepy head off the seat of the antique chair, twitched
his ears, and, as they approached, slunk away.
“That’s unusual,” their guide said. “These cats aren’t bothered by visitors. They ignore everyone and keep on napping.”
He went on to regale them with tales of Hemingway’s wars and marriages. The man couldn’t sit still, stay put, or commit to
any one person. He chased the high. He strayed, returned. This home held the remnants of a marriage that was doomed to fail.
The guide gave them an overview of the couple’s glamorously laid-back life right up to the bitter end.
Leo followed Jules up the steep and narrow stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor.
“Let’s pool our resources and buy this house,” he said. “It’s big enough to share.”
“Ha!” she laughed. “Do I look like I’m made of money?”
“You’ll make some,” he said. “Your books are exceptional.”
“You’re only saying that because—”
“No.” Leo had to stop her right there on the landing. “Whatever you’re about to say is false. I love your books. You should
know that.”
It was a tepid confession considering how he truly felt about her writing. From the day he purchased that first volume at
the East Village bookstore, he was devoted to her work with the passion most people reserved for collecting rare and precious
objects. Special editions lived on his bedside table. He read the ebooks on trains and listened to the audio on long walks
at night. Naturally, he had opinions. He didn’t love the ending of the first novel or the rushed death of an important character
in the second installment. It didn’t change the way he felt. If anything, his criticism stemmed from his devotion. He was
a fan, and he hated that he might’ve said or done something to make her think otherwise.
She ran a fingertip along the glass case holding one of Hemingway’s beloved typewriters. “Great. Now I’ve got to pretend to
love your books, too.”
“You better. My ego can’t take it.”
The linked rooms were warm, but worth it for a glimpse of the narrow bed Hemingway shared with his wife, the books and sculptures
on display, and the large painting that featured the fuzzy white cat that had started the six-toed cat franchise. It was an
artist’s home, though Pauline Pfeiffer had retained ownership after the divorce, which was only fair. The property was a gift
from her wealthy uncle. Leo was reminded of that chilly day in October when Francesca had politely invited him to vacate her
exquisite London flat. He and Hemingway likely shared that same dread, paradise lost. But he’d learned his lesson. If you
wanted something, you had to get it for yourself.
Back in the yard, Vicky called out to Jules. “Come see this gorgeous fur baby!”
Jules left him with an apology. “She’s crazy about cats.”
Her reluctance to leave him was obvious and that alone did away with Leo’s dark thoughts: Hemingway, Francesca’s flat, his lingering sense of displacement, and paradise lost.
He wasn’t alone for long. Matty gripped his elbow and steered him in the opposite direction. “Walk with me. I need advice.”
They wandered to the pool’s edge, the very pool that had cost the author his “last red cent.” The water’s hard flat surface
mirrored the sky.
“Hemingway is the blueprint,” Matty said. “He had life figured out. What the fuck am I doing in Massachusetts?”
“Teaching at Boston College,” Leo reminded him.
“Right. That bit.”
“Is that why you dragged me out here? You want to quit and move?”
“If I could afford it,” he said. “But I can’t—at least, not yet.”
“What’s the plan? I’m up for a heist.”
“You’re a good man,” Matty said. “But it won’t come to that. My agent reached out with an offer of the sort that if handled
right could change things for me.”
“I’m listening.”
He’d received an offer from a Disney rival to write companion books for future film releases. In the series, an American teen
is sent to a British boarding school, the sort where things go bump in the night. It had all the makings of a hit series,
which would get him out of the red.
“What do you need my advice for?” Leo said. “Sounds like gold.”
Matty looked uneasy. “Fool’s gold?”
“Why?”
“I’d be selling out.”
“For a solid price.”
Leo was no purist. He wasn’t against selling out. He’d written articles and consulted on projects he had slim to no interest in for a paycheck. However, there was a limit. “If it’s torture, don’t do it.”
Matty kicked a pebble. “It’s not torture.”
“Then sign the contract.”
“I’ll give it a think . . .”
“Sleep on it,” Leo advised.
“I can’t sleep at that drafty inn,” Matty said with a groan. “But enough of that. How are things with Jules? It’s safe to
say she doesn’t hate you anymore. I’ve been trying to speak with you all morning. You two are glued together, peas in a pod.
And she doesn’t look so . . . tormented anymore. Not when she’s with you, anyway.”
Tormented . . . that was it. Something was tormenting her, and not the momentary freak-out from the ghost tour—something ongoing,
unresolved. He had to find out. I’m not in my right mind. Forget the kiss. Well, no, never, but his focus had shifted.