14 #2
Jules laughed off the question because, as Leo had astutely pointed out, she hid things from her closest friend to make their
friendship possible.
Had the novelty of Duval Street died down? At a quarter past eleven, they were ready to call it a night. All they wanted was
to return to The Aurora, their cozy rooms, and their rituals. Jules was eager to head back, but for other reasons. When would
be the best time to return to the garden? she wondered. Midnight? Two in the morning? Three? She was eager to meet her mother’s
spiritual counterpart. That was how she had come to think of it. The apparition was not the flesh and blood person who’d loved
her and raised her to be brave, independent, and strong. At best, it was a representative or go-between. She was not “Mom”
but “Ruby.” Approaching it in this way helped her to manage her expectations. Ruby’s cold and curious stare wouldn’t sting
as much.
They settled their tab, stumbled out onto the sidewalk, and advanced into the night like a sweaty pack of roaming wolves.
As the night before, the moon glowed in a tranquil indigo sky, indifferent to their laughter and chatter, to the noise of
late-night traffic, car stereos blasting country music or reggaeton. Jules glanced over her shoulder. He was two steps behind—his
lone silhouette striking in the moonlight. She stalled and waited for him to catch up. They continued, together.
At The Aurora, Sebastien was visited by a ghost of his own.
Waiting on the porch was a striking Black man with a cascade of Basquiat-style braids.
He was slumped on a peacock chaise. Sebastien spotted him from well across the street.
He gasped and rushed ahead. It was his fiancé, Alexandre Montclair.
Sebastien confronted him. “What are you doing here?”
The ghost lifted a tortured face. “I haven’t heard from you in days.”
“What are you talking about? We spoke yesterday.”
“No, we didn’t!”
“Well . . .” Sebastien grappled for an excuse. “I’m at a conference! I’m busy! For you to fly down here . . . it’s only been
two days.”
A couple of days? Was that all? It felt like an eternity to Jules. This house, this city, this island was sapping her of something
vital, leaving her disoriented.
Alex pointed an accusing finger at Sebastien. “Barhopping, rolling in past midnight, that’s your conference?”
He immediately lost the group’s sympathy. How dare he, an outsider, intrude like this?
“It’s called bonding!” Sebastien cried, exasperated. “Team building!”
“I bet,” Alex hurled back. “You’ve turned down public appearances in New Haven and Rhode Island this year, but Key West is what you go for?”
Vicky, mouth agape, sought out Jules to confirm what they both knew. Key West was a gay man’s playground. Every pride flag
in the city promised fun in the sun. Alex did not trust his hot man on the loose on these hot streets.
Sebastien faced the group and tried to drum up support. “Vicky, Jules, tell him I’ve spent all my time with you guys.”
Vicky, irked at being called in as a character witness, retorted, “I’m not telling him shit! You’re not on trial.”
Sebastien took a moment to process this. “That’s right,” he said, finally. “I’m not on trial here. Showing up like this, demanding answers . . . you’re in the wrong. I silenced my phone because you call every hour! I need a break!”
Leo was standing by the fountain, watching the scene playing out on the porch like a community theater production. Jules drifted
toward him without ever deciding to. He reached for her, a hand to her waist, and drew her close enough to whisper in her
ear, “This won’t end well.”
It wasn’t going to end anytime soon, either. Jules watched, despairing, as Sebastien dragged Alexandre off the porch and along
the stone path leading to the garden, removing themselves from the public forum. She checked the time. It was 12:10 a.m.
They entered the lobby and regrouped.
“Is it too late for a séance?” Vicky asked.
She can’t be serious, Jules thought. What she wanted, most likely, was for them to gather upstairs and perform a postmortem autopsy on Sebastien
and Alexandre. Time of death: midnight.
“Go to bed, Vicky,” Ayesha said.
“We’ve only one night left. How am I going to write about Aurora if I can’t meet her on home turf?”
“By using your imagination and your skills as a writer,” Ayesha suggested.
Vicky crossed her arms. “I’d rather not.”
“I hope you won’t be too disappointed,” Matty said. “The most you can hope for is a knock on the door. According to the staff,
no one has seen her.”
“That’s something,” Vicky said. “Either way, it’s worth a try. If you don’t mind letting us into the tower, Leo.”
“I don’t mind,” he said.
The group dispersed. Ayesha retired for the night, Matty popped into his room for a minute.
Vicky and Leo headed straight to his suite.
Jules stayed put. She’d missed the midnight hour.
Should she try again at two? Did the exact time matter as much as the location?
Jules only had a couple nights to make the most of whatever this was.
“July.”
It never failed. Every time he said her name, and said it in that way, the faintest shivers ran down her spine, awakening
parts of her that were dormant for years.
She glanced over her shoulder. He was at the foot of the stairs, waiting. “Are you coming?”
Saying yes felt like capitulating. She said yes anyway.