17
Daphne had promised them plenty of downtime over the weekend. When it rolled around, they’d been too exhausted to leave the
property. Sebastien retreated to the art studio he’d set up in a parlor room. Vicky and Matty lounged on the deck. Ayesha
hopped on FaceTime with her family. Only Leo would duck out without a word, but when he returned a couple hours later the
old house pulsed with life. His laughter swirled down the halls and filled the rooms. Jules had spent her downtime in the
garden, with the aim of discovering in daylight the mysteries that occurred only in darkness. Unfortunately, nothing she experienced
in the night felt real in the day. This morning was no exception.
Jules woke up with a crippling headache. She took two painkillers and curled up on the window seat. She could hardly believe
what had happened the night before. If a security guard hadn’t checked on her, she might’ve dismissed the whole thing as a
fever dream. Then she recalled Ruby’s young face distorted by pain and Jules doubled over and caught her head between her
hands.
Today’s schedule was packed. Jules was relieved. She peered down at the garden from her window. A break from otherworldliness
would be nice. Then she spotted Leo by the pergola, chatting up the gardener.
It was his one superpower, his ability to chat up just about anyone.
The gardener, a wiry man with shocking red hair, had only ever nodded her way and carried on with his work.
With elaborate hand gestures, he appeared to explain the process of growing, pruning, loving, and maintaining the tropical flowers. Leo listened intently.
Later, when she joined the group for breakfast, a slim bouquet of blue flowers rested on her reserved seat.
“Lovely!” Ayesha exclaimed.
“Did you pick those?” Vicky asked.
“Yes,” Jules lied. She set the flowers aside and averted her eyes when Leo entered the breakfast room, avoiding his gaze even
when he passed her the coffee, the maple syrup, and asked how her night had been.
In a matter of days, Leo had gone from garden-variety good-looking to a thorny dark rose, dangerously seductive. His features
had sharpened, the cheekbones taut and the jaw tight. Somehow, he looked as fresh as the new day, as if he’d had a full night’s
sleep, though she knew he hadn’t. For today’s excursion, he wore a crisp white T-shirt and a seemingly well-loved pair of
jeans. She noticed that he never strayed from his signature palette: white, sky blue, deep blue, sandy beige, and brown leather.
It suited him even better now that he had a tan, and his dark hair was less so after a few days in the sun.
Daphne arrived in a flurry of braids and bracelets. “Late start this morning! Last-minute admin stuff,” she explained. “How
is everyone? And how was last night? Did you have fun?”
“I’ve exceeded my capacity for fun,” Ayesha said with a yawn. “I’ll collapse if this goes on.”
Daphne emptied a packet of sugar into her coffee cup. “And how was last night’s séance?”
“Not great,” Matty replied. “We summoned Sebastien and got to the bottom of his relationship woes, but that’s it.”
Daphne glanced at Sebastien slumped at the far end of the table. “That’s no small thing.”
“We don’t have the right supplies,” Vicky said. “One scented candle isn’t enough. Also, we should pick up crafty salt.”
Matty motioned for Leo to pass him the bread basket. “I grew up messing around with Ouija boards at birthday parties, mostly
for the chance to mess around with girls afterward. In my limited experience of a boy who wanted to kiss girls, it’s helpful
to know more about the spirit than her name. Favorite color, favorite song, those things.”
“I’ve been giving it some thought and perhaps there is a language barrier,” Ayesha said. “Aurora may be more fluent in Spanish.”
“That’s very helpful, Ayesha,” Vicky said.
“Please, don’t mention it,” Ayesha said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“Show of hands,” Daphne said. “How many of you believe, truly believe, deep down in your heart of hearts, that with a candle,
salt, a few fun facts, and blind faith, you can draw a spirit from one dimension to another?”
No hands went up. At the end of the day, they were reasonable adults.
“When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous,” Sebastien said. “But I saw my grandfather the day he died.”
“That’s a whole other circumstance,” Daphne said.
“I don’t think it’s about supplies or rituals,” Jules said, shocking everyone at the table. That was the trouble when you
didn’t speak up regularly, any random comment or observation threw people off. Leo’s gaze sharpened on her. He hadn’t said
much all morning, which was unlike him. When their eyes met, she realized he’d shut her out. Access denied to the warmth of
his soul. Who could she blame? She’d made her choices.
“What, then?” Vicky asked.
“Not sure there’s anything we can do on our side,” Jules said. “It depends on how urgently they want to contact us, I guess.”
Vicky burst into tears.
“Goodness!” Daphne cried.
In Vicky’s haste to grab a napkin, she dropped a fork. It landed at her feet with a clammer. “God! I’m a mess,” she moaned.
Jules leaped from her chair but Matty, sitting next to her, only had to collect her in his arms to console her. Feeling useless,
Jules slowly sat back down. It was as it should be, she reasoned. They’d been each other’s sole support system for far too
long. To widen the circle, welcome others, seemed like the right thing to do. She felt Leo’s eyes bore into her. He hadn’t
missed a thing, not her leaping off her chair only to sit back down, and not the pained expression that had surely followed.
“Sorry, everyone,” Vicky said. “It’s been difficult to admit that I’m losing my grandmother. I thought if I could master this
party trick, then maybe, in time, I could contact her, too, which would make this loss more bearable. No disrespect to Aurora.”
“I’m sorry about your grandmother,” Daphne said. “It wasn’t my intention to belittle your efforts. I’m no authority. Trust
me. And for what it’s worth, I have some experience with loss. Let me tell you, grief can eat you alive if you let it. There’s
no point staring into that void or trying to reclaim what that void has stolen from you. Life is short and precious. We’ll
get there soon enough.”
After breakfast, Jules wearily climbed the back stairs to her room.
They had instructions to meet in the lobby in ten minutes.
The first stop of the day was The Bishop Garden.
From there, they’d visit the San Carlos Institute and then the Tennessee Williams exhibit.
She wasn’t looking forward to any of it.
Buddying up with Leo had made these outings bearable.
They’d tease each other, swap stories. He’d provoke her, then invite her to dream.
Without his companionship, she would not know what to do with herself.
But what was the simple bouquet of flowers if not an olive branch?
Jules wondered. She quit wondering when a cry rising from the ground floor forced her thoughts to a halt.
Jules raced out the door and back down the stairs to the second floor.
For once, Vicky hadn’t caused the scene. It was Daphne. The others were already there, crowding her door. Daphne stood at
the foot of her bed, clutching a small object to her chest and weeping. Leo went to her, consoling. “Never mind. It’s fine,”
she said through tears. “It’s just . . . I’ve found something that I lost.”
“Is it valuable?” Vicky asked.
“No, not really. But it’s precious to me.”
“How long have you been searching for it?” Sebastien asked.
“Years,” she answered. “It must’ve fallen out of my luggage or something. Sorry to have caused such a fuss.”
Leo touched her shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, still clutching the object to her chest, hazel eyes glassy with tears, and looking pale, as if she had
just seen a ghost.
What Jules admired most about the San Carlos Institute was the building itself.
The elaborate facade topped with a crown.
The high ceilings and intricate tile work that crawled up the walls.
The grand marble staircase that led to grand halls where the children of tobacco workers had continued their education in Spanish.
The stacks of books that commemorated the legacy of the poet and nationalist José Martí.
But Jules would give everything to know what Leo made of it all.
While Sebastien snapped photos, Ayesha perused discounted vintage postcards, Vicky and Matty shopped for art prints with the intimacy of a couple decorating a shared apartment (“Wouldn’t that look great in a kitchen?
”). Leo shadowed the director, inquired about the provenance of the handmade tile, the age range of the schoolchildren who attended class on the second floor, and José Martí’s perspective on the Cubans’ liberation from Spain.
The director turned to Jules, and what did Jules contribute? “This building is beautiful.”
“Yes, it is,” the director replied.
She could have kicked herself. Girl, is that the best you can do?
“This is the institute’s third location,” the director continued with a pinch of pride. “It started on Anne Street but moved
to a larger location on Fleming, which was lost in the Great Fire. This location was built in 1890.”
The institute’s director, Dr. Emilio Flores, was a distinguished man in his sixties who walked with a cane. Earlier, he’d
skipped the tour of the former classrooms, sending an assistant after them up the steep stairs.
“There was a fire?” Leo asked.
“Yes, in 1886. It destroyed much of the city.”
“Why don’t you tell them about it,” Daphne suggested. “It’s an important part of Key West history.”
“It’s a beautiful day,” Dr. Flores said. “They don’t want to hear about death, destruction, and conspiracies.”
“You underestimate this crowd,” Daphne said. “They thrive on death, destruction, and conspiracies.”
“The fire started in a coffee shop next door to the institute. We believe Spain sent the arsonists to quash the exile community’s
financial support of the fight for Cuba’s independence,” he said, both hands on the ivory handle of his cane. “It was a fateful
night. Our one and only steam fire engine was sent to New York for repairs. Even if that weren’t the case, the city was doomed
to burn down. Strong winds allowed the flames to spread. The fire wiped out entire cigar factories and warehouses. It was
a great tragedy.”
“A fire,” Jules repeated.
“She’s triggered,” Vicky explained. “A kitchen fire nearly destroyed her new apartment. She’s been practically homeless ever
since.”
“I’m not homeless,” Jules protested.
“You were sleeping on Vicky’s couch,” Ayesha pointed out. “I think you meet the criteria of an unhoused person.”
“I have a guest bedroom,” Vicky said. “Just saying.”
“Excellent news,” Dr. Flores said. “I have a trip coming up.”
It was only polite to laugh at the little joke, but Jules had caught Leo’s glance before he looked away, minding his business,
as she had asked him to do.