Marie Adeline - Secret Shared

“He has to go through a vigorous screening process, Cassie. That means medical, psychological, physical—”

“He’ll pass,” I said, tearing the label clean off my beer bottle.

“That’s a sign of sexual frustration,” she said matter-of-factly, pointing out my fidgeting.

“So is this request, believe me!”

Our usual meet-up spot, Tracy’s, was quiet for a Friday afternoon. Come to think of it, my shift at the Café had been pretty dead too. Tracina was glad for it, so pregnant now that people didn’t really feel comfortable having her wait on them because she looked like she could drop the baby right at their table. It was only a matter of weeks before she’d be off her feet entirely.

Will had posted for a replacement, but then his brother Jackson from Slidell asked if he’d take on his oldest daughter, Claire, a quirky, dreadlocked seventeen-year-old who wanted to finish high school at the New Orleans Center for Creative Arts, which had a campus not far from the Café. Between piercings and poetry readings, she promised she could work two nights a week and weekends, more shifts during the summer. Will was reluctant at first to have his unruly teenage niece also living with him, until Tracina pointed out the convenient babysitter possibilities once their child was born. So Claire started immediately, and immediately fit in at the restaurant by pissing off Dell and getting underfoot.

Matilda wasn’t finished listing all the caveats of recruiting Mark.

“If Mark passes all the tests, he’ll still have to be trained, Cassie. And the other women have to weigh in. It has to be unanimous.”

“He’ll appeal. And Dauphine has a thing for musicians.”

“And then there’s the matter of you and Jesse. He could turn you down, you know. I mean, he has one last go through S.E.C.R.E.T. and he may want to savor that opportunity. Are you ready for potential rejection?”

“Sure. Yeah. Of course.” I shrugged, taking a sip of my beer.

I flinched because I was lying. S.E.C.R.E.T. had given me many gifts, but the ability to withstand rejection wasn’t one of them. After all, there was no possibility of being rejected in S.E.C.R.E.T., only of turning others down. Of course Jesse could turn me down, and why wouldn’t he? What was he going to be offered, anyway? A plain old date with me, a woman he slept with once in a fantasy scenario, more than a year ago, one who balked when the possibility of more presented itself. Or the thrill of a new fantasy and new flesh pressed against his skin. Given the choice, wouldn’t most men want the novelty? Wouldn’t I? Well, no. I had had that novelty with Mark, and more than that with Will. Mark I didn’t want. Will I couldn’t have. And so, in my mind, that left Jesse.

“I’ll meet with Jesse tomorrow,” Matilda said. “If he says yes, you’ll hear from him. If he says no, you won’t. Either way, we’ll pull him off Dauphine’s roster this time, just to prevent any tension between you and Dauphine. That relationship is sacred. And whatever happens, she does not need to know about this conversation.” Matilda paused to let this sink in. “Oh,” she added after a few seconds, “by the way, Dominic passed. He’ll be a new recruit.”

“The soccer player?”

“He’s actually a contractor. He’s taken the tests and he’s almost done with his training. If Mark doesn’t work out, we can put Dominic next.”

“What about Ewan, that sexy redhead friend of his?”

“He didn’t pass the initial round. Funny that. We rarely get a unanimous vote on a ginger, which as a redhead I find rather bigoted. Marta just wasn’t that into him.”

“But he was so cute.”

“Well, if you’re on the Committee next year you can resubmit him, if he’s still interested.”

After splitting the bill and saying goodbye to Matilda, I decided to walk home. It was a balmy night, but spooky—no moon in the sky. I could hear sirens in the distance, discordant jazz pouring out of every other door, which got louder and stranger when Magazine became Decatur in the French Quarter. I shivered. Fall was coming; I could feel it in my bones. In fact, the whole city felt suddenly as dark and unsettled as did I.

The next morning, I was barely out of the shower when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey, lady,” the male voice said in a sweetly familiar Southern drawl.

It truly didn’t occur to me it would be Jesse. Not so soon. Not at 10 a.m. Surely Matilda would have only just called him, would have only just offered him his options. Surely he’d need some time to think.

But it was him. My nerves ricocheted through my body, making the receiver go instantly sweaty in my hand. Now what?

“Who’s this?” I asked. When I’m afraid, I push things away with both hands. I don’t let go of them; I hold them at arm’s length to gain the upper hand, hoping they’ll come to me. I did that with Will; I was now doing that with Jesse.

“You know exactly who this is, Cassie Robichaud.”

The S.E.C.R.E.T. Steps quickly ran through my mind; yes! I had access to all these attributes, I’d felt them, I’d experienced them. I could do this.

Surrender.

“I’m kidding. I know it’s you.”

“Yeah. So … Matilda says you wanted to see me?”

Courage.

“I do.”

“Where are you?”

Trust.

“I’m at home.”

Generosity.

“I was wondering … are you free for dinner next Saturday? I could cook.”

“I have to wait a week? Where do you live?”

Fearlessness.

“In the Marigny, not far from where I work.”

Confidence.

“I mean, if you’re not available next Saturday, the Saturday after is fine,” I added.

“I usually take care of my son on Saturdays,” he said. “But I think I can figure something out.”

Curiosity.

“Right. You have a son. How old is he now?”

“He’s six, actually. I have him every Wednesday, and every other Friday and Saturday until six. Then I drop him at his ma’s. His birthday was four days ago.”

Bravery.

“Aw. Sweet. Well, why don’t you come over after you drop him off next Saturday? I’ll make us something to eat. Bring a bottle of wine or whatever you want to drink.”

“I will do that, Miss Robichaud.”

Exuberance.

“Great! I’m looking forward to it. I’m in the green house on the corner of Chartres and Mandeville. Second floor. See you then.”

I must have leapt two feet in the air when I hung up. I had a date with a virtual stranger, a guy whose last name I did not know, a tattoo-covered single father whom I’d met during an amazing, anonymous sexual encounter because of our mutual membership in an underground group that orchestrated sex fantasies for affection-starved women. And I couldn’t have been more excited.

“I did it,” I said to Dixie, flat on her back, playing with the charms on my bracelet.

I SHOULD HAVE known something was off when a different driver, not Ernesto, arrived twenty minutes later than the appointed time. I sat in the lobby of the Palace Alvear Hotel, in my new side-buttoned, black brocade dress with three-quarter sleeves, the better to show off my bracelet. I had found the dress buried in a rack in a shop in San Telmo, a gorgeous, form-fitting cocktail confection that stopped just below the knee, a conservative length set off by the way it hugged my curves. Watching the way my new driver took me in while striding confidently towards me in the lobby of the hotel told me the dress was worth every penny. His own uniform, on the other hand, was a little too snug, the hat too large, the sleeves too short. He just didn’t have the physique of a man who sat behind the wheel of a limousine all day, which, in fact, was a high compliment.

“Lo siento, Señora Dauphine,” he said, apologizing for his lateness, his veined wrists peeking out from his cuffs when he extended an ungloved hand.

I felt a sizzle up my arm when I shook it. Where Ernesto had a boyish charm, this new driver was pure masculinity. But a second alarm bell went off after he settled me in the back seat.

“A donde vamos?” he asked. Where are we going?

If he had been sent by S.E.C.R.E.T., wouldn’t he know the address? Matilda had said the auction was top secret and only a few well-heeled invitees knew its location. That information had been delivered via phone call, not by invitation, in order to avoid attention from the press.

I met his smiling green eyes in the rearview mirror. He was the kind of man who knew he had a certain effect on women.

“Vamos al Teatro Colón, por supesto,” I said, directing him to the historical theatre downtown. I couldn’t help being charmed by his looks. So shallow, Dauphine, I scolded, resting back into my seat.

The next alarm when off on the slow drive to the theater, when, every block or so, he consulted a GPS, adjusting and readjusting his rearview mirror. And yet when we pulled up to the Teatro Colón, a block-long building that looked like a creamy marble wedding cake, my concerns about this man were immediately replaced by trepidations about the auction. A tuxedoed valet stood curbside to greet me. He ignored my driver as he opened the door and helped me out of the car.

“Wow,” I said, sounding like the gosh-gollyest American who ever was.

“Miss Mason, it is a privilege to meet you. And I am sorry if you had … trouble finding the Teatro Colón.” He eyed my driver. “Quíen es usted?”

“Dante,” my driver answered, as he grasped me by the upper arm.

My greeter exhaled dramatically and turned on his heel. Dante and I followed him through the throng of tourists snapping photos in front of the theater. We hurried past the marble statues in the gold foyer where other limo drivers gathered to wait, then passed the stained-glass ceiling and the signs that read, EVENTO PRIVADO. We pushed through the carved gilded doors into a darkened theater.

Teatro Colón was a mesmerizing spectacle of intricate balconies surrounding long sweeping arcs of plush red velvet seats. A dozen front rows were filled with restless bidders who’d been waiting for us. Thankfully, we weren’t the last to arrive. Just before taking my seat, a tall blonde in a tailored blue business suit scrambled down the stairs, taking the last seat at the remote agents’ table in front of a bank of telephones. Matilda had told me there’d be some buyers calling in from around the world, the phones manned by their local bankers.

Be cool, Dauphine. You’re just here to sign some papers. I nervously patted my chignon, relieved I’d chosen kitten heels with the snug dress. My designated seat on the aisle of the last row was the best vantage point from which to watch the bidding before me. I leaned back to take in the sepia-stained frescos that circled a chandelier as big as the sun.

I eyed the buyers, mostly women. Money from the sale of the painting would fund S.E.C.R.E.T.’s rather unorthodox pursuits, as Matilda had explained. She didn’t want it coming from people or groups that might pry too far into S.E.C.R.E.T.’s true mandate, or whose values didn’t dovetail with our own.

Dante stood vigil to my right, like a handsome guard dog.