Marie Adeline - Secret Shared

I gave her a weak thumbs-up and headed inside.

My stomach rumbled. I had skipped breakfast, but we had a big shipment in from a hard-won estate sale and I wanted to go through those boxes myself before we opened. So I left Elizabeth to work her magic in the window box and unlocked the store, taking in my outfit in the full-length mirror by the front counter: a dark blue, A-line dress that buttoned up the front, circa late ’60s, the kind with a built-in bra, matching belt and slip lining; three-quarter-length sleeves and kitten heels. My red hair was pulled back in a chignon, now loose and fuzzy-edged from the humidity. I had on big, dark sunglasses, à la Jackie O. I had to admit it was a little warm for this dress, but they just didn’t make them like this anymore, something my mother celebrated and I, of course, lamented. But when did my collars become so high, the hems this long, my sunglasses so large? Who takes eight years to get over a guy?

With Elizabeth busy in the window and the store still quiet, I dug into my purse for my lunch, then realized I had left it on my kitchen counter. Customers weren’t allowed food or drinks in my store, but I ate all my meals perched on the stepladder behind the cash register. Screw it, I’d skip lunch too, and have a big dinner.

I dragged the smallest estate-sale boxes to the front counter. The first was filled with accessories, Elizabeth’s specialty, so I kicked it aside. The second box was all girly sundresses, straw hats (vile) and ballet flats. I wouldn’t need to put summer clothes out for a few more weeks, but I admired a dark green halter dress from the ’70s. It was stunning material, crepe, beautifully lined and floor-length. I noticed the hem was fraying. I could shorten it to knee-length and get a good price. Or I could keep it for myself. And show off my arms? Not a chance. Still, it was so pretty, the green, and with my red hair …

I set it aside for the “keeper” pile, which was getting bigger than the “for sale” pile. Why did I do this? Save things for some imaginary future or for some imaginary customer who would really appreciate it if given the chance.

“Our back room office could be a whole other store,” Elizabeth once said. “A better one than what’s out front.”

The third box was filled with men’s clothes: tweed jackets, several T-shirts, a pair of tuxedo pants (satin stripe down the side) and a matching tuxedo jacket with stylishly slim lapels. I put my nose to the thick fabric and inhaled. It was clean and smelled like men’s cologne. That manly-man smell was so intoxicating. It reminded me of a late night out, of cigars and aftershave, the back of a cab, desire. I felt a pang behind my belly button. I imagined getting this tuxedoed man home, unzipping my long velvet gown, surrendering it to the floor. Underneath it I would be wearing a silk slip. He’d lie back on my gypsy bedspread, smiling, putting aside his scotch. I could feel his hands on my shoulders as he pulled me down onto him, gathering a fist of my long, red hair, pulling my head back to reveal my tender throat. I would cry out his name loud enough to clear the cobwebs from the hallways of the abandoned house my body had become, and—

“Dauphine!”

I nearly fell off my stepladder. “What in the hell, Elizabeth,” I said, dropping the jacket I’d been clutching.

“I called your name, like, ten million times!”

My stomach growled so loud we both heard it. Then I saw stars in my peripheral vision and grabbed the glass case to steady myself.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I just tuned out for a second.”

“Your stomach sounds like two wolves fighting in it. Go get some food. Sit outside in the sun. You don’t officially start until two,” she scolded with the adorable authority of the very young. She plucked my purse from below the glass case, grabbed my arm and shoved me towards the door.

“Return when you are well fortified, missy. And take your damn time.”

“Fine,” I said, still seeing stars.

Next door I nabbed the last empty patio table at Ignatius’s and ordered a hot bowl of gumbo. The Sunday shoppers seemed frantic, or maybe it just felt like that because this was early spring and the first time in a long time that I’d been outside, around people, instead of holed up in my store dealing with inventory. I had also been skipping breakfast, skipping mornings altogether. Maybe that’s why I was losing weight, something I was contemplating when I noticed him—him him—Mark Drury—the lead singer of the Careless Ones.

I’d never seen him with a beard before; I liked it. His band had a regular, early-evening slot on Saturdays at Three Muses. And Mark’s voice was a husky, alt-country dream. Every once in a while, he’d sing a cover of an old Hank Williams song that would make me swoon. He was all limbs and black hair and pale blue eyes. His stooped shoulders were those of a man with an instrument perpetually strapped to his back. And there he was strutting by my patio table and heading inside. He and some of his band mates would hit up the Funky Monkey for T-shirts, jeans and even outlandish wigs if they were doing a show during Mardi Gras. But I always shoved Elizabeth in front of them, too shy to help them myself. The Careless Ones was the only local band I’d go see alone, time spent listening to music being the only time I could really let go and be in my body. Music was the opposite of me. That’s why I was mesmerized by performers like Mark, who could stand on stage in front of everybody and give himself permission to let go.

Talk to him, I thought to myself. Just go up to him after the show and tap him on the shoulder and say, Hey Mark, when I feel like drinking alone, I watch you.

Smack. I’d sound like a crazy person.

I love watching you in the dark when I’m by myself.

Ew.

I like to watch you move.

Wrong. All wrong. I truly was turning peculiar.

I tried not to stare through the glass too long as Mark Drury took a seat at the bar inside. I cursed Elizabeth for telling me to leave the store. I cursed myself for wearing a dark blue dress on a hot spring day. But my gumbo had arrived, so I was committed. Plus, what if he had a girlfriend? You’re just talking to him. You’re just saying, Hey, love your work.

A few minutes later, the bartender handed him a takeout coffee and a wrapped sandwich. Bag pinned between his lips, newspaper held in his armpit, he pulled several napkins from a stainless steel dispenser near the door and headed straight for me. In my head, I was screaming, Here! Sit with me! But my eyes were shaded by my giant sunglasses. I was like a fish, mouth opening and closing, pressed up against the silencing aquarium glass.

Then, before I knew it, he was sitting at the table next to me, joining some dark-haired woman who had an empty seat at her table. They introduced themselves and fell into an easy banter as they ate. Watching him grin at her, making her laugh, hurt my stomach. I regarded my imaginary rival as discreetly as I could. She was pretty and fit, but I bet she didn’t know that Mark had chosen the band name the Careless Ones from The Great Gatsby, a book she’d probably never read, having cribbed notes in junior high from people like me. Bet she wouldn’t even like Mark’s music. Minutes later I watched him say goodbye to her by punching his number into her phone, imagining that he was giving it to me.

What happened to me? Where did I go?

“Are you okay?”

Had I said that out loud? I had said it out loud … directly to the dark-haired woman who’d been talking to Mark Drury and was now sitting alone. She stood, picked up a glass of water from her table and moved in slow motion towards me. She placed the glass in front of me, a concerned look on her face.

“Are you okay?” she asked again.

To this day, I have no idea why I said yes when she asked if she could join me; I so rarely spoke to strangers. But as my mother would say, “Some things are fatefully divine and some are just divinely fated.”

IT WAS INEVITABLE. Will and I both tried to avoid being alone, but the Café Rose was small with narrow hallways and dark corners.

“Thanks for staying late, Cassie,” Will said, the night the drywall got delivered. He’d asked me to watch for the truck.

“I wanted to.”

“Wonder if you could do me one more favor.”

“Sure,” I said. “What is it?”

“You know what it is,” he answered, his voice barely above a whisper. Crossing his arms, he leaned back on the cool glass door of the fridge.

“Is it this?” I asked, loosening the clasp on my apron and letting it fall to the floor.

“Yes. That’s it. Can you do me another favor?”

“I can,” I said, my voice so choked with longing I sounded underwater. I slowly lifted my shirt over my head, my hair cascading through the neck hole. I threw it down to the tiles. I wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Is it this?”

“Yes … you are … so beautiful,” he murmured. My skin had that effect on him and I knew it.

“Your turn,” I whispered.

Without hesitating, he whipped off his shirt and threw it near mine, his hair shocked upwards. Then he shoved off his jeans, leaving his white boxers on. This was our game.

“I won’t touch you. I promise,” he said. “I just want to look at you. That’s not wrong.”

I undid my jeans and stepped out of them, hooking my thumbs in the strings of my bikini underwear. He nodded slightly, aching for me to take those off too. I hesitated, looking out at the pitch-black street. What time was it? How long had we been alone in here like this? I inched my underwear down around my thighs and brought them to the floor. I was now naked.

“Come closer, Cassie. I want to smell your skin.”

“No touching.”

“I know.”

I took a few steps towards him. Six inches from his bare chest, I stopped. At that distance I could feel our body heat mingling, his hot breath on my skin.

I let my hand travel up to my breast, cupping it for him, letting my thumb circle my nipple. A moan escaped his throat as he extended a hand. I stepped back.

“You promised,” I whispered.

“I won’t touch you. But you can touch yourself, Cassie. That’s not against the rules.”

True. I let my other hand travel down across my stomach, the muscle in my forearm flinching as I tentatively felt myself, how wet he was making me, relishing how insanely excited this was making him.

“This is too much, I can’t,” he said.

He was crazed. That’s the only way to explain why, with one deft forearm, he swept the condiment table next to us clean of the bowls and utensils, the trays of salt and pepper shakers, the ashtrays that hold sugar packets, the napkin holders—it all went crashing to the floor. Any other time I would have been pissed. But that night I was thrilled by his impatience, his ferocity. He spun me around and urged me down onto the table, my arms stretched to hold the edges.

“You said you weren’t going to touch me, Will.”

“I’m not going to touch you. I’m going to fuck you,” he groaned, pulling my knees apart and standing naked between my spread thighs. He now held his heavy erection in his hand, stroking it, his fierce eyes on me as he prodded into my wetness, a hesitant inch, then another one, teasing, making me yearn and reach, asking, begging for him to fuck me, to fuck me hard, Oh, Will, my quivering thighs bracketing his narrow hips, my nails digging into his forearms as he—

“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”

Oh shit, my fantasy broke like a bubble. A man—a real one—now stood looming over my metal patio table at Ignatius’s, his face shadowed from behind by the high, hot sun.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “The patio’s full and I noticed you have a table for four all to yourself. Very selfish.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry. Yes, of course,” I said, plucking my purse from one of the chairs at my table. I must have looked like a dozy ape, chomping on an ice cube and staring into the middle distance, fantasizing about Will—again. This bad habit had to stop or I would drive myself mad.

“I’ll just eat my sandwich and drink my coffee and read my paper,” he said. “And we can pretend we’re not sharing a table for lunch.”

“Good plan.”

He had mischievous blue eyes, and though normally I didn’t like beards, even short, groomed ones, his was sexy.