Secret Shared s-2

by Marie L. Adeline

CASSIE

  WE DIDN’T GET a lot of customers in that quiet time between lunch and dinner, when the staff was whittled down to just me waiting for Tracina to spell me off. And we definitely didn’t get a lot of handsome six-foot six-inch African-American district attorneys in three-thousand-dollar suits coming into the Café Rose at that hour. But Carruthers Johnstone was campaigning for re-election, his face on billboards all over town. I told myself he was probably there to drop off pamphlets. But when he asked if a “pretty little black gal, long legs, about ye high”—he held his hand at his chest—worked at the Café, my brain started humming.

  I knew exactly who he was: the guy I’d seen Tracina straddling in that dark garage after the Revitalization Ball, the night I fell under Pierre Castille’s charms. While nearly naked in the back of Pierre’s limo, I spotted Tracina, her arms and legs around this man, kissing him against a big white Escalade. Ever since, I’d tried to put that scene out of my mind, filing it under “absolutely none of my business.” But now this “business” was standing right in front of me, wiping his brow and looking around the Café uneasily.

  “Tracina’s not in. May I mention who is looking for her?” I played dumb, afraid of becoming somehow complicit in whatever drama he had brought through those doors.

  “Yes … uh, tell her Carr came by. Give her this,” he said, handing me a card.

  Carr? She called him Carr?

  Oh, I will, I wanted to say, but instead muttered, “Sure,” slipping his card into my pouch. As tempting as it was to pry further, the less I involved myself with Tracina’s problems, the easier my life would be.

  But now “Carr’s” card was sharing space with Mark Drury’s phone number, which had been burning a hole in my apron for four days. I had written it out on a little piece of paper because Will didn’t like us to carry around our cell phones on shift. But now it was becoming faded with all the folding and unfolding. I kicked myself for not insisting he take my number too. But I wanted to make the first move for the first time in my life. I had asked him for his number, hadn’t I? One whole week had gone by since I’d met him on the patio at Ignatius’s. That was also the day I first met Dauphine, and it had taken her a day to call me and accept the life-changing offer of joining S.E.C.R.E.T.

  One day.

  So what was I waiting for? It was just a damn phone call.

  An hour later, Will’s truck pulled up in front of the Café to drop Tracina off for the afternoon shift, which I had asked her to start a little early so I could attend Dauphine’s S.E.C.R.E.T. induction, scheduled that afternoon. Tracina waddled up the threshold. She was only four months pregnant, but I could tell she was going to be one of those pregnant women who gained weight only in the front. I ducked into the kitchen. Dammit. Call him. Now. I picked up the wall phone in the kitchen and dialed the number.

  After five rings, he answered. Arrgh. Call him from home, I told myself, hanging up after his groggy “Hello.” I punched open the staff washroom door. Tracina was standing on a milk carton admiring her belly in the vanity mirror.

  “This is new,” Tracina said, quite literally navel-gazing. “This line thing has a name. I can’t remember what it is. I’ll ask Will. He knows everything about pregnancy.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  That was the only thing I could ever think to ask her these days.

  “The first three months were a bitch, but I’m heading into my second trimester and I’m feeling great now.”

  “Someone came by to see you today. A Carson Johnstone or something,” I said, intentionally mangling his name while avoiding her eye contact. I handed her his card. “Big guy. Expensive suit.”

  Tracina’s face tried very hard to stay placid. I whipped off my dirty T-shirt and pulled a clean one out of my locker. We faced each other, both in our bras.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing. I said you weren’t in.”

  “What did he say? Did he say he was coming back?” She spoke slowly, but her voice was pitched high; she was either very happy or very sad. I couldn’t tell which.

  “He just said, ‘Tell her Carr came by.’”

  She blinked for several seconds, shook her head and then changed the subject back to me, her voice normal again.

  “So, Cassie, how are you doing these days? We never get a chance to talk. It’s like we’re ships in the night or something.”

  She was being friendly, eerily so.

  “Fine. I’m fine. And you’re fine. And Will seems fine too, which is great. We’re all fine, I guess,” I said, reapplying deodorant.

  “I guess we are. And you’re right, Will is super happy. That’s for sure. But he’s also very anxious about the baby. Worrying about my health. So much so he’s, like …” She stepped closer to me and lowered her voice, cupping her hand around her mouth. “He’s … afraid to have sex with me. I mean it’s not like we don’t have sex. We do. But not as much as I would like, and—”

  “Okay!” I held up a hand to stop this information from coming any closer to my brain.

  “He thinks it’s going to hurt the baby—”

  “Whoa. I don’t need to know that either. I mean … he’s my boss.”

  “But you’re my friend, Cassie. Friends tell each other everything,” she said, plucking her waitressing pouch off the top shelf of her locker.

  Friends? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We were many things—colleagues, co-workers, rivals—but the last thing I ever would have expected was for Tracina to consider me a friend.

  “Don’t friends keep each other’s secrets?” she went on, securing her pouch below her belly. “Sometimes my friends tell me other people’s secrets. But it’s by accident, of course. Have you ever done that?”

  Her tone chilled me. Who were her friends? Angela Rejean and Kit DeMarco, to name a couple. They had danced together for several years in a row in Les Filles de Frenchmen Revue. I knew Kit babysat Tracina’s brother Trey now and again, and Angela offered to host Tracina’s baby shower. These three women had history. Lots of it. And though Kit, Angela and I shared S.E.C.R.E.T., who’s to say the bond Tracina shared with these woman was any less sacred?

  Tracina cocked her head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Cassie. What’s on your mind?”

  Wanna know what’s on my mind? I wanted to scream. The endless ways in which I’d like your boyfriend to fuck me.

  “Nothing.”

  I applied some lip-gloss in the mirror next to her.

  “Hot date?” she asked.

  “Actually … yes,” I said, lying. But in a way not lying. I would call Mark. I would have a date with him. That wasn’t a lie.

  “Ooh, with who?”

  “Just some guy I met.”

  “Anyone special?”

  I thought for a second. “I don’t think so. But, you know, I might just fuck him anyway.”

  And I left her alone in the washroom to pick her jaw up off the floor.

  Why did I say that? Because I knew she’d tell Will. Hell, I wanted her to. And because sometimes you have to say things out loud to gather the gumption to go through with them.

  The Coach House door was open. I tiptoed past the foyer into the reception area and found Danica on the phone. She covered the receiver with her hand.

  “You’re early. Matilda’s at the Mansion, but she’ll be here in a minute. Go on in,” she whispered.

  “Dauphine’s not here yet?”

  “I’ll watch for her. A new girl! So exciting!”

  The boardroom door was ajar so I slipped in and saw for the first time the mythical Fantasy Board, to which only the Committee was privy. It was usually kept hidden behind a sliding wall. But there it was in all its colorful glory. Some of the men’s names were struck out. Some I recognized. My heart sped up when I saw “Theo” on a purple card—my sexy French ski instructor—but there was a black slash through his name. There was also “Captain Archer,” the helicopter pilot who’d led me to “Jake,” the tugboa
t captain. Next to that was a card with “Captain Nathan” and a question mark; I didn’t recognize that name. I inched the board back a little more and saw more strange names, then two that made my heart feel like a deep bruise with a finger pushing on it, including ”Pierre Castille,” covered by an X. My fantasy with the Bayou Billionaire had been extraordinary. The Ball, that sexy limousine ride home; he was incredibly hot and so assured. But his attentions turned toxic after the burlesque show, when he just assumed I’d pick him over Will for my final fantasy. I figured the X meant the Committee had dumped him from the fantasy roster, something I would have suggested had I been asked.

  But the other familiar name was Jesse, my third Step fantasy, and his card had a number two scrolled on it. Jesse! My sexy-as-hell, tattooed pastry chef. Had it been almost a year since he overcame me in the kitchen at the Café Rose? Each of the men I’d had sex with was amazing in his own right, but I had made a special connection with Jesse, one strong enough to almost cause me to quit my fantasies early for a chance to get to know him better. Matilda convinced me to stay in S.E.C.R.E.T., to push through. And though I was grateful in the end when Will and I tumbled into bed, now I wasn’t so sure I’d taken the right risk with the right man.

  “Cassie!”

  I almost leapt out of my skin at the sound of Matilda’s voice.

  “You scared me!”

  She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed.

  “Cassie, you know better than to come in here unsupervised. You aren’t supposed to see the board unless you’re a full Committee member.”

  “I can handle it. I mean, I knew some of these guys were coming back. What’s the rule? Three turns through S.E.C.R.E.T.?” I asked, keeping my voice from breaking. Why was I suddenly so upset?

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And how many more fantasies does Jesse have left as a participant?”

  “He’s performed two. So … one more,” Matilda said gently.

  “Pierre’s name is scratched out, I see.”

  “After the way he treated you at the burlesque revue? The Committee feels he is no longer S.E.C.R.E.T. material.”

  “I agree, which is such a shame. He’s very … well, you know. Have you told him yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’d love to listen in on that phone call, when the Bayou Billionaire’s told his services won’t be required.”

  “Powerful men aren’t used to being rejected. Pierre Castille will probably be no exception.”

  “So … Jesse. Is he completely off limits while he’s on the Fantasy Board?”

  Why did I ask that? I knew the answer! Oh god, I sounded like a lovelorn teenager.

  “Yes, he’s off limits. Unless you’re participating in a threesome scenario or training him. We may tee him up with Dauphine if her fantasy folder indicates an interest in his type.”

  “Right. I see,” I said, hardly camouflaging my disappointment.

  “Cassie, if you want us to put you and Jesse together again, to see if there’s still a spark, that can be done. But the rule is you then have to find a similar replacement recruit. Are you ready to replace him? To recruit a new man?”

  She had me there and she knew it.

  “I thought you only wanted to guide this year.”

  “I do. I’m happy to guide.”

  “So everything is as it should be.” She looked at her watch. “Why don’t you put some coffee on?”

  I headed to the kitchenette off the foyer. I thought of the way Jesse had kissed me. That kiss. That hungry, searching kiss! The way he pressed me against the cool tiles. How he lifted me onto the prep table, bringing me to orgasm with his mouth, that mouth, just his mouth, because he never entered me … Oh god, there I was getting wet just thinking of the possibility of Jesse inside me, moving on top of me, his arm muscles flexing in the light … I had the sudden urge to waltz back into the boardroom and remove his name.

  Danica stuck her head in the kitchenette.

  “She’s here. Dauphine. She’s out at the gate. Ready?”

  “Yup, sure, ready,” I said, my hands deep in my front pockets. “Let’s go!”

  6

  DAUPHINE

  HOW MANY TIMES had I walked past this mansion without any idea what went on in here? I lived only a few blocks away. The possibility of a lusher life had been right under my nose, and yet I couldn’t see it and hadn’t known it. It’s funny how you don’t know you’re ready for change until it appears on your doorstep. I stood in front of that imposing, vine-covered gate on Third Street, contemplating entering. You can always leave, I told myself. You do not have to stay. You do not have to do anything you don’t want to do.

  My unspoken motto in life had always been: if I can’t control it, I don’t trust it. It had worked with my business—I trusted almost no one after buying Charlotte out (Elizabeth being the rare exception), and I took control of the store myself. But my controlling nature had also prevented me from moving, changing and growing. I had stopped taking risks. Jeez, I even cut my own hair because I didn’t trust anyone else to do it. I’d sweep it to the front of my face and trim the ends in the mirror. Luke used to say it wasn’t Charlotte that broke us up, it was the fact that I stood frozen in the tracks of my life.

  When I saw Cassie coming out of the Coach House, she didn’t recognize me at first. My hair was down and I wasn’t wearing a dress. Instead I had picked out ’60s-style side-zipper clam-diggers, a sleeveless floral blouse and espadrilles. I wanted to seem casual but not too casual; pulled together, but not completely buttoned-down. Cassie didn’t look nearly as neurotic in her jeans and white T-shirt.

  Okay, stop thinking, Dauphine!

  “Am I late?”

  “You’re right on time. Ready?”

  “Ready as the Arizona rain.”

  I followed her through the ivy-covered gate. The grounds behind the high fence were as I had imagined—impeccable, crew-cut green grass, vivid pink hydrangea bushes, white roses the size of a toddler’s tutu dancing up the curved portico. Up close, the Mansion put a spell on you; you simply wanted to be inside of it. Cassie kept her hand wrapped around my upper arm, gently guiding me towards the red door of a square building to our left.

  Matilda opened the door before we knocked.

  “Dauphine, the woman with the beautiful name. Welcome to the Coach House. The Committee is very excited to meet you.”

  It all happened so fast that I didn’t get a chance to take in the decor, though I thought I recognized two large abstracts lining the walls, the colors and brush technique distinct.

  “Oh my goodness! Are those … Mendoza abstracts?” I asked, much to Matilda’s delight.

  “Why yes! They’re the last two from our collection. We’re the executors of Carolina Mendoza’s estate. You know her work?”

  “Design major. Modern Louisiana Art was one of my courses,” I said, gazing up at the largest of the two paintings, which featured two fiery red squares that faded into yellow and orange at the edges. I quickly retrieved some facts about her from my filing cabinet brain: a young revolutionary from South America, a passionate feminist …

  “She was a dear friend and one of S.E.C.R.E.T.’s founders,” Matilda added. “The sale of her paintings every few years funds our endeavors. In fact, this year we’re selling this one, Red Rage. We’ll be sad to part with it.”

  “I bet. It’s beautiful.”

  We passed a punky-looking young woman at reception with black hair and vivid red lips.

  “Danica, this is Dauphine.”

  “Hi!” she said. “I’m a big fan of your store.”

  “Oh, yes. Thanks.”

  I vaguely recognized her, though members of the young hipster set sometimes blend into to one another. And those types rarely bought intact vintage, always tweaking and altering expert tailoring to make it their own.

  “Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with S.E.C.R.E.T.,” Danica said.

  Matilda cleared her throat. “Danica, pl
ease set Dauphine up in my office to fill out the questionnaire.” She looked at her watch.

  “There’s a test?” I asked, my heart pounding.

  “No, no,” Cassie said. “It’s just a list of things you’ve done or would like to do. Sexually. It helps the Committee plan the fantasies. Takes about half an hour.”

  Danica reached beneath the desk, pulling from a small drawer a soft burgundy booklet about the size of a passport. She handed it to me. It felt like one of my sketching Moleskines from art class. The cover was embossed with an etching of three women, naked except for their long wavy hair. Beneath them was a Latin inscription: Nihil judicii. Nihil limitis. Nihil verecundiae.

  “It means ‘No Judgment. No Limits. No Shame,’” Cassie said.

  I opened up the booklet. Inside was a preamble:

  What you have in your hands is completely confidential. Your answers are for you and for the Committee only. No one else will see your responses. For S.E.C.R.E.T. to help you, we must know more about you. Be thorough, be honest, be fearless. Please begin:

  “So … I fill this out?”

  “Yes. We’re just trying to understand your sexual history, your preferences, likes and dislikes,” Matilda said, as I followed Danica to a cozy office, glancing over my shoulder as Cassie gave me two thumbs up.

  “Tea? Water?” Danica asked, pointing to a black leather Eames chair and ottoman near the bookshelf.

  “I’m okay,” I said, glancing around the beautifully appointed room—at the white walls, oiled-walnut shelving, the mid-century modern touches. These were my kind of people, I thought. Then Matilda left me alone with my worries.

  I would just have to be really clear with the Committee. I would tell them what I was willing to do and not willing to do. I would carefully list my rules: no flying, no lights on, nothing to do with beaches, no water. And if they couldn’t honor those wishes, then fine. I would walk away. I wasn’t here to change my life, just to enhance it, improve upon it. Somewhat. The sex part anyway.

  But first they wanted basic information. I turned my attention to my little booklet again, scanning the questions, which veered from how many lovers I’d had, to one-night stands, threesomes, anal, oral—all with handy boxes, numbers and circles next to them. The first few questions were easy. I stopped counting my “number” after fifteen, so I rounded it up to twenty. Taking the five years with Luke into consideration, that made my lover count about two per year. I had always thought I’d been adventurous, but two men a year suddenly didn’t sound like that many.