Secret Shared s-2

by Marie L. Adeline

  11

  CASSIE

  IT WAS ONLY a matter of time before Mark Drury made his way to the Café Rose for Sunday brunch, a newspaper tucked under his arm, a sheepish grin on his face. He didn’t have my number and I hadn’t called him since our one-night stand almost two weeks ago.

  “Hello, Cassie,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Very fancy,” I said, “and very early. One o’clock in the afternoon. Did you have to set your alarm?”

  “Funny.”

  I brought over a menu, flipped his coffee cup and filled it to the brim.

  “I’ll be right back to take your order.”

  “I’m in no hurry. Unlike you,” he said, snapping open his paper. He was referring to the morning after, when I had left his place rather quickly. The last time I saw him he was tangled in mismatched sheets, softly snoring.

  I rolled my eyes at him and headed to the kitchen.

  When I returned, he ordered scrambled eggs, Boudin sausage and toast, which he ate in a matter of minutes. When I removed his empty plates, he ordered a large house salad.

  “For digestion. Like the Italians,” he said.

  After his salad he asked about the soup special.

  “It was curried cauliflower, but we’re all out,” I said, just as Dell walked by with a platter of eggs Benedict.

  “I’ll thaw some of that minestrone. Won’t take a minute,” she offered.

  “Sounds perfect,” he replied.

  “You’re mighty hungry today, Mr. Drury.”

  “I’ve got a gig tonight. Always makes me hungry. Why don’t you come see us? We’re at the Spotted Cat.”

  He pulled a flyer out of his pocket and handed it to me just as Will, covered in white dust from head to toe, rounded the corner and headed upstairs. I wasn’t sure he caught the tail end of our exchange, so I raised my voice.

  “I will do my best to be there tonight, Mark. Thank you for the invitation!”

  “Great!” Mark replied, confused by my sudden enthusiasm. “I should probably go now.”

  “No soup?”

  “Just the bill. I gotta clean up my place in case I have guests after my gig.”

  “That’s unlikely,” I said, a little more quietly this time.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  When he looked at me, all the arrogance of his youth seemed to melt away and for a second he was just a young man who wanted to spend some time with me. And yet … and yet … all I craved was a nice long run followed by a cuddle with my cat, my couch and the remote.

  I cashed out Mark’s bill, for which he left me a too-hefty tip. Then I headed upstairs to tell Will I was leaving for the night. I hadn’t been in the new space in a week and the transformation was astonishing. From a dim, dingy storeroom with fading wallpaper and dusty floors, Will had created an airy modern dining room, with new casement windows facing the street, exposed brick on two of the walls, the floors stripped and oiled to perfection. He was painting the men’s washroom at the top of the stairs next to the new skylights. I poked my head in to helpfully turn on the light, causing both of us to squint in the brightness.

  “Whoa, I didn’t notice the light was fading. What time is it?”

  “Time for me to go home. Just letting you know Dell’s on her own until Tracina gets here.”

  “Busy day?”

  It bothered me that his voice could still freeze me in my tracks. It had been almost five full months since …

  “Not bad.”

  It was also hard not to notice how his upper body was becoming more defined by all the manual labor, especially his forearms. He had bits of paint and plaster in his hair that I desperately wanted to pluck out.

  “Plans tonight?” he continued, as I backed out of the washroom to check out the rest of the renos.

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I have plans.”

  “With that skinny boy who was just here?”

  “Maybe.” I said. “I cannot tell you how beautiful it looks up here. I am beyond impressed.”

  “Are you guys dating?”

  “Um … he’s just a friend, Will,” I said, refusing to go there, but quietly pleased he wanted to.

  The main dining area took my breath away, the smoked-glass wall sconces, the refurbished metal light pendants that hung over the bar area. I could picture how beautiful it would look furnished and bustling, full of shiny, sexy diners falling in love over candlelight. That’s when I saw something weird poking out from behind the new walnut bar—a brand-new twin mattress wedged between the wall and the fridge, a coverless duvet thrown on top.

  Will came stumbling into the room, rubbing his hands on his jeans. I turned from the mattress to him.

  “Oh,” he said, looking from me to the mattress. “I’ve been sleeping here a few nights. Tracina, with the pregnancy … I mean, if I’m not keeping her up, she’s keeping me up. And we both need our rest. When the baby comes, everything will be easier.”

  “That’s kind of the opposite of what I hear about babies,” I said. I desperately wanted to change the subject, so I did.

  “It’s so beautiful, Will, I mean it,” I said. “Your work … you should be very proud. This’ll be one of the nicest restaurants on Frenchmen.”

  “I want to have a really interesting wine list, you know? Bring some in from atypical places, like Uruguay and Texas. They have great vineyards in Hill Country.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “You will. Soon enough.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you’ll have to brush up on your wine knowledge, because you’re going to manage this place for me. I want you to run it,” Will said. “Your hours will change. You’d be here afternoons into the dinner rush. You’ll have to wear nicer clothes. I mean, not black satin gowns, but not black T-shirts either. I’ll pay you more. I’ll pay you well.”

  The whole time he spoke, I stood there watching his mouth move. Being near him, working with him, seeing him every day—I wanted that. Watching him with Tracina and the baby, feeling the ongoing pain of being on the outside looking in on his family life, I didn’t want that.

  “I can’t think of anyone else but you for the job,” he added, taking a step closer to me.

  “Does Tracina know?”

  “I haven’t run it past her yet, no. Cassie, we’re not … we’re not partners. Not like it would have been with … you.”

  We both felt the weight of his words fill the unfinished room. I reached forward, caressing his forearm with my fingers, electrifying us both. I meant it as a thank-you gesture, to punctuate this great opportunity he had just offered me, one that I would still need time to think about. But then my hand started to move, almost of its own accord, traveling up his arm, under the sleeve of his T-shirt where a new muscle had formed, the one that twitched when he punched in numbers at the cash register or rolled a layer of paint on a wall. My hand moved slowly over his chest, lingering above his heart, which sped up beneath my touch, sending a vibration through my arm. He grabbed me by the elbow and tugged me against him, placing a hand under my chin to tilt my face up so I was staring into his eyes.

  “Do you understand how much I want you?” His voice was strained, hoarse.

  I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but the words were stuck in my throat. And then I felt it, his mouth on the base of my neck, kissing me there. When our lips met, it was like they had missed each other for ages.

  “Cassie …” He said my name between kisses, biting, nibbling my lips, one arm around my back, holding me against him, his other hand diving under my T-shirt, cupping my breasts lovingly, greedily. I felt him stiffen as I buried my head in his shoulder and shut my eyes. I wanted to freeze this moment with the only man I really wanted, holding me, wanting me …

  “I won’t stop, unless you tell me to stop,” he whispered, his hand sliding down the back of my jeans, squeezing.

  I didn’t want him to stop, and if I hadn’t spotted my flush
ed, guilty face in the mirror over the bar, I wouldn’t have made him stop.

  “We can’t,” I said, prying myself out of his embrace and taking a step back. He recoiled too, not from me, but from his own actions.

  “We were friends for years, Will,” I said. “Good friends.”

  “I don’t want another friend. I want you.”

  “Believe me. In a few months, you’re gonna need friends,” I said, tucking my T-shirt back into my jeans and straightening my apron.

  “I’m sorry, Cassie. It’s actually pretty shitty of me to offer you a promotion and then turn around and fall all over you like that.”

  “I won’t lodge a complaint … if you promise not to do it again.”

  “I’m not making any more promises I can’t keep. But can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Will you think about my job offer?”

  “I will.”

  “Will you be here tomorrow?”

  “First thing.”

  “And the next day?”

  “And the day after that.”

  “I guess that’s gotta be good enough. For now.”

  I smiled. How could I not? I turned and headed out of the room and down the hall to the stairs.

  “Cassie, just so you know …”

  I turned to face him.

  “It’s you … it’s always been you.”

  I braced myself on the balustrade.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “I did. I gotta go, Will.”

  Downstairs I yelled a “see you later” to Dell in the kitchen, who gave me a weird look. Then I snatched my purse from my locker and left, hot tears stinging my eyes. It wasn’t until I hit Chartres that I realized the front of my black T-shirt was covered in white plaster and bits of paint.

  12

  DAUPHINE

  THE DAYS OF only seeing photos of beautiful places were over. That was the first thought that came to me when I woke as Captain Nathan, in his soothing accent, announced the plane’s descent. I was expecting to see pasture out the window, but when I peered out, the sun was rising over a carpet of city, Buenos Aires stretching as far as I could see. Its scope took my breath away. I had read about the dazzling sprawl, but I was actually seeing it, and from high up. I’d never seen any city from this vantage point before, and it felt otherworldly, like having a superpower. Soon, I would be more than a mere observer. I’d be immersed in the city itself, the Paris of South America.

  I privately thanked S.E.C.R.E.T. and, while disembarking, quite publically thanked my pilot by kissing him on the cheek as I passed.

  “That’s for helping me,” I said.

  “The pleasure was all mine,” said Captain Nathan, tipping his pilot cap.

  Two drivers stood behind a placard with my name on it: one would take me to the hotel; the other would bring Carolina’s painting to a secure facility until the auction. Waiting for me in the back seat of a limo was a bowl of chilled fruit, pastries and hot coffee, which I savored along the way. I was ravenous, for food, for people, for life, my eyes scanning every detail out the window, as wide as saucers.

  All in one block, I saw neoclassical French facades, Italianate cupolas, art nouveau gates and modernist glass block rectangles wedged between six-story walkups, laundry strewn over every balcony. I couldn’t keep up with the feast of curves and cornices. People seemed oblivious to traffic lights, a hazard in a place where a quick turn off an eight-lane avenue could send you down a narrow one-way street with no sidewalks. So this is what it’s like, I thought, to be a stranger on an adventure in a new place. My senses were alive, my whole body tingling with possibility.

  My driver, Ernesto, was an eager tour guide, pointing out all the relevant signposts, like when the highway from the airport turned into Avenida 9 de julio, one of the widest streets in the world.

  “It is … comemorativo,” he said with a crisp accent, “this one celebrating Argentina’s independencia. Most streets in Buenos Aires are named in celebration of something or someone.”

  Approaching the hotel, we cruised through the heart of a dense and hectic neighborhood called Recoleta, a posh part of town, Ernesto said, where people still lined up to pay homage to Eva Perón in its famed cemetery.

  Stopping in front of the Alvear Palace Hotel felt like we were pulling up to a castle. I chastised myself for feeling like a princess, something from which I thought my workaholic tendencies had inoculated me. But there I was stepping out of the long, sleek car with Ernesto’s help, feeling utterly prized. A line of international flags whipped loudly in the wind, highlighting the fact that the hotel took up nearly an entire city block.

  “This will be your home for the next little while,” he said, removing his cap and bowing slightly.

  I caught a better look at his face. His creamy dark skin and slightly Asian eyes were an alluring mix; for someone so young, he had an air of gravitas about him.

  “It’s beautiful, thank you.”

  My bags disappeared through the gold doors and I quickly followed them. That regal feeling was heightened when I took the elevator to my eighth-floor suite, where I kicked off my shoes. My sitting room faced a street already choked with morning rush-hour traffic, but the triple-paned windows meant it was as silent as a tomb. Good lord, this was a real suite, the kind where you ate in a room separate from where you slept. I flung open the heavy, gold floor-to-ceiling curtains, my bare feet caressing the deep pile of the Oriental rug. The porter left clutching his tip, and I stood for a moment in the middle of the rooms, squeezing my fists. Then I let out a high-pitched cry of joy, ran to the bed and flung myself onto it.

  It was still a few days until the auction, the responsibility of which suddenly flooded my body. I was on a kind of mission, like a woman of mystery and intrigue, I decided. If I were afraid of anything, I would just pretend to be that woman, the fearless kind, the kind who took delicious pleasure thirty thousand feet up and received a suite of rooms for her daring.

  After a hot shower, I peeled back the downy layers of bedding and slid between the heavy covers. Just a quick nap, I thought. I hadn’t slept well on the plane. I closed my eyes and woke three hours later to a gentle knock on the door. I opened it to a bellhop, who rolled in a trolley. Perched between a carafe of coffee and a tray of crustless sandwiches was a thick, square envelope, Dauphine spelled out in that familiar S.E.C.R.E.T. scroll. It was odd, if not a little discombobulating, seeing something familiar in a place so far from home. I plucked the card off the tray and sliced it open with a butter knife. Step Four was traced out on one side of the heavy card stock, the word Generosity on the other, and beneath it the line “We are with you every Step, Dauphine.”

  It was happening! Another one.

  Suspended on a hook above the trolley was a thick garment bag that felt hefty as I carried it to the bed. I unzipped it, exposing a fanciful red dress, sequins on the bodice, cascading to a riot of feathers around the hips and legs. It looked like a giant crimson swan. I held it up against my body in front of a full-length mirror. An invitation to a midnight tango show came drifting out of its wings.

  Dancing? No. Not dancing. I avoided it almost as much as I avoided flying. As much as I loved music, I could never do more than nod to the beat in the dark corners of the clubs. Sometimes I danced alone in my apartment. I danced for Luke once, until I undermined the seduction by hamming it up, too self-conscious to pull off a real striptease. But the idea of dancing in front of strangers curdled my stomach. I wasn’t lean or graceful, unlike my sister.

  “If Bree only had Dauphine’s discipline, or Dauphine Bree’s thighs, we’d have had a ballerina in this family,” my mother often said. I think she thought it was a compliment, but it gutted me.

  I set aside my terror for a moment to marvel at the dress, the bodice’s expert construction, hand-stitched and lined strategically to soften the boning that held it stiff. Its asymmetrical hem suggested tango, for sure, and while red looked good on me, I can’t say that
this dress was my style. No. Not at all. A sweat broke across my brow. I could not, would not, dance in front of people. Not with my body, in that dress. And S.E.C.R.E.T., as Cassie and Matilda kept reminding me, was about doing everything you want, nothing you don’t.

  It was hours before the tango show. I hit the streets wearing my trench coat and comfortable shoes. Buenos Aires was cool, loud and busy, the mix of old and new clashing on every corner. And porteños seemed to love their outdoors spaces as much as New Orleanians. Even on a crisp fall day, the Plaza San Martín was full of strollers and cyclists, and dogs of various sizes were pulling on dozens of leashes held by incredibly strong walkers. I felt a warmth overcome me. Were it not for S.E.C.R.E.T., I’d never be sitting in the middle of a plaza across from the Casa Rosada watching old men—wearing well-made tweed coats—playing chess, while nearby couples caressed each other in the sun.

  I walked the neighborhoods from Recoleta to Palermo, from San Telmo to Boca, scouring second-hand shops, finding out who their suppliers were and how they priced goods. First thing I noticed in a city of tall, thin brunettes with aquiline noses (some inherited, most purchased) is that my curvy ”Americanness” stood out. Nothing I tried on in the vintage stores fit, which left some of the shop girls more mortified than I was.

  “Lo siento, señora,” said the tiny, nervous proprietor of a beautifully curated vintage store near the Recoleta cemetery. At another store I couldn’t do up a pencil skirt.

  “My darling,” said a kind, elderly store clerk in his perfect English. He’d sensed my funk while cashing out a set of tea towels and a linen tablecloth. “Do not let your body make you sad. It is a good body.”

  Thanking him, I left, carefully navigating the narrow sidewalks with the other pedestrians, trying unsuccessfully to act like a local as I tripped over the potholes while ogling the gargoyles and cupolas on some of the more stunning buildings.