“Well, judging from the turnout, it was the best idea ever.”
Matilda paused for a moment to marvel over the mint juleps placed before us on a tray. I grabbed one, sucking it back so fast I gave myself an instant headache.
“You drank that like a thirsty trucker,” she said, carefully lifting a glass off the tray.
“I’m a nervous wreck,” I said.
“Well, you don’t look rattled.”
“Tracina’s here too,” I said. “She’s downstairs. With the baby.”
“Wonderful. I just love to start a new year with a bit of forgiveness for old transgressions. It’s very good for the skin. Speaking of flesh, there is an interesting opportunity coming up in S.E.C.R.E.T. I thought I’d offer it to you first.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “We can talk about it tomorrow,” she said. “But I think it will be great fun.”
Angela bounded up to us, wearing a chic pantsuit, her hair scalloped and pinned like a flapper’s.
“Were you just talking about fun?” she asked, plucking the olive out of her drink. “Because it is here.”
After a few minutes, I left Matilda chatting with Angela and went to poke around downstairs. I found Tracina in the kitchen marveling over Dell’s delicious dishes, and Dell and Maureen marveling over the delicious baby. I smiled at the scene. Everything felt so right, so good, so full of love and promise after all those secrets and lies. I had a sudden desperate urge to be at Will’s side, and when I left them to go back upstairs, I was kind of shocked to find a party in full, pre-midnight countdown. Couples began to pair off in the dark. I looked around and finally spotted Will, who was wildly gesturing to me.
Had he been looking for me?
I took a deep breath and made that long, anxious walk across the room, cursing the crowds, remembering back when it was just us, that first time on the old ratty mattress after the burlesque show, and again, not so long ago on a different mattress in this same room …
“… TEN, NINE …”
To say that brief walk towards him was an out-of-body experience would not be an exaggeration.
“… FIVE, FOUR …”
His face looked so expectant, his smile so open to me.
“… THREE, TWO …”
“… ONE!”
I landed next to Will just as a flood of lights hit us, so bright and intense I had to use my hand as a visor to protect my eyes. What the hell? Oh! Right! The camera’s spotlight. This was the interview. Will had been calling me over not for a new year’s kiss but for an interview with an impossibly young, impossibly cute female TV producer.
“Cassie, happy new year! So nice to meet you!” the producer said, pushing back her thick, hipster grandpa glasses.
Will and I stood next to each other with the stiffness of the couple in American Gothic as the camera panned over the dark crowd to us.
“Get close!” the producer yelled over the jubilation in the background.
Will threw an awkward arm around me. I looked up at his face, but his eyes remained firmly fixed on the producer. I pulled my lips into a tense smile.
“So … we’re rolling. Tell us where we are tonight, Will!” she yelled.
“We’re at the opening of our new restaurant, Cassie’s, an upscale comfort food experience on Frenchmen!”
“I hear you named the restaurant after this lovely woman standing next to you. She must be very special.”
“Cassie’s my business partner!” he said, giving me a jocular jolt, like you would a sister or a classmate. “She owns half the place, so it’s not like I had a choice!”
Hahaha. What?
“Cassie, how are you feeling tonight?” the producer asked, putting the microphone in front of me.
I looked at it for a second, clearing my throat. “Nervous. Excited …” I was seized by sudden inarticulateness. Doom crept up my body. I wrapped my hands around the microphone and pulled it in closer.
“We’re confident Cassie’s is exactly what Frenchmen Street needs right now. This place is warm, sexy, a place that combines the best of Southern home-cooking with a bit of grown-up glamour. Our menu puts a fresh nouveau spin on Southern hospitality. And our wine list is incredible. Half American, half French, just like the city itself.”
“And we’ll have live music from time to time,” Will added, his arm still draped around me.
After the producer thanked us and lowered her mike, the camera light flicked off and Will swiftly dropped his arm.
“Perfect! Cassie, you gave me the clip I needed,” said the producer. “Thank you both so much. I’m going to rush back to get this on the 1 a.m. roundup,” she said.
“No. Stay for one drink,” Will insisted. “Surely your crew can bring the tape back so you can stay for a toast.”
“Yeah!” I said, trying to muster the same enthusiasm as Will. “Stay for a drink!”
“Well, I suppose it is New Year’s Eve,” she said, taking off her glasses. She turned to her cameraman to instruct him to head back to the station without her.
“Great! Let me get you some champagne,” Will said. “And Cassie, I also insist on closing up. You don’t need to stay to the bitter end. You’ve been here since the morning.”
My heart sank even further. He could barely touch me during the interview and now he was trying to get rid of me so he could flirt with some sweet young producer girl.
“You sure you don’t mind?” I asked evenly.
“Absolutely not,” he said.
“Cool. Thanks,” I replied, backing away.
“You should be with your boyfriend on New Year’s Eve. The party’s winding down anyway.”
Was that hurt, anger or, worse, antipathy I noted in his voice? I didn’t stick around to find out. I left him with the cute producer and did one last painful circle of the room. Then I took out my phone and texted Jesse.
Leave your door open. I’m on my way.
Matilda once said the hallmark of adulthood is knowing when it’s time to leave. Suddenly, I felt all grown-up.
Jesse’s door was unlocked when I arrived. I eased it open, carefully removing my sparkly heels in the darkened foyer, throwing my coat across the back of an armchair. I quietly padded to Jesse’s bedroom, clutching my S.E.C.R.E.T. bracelet to my wrist to stop the tiny tinkling sound from traveling down the hall. I thought the light under his bedroom door meant he was still up. But alas, when I cracked it open, there Jesse was, fast asleep, his son Finn’s surprisingly long legs splayed across his thigh, both of them gently snoozing. I didn’t know kids, so I had nothing to measure him against, but he looked big for a six- or seven-year-old. It was a touching tableau, too touching to disturb, so I shut the door and tiptoed back to the foyer, grabbed my coat and threw it back on. Outside on the porch, I dug around for my cell and called back the taxi that had just dropped me off. I shivered on the steps waiting. That’s when I noticed another text, this one from Will.
Didn’t see you leave. It was a great night, Cassie. Thanks for being by my side on this. See you tomorrow. X W
My heart skipped at that stupid little X. I felt like an idiot teen, grabbing at any sign a boy liked me. What was I doing huddled on a dark porch in the middle of a cold night pining over an X? Because hard times are harder alone, but worse is having good things happen and no one with whom to celebrate. How nice it would have been to toast Will on New Year’s Eve, in our restaurant, after everyone had left: a couple of snifters of brandy, a kiss in silhouette—
“Hey.”
I jumped. It was Jesse, shirtless, loose pajama bottoms slung around his lean torso, his arms crossed tight around him.
“Sorry, babe. I fell asleep. Finn must have crawled in. Been trying to get him to break that habit.”
“It’s okay. Go inside, it’s cold. Cab’s turning around.”
“I’ll put him back in his bed,” he whispered, crouching to put his arms around me. His nose nuzzled my hair.
He gave a full-body shiver and I rubbed his forearms vigor
ously.
“He might wake up again,” I said. “I don’t want this to be how we meet. I didn’t even know his name until today. Finn. It’s cute. I like it.”
“You sure you don’t want to wait inside?”
“No. It’s okay.”
“I’ll call you in a few days,” he said, kissing the back of my head and ducking back into the house.
I had to laugh.
Minutes later, my head pressed against the cold taxi window, I made another resolution: I was not going to make my life about the guy, about any guy. I was going to devote myself to Cassie’s, which was not just my business but my investment, my calling, my future, my life. I was also going to say yes to the thing Matilda had talked about, no matter what it was. After tonight, I was to be a woman about my work. I would look after my own passions. I was not going to be about a man.
At home, I threw my little red dress on the back of a kitchen chair, too tired to hang it, and I collapsed into bed. I was soon joined by Dixie, who wasn’t looking for love or affection either, just a warm body, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.
SOLANGE
January was a blur of work and carpools. Julius’s food truck business was taking off and now his schedule was the moving target. But early February meant the ramp up to Mardi Gras, and more than once, poor Gus found himself coloring on the glass coffee table in my office, killing time after school until his dad could pick him up. I had to swallow my complaints because there had been years and years of Julius picking up the parenting slack while I was chasing stories or on a stakeout that went longer than planned.
“Why’s Dad taking so long? I’m bored,” he said, playing a game on my phone in my office, the coloring books no longer capturing his attention.
“I’m sorry you’re bored, baby,” I said, peering over the half-dozen vases stuffed with flowers on my desk. “You have two busy parents doing their best.”
Were we doing our best? His dad was busy trying to get a business venture off the ground and his mom was trying to reclaim her sex life. I felt mother’s guilt spread through me in a cold wave.
I checked my watch. Matilda and I were to celebrate that night. My port lands story, the one I broke last year that landed a bunch of politicians in jail, had been nominated for a local Emmy that morning. Or rather, I had been nominated, hence the flowers.
Just then Julius rounded the corner of my office carrying a fistful of yellow roses.
“Hey! Sorry I’m late! Heard about the nomination on the radio. Way to go, Solange,” he said, grinning. When I hugged him, he lifted me right off my feet with an intimacy that turned the heads of a few people in the newsroom.
“Yes, well, thanks,” I said as he set me down again. I tucked my blouse back into my skirt.
“You’re gonna wiii-iiin,” Gus singsonged.
“What makes you so sure of that, buddy?” I asked, as Julius gathered up his son’s jacket, backpack and several toys strewn about my office floor, and I plucked my phone from the kid’s hands.
“ ’Cause you’re the Formidable Solange Faraday,” Gus said.
Julius cocked an eyebrow at me.
“Uh, I see,” I said, uncertain whether Gus meant it as a compliment. It’s true that when I wanted something I went after it at all costs; I’d taught my son that was how you achieved success. Was it wrong to be formidable?
“Okay, let’s go, bud,” Julius said, not wanting to linger on the topic of ambition a second longer. “See you in a few days, Solange. And try to have some fun tonight. Let loose. Celebrate!”
“I will, thanks,” I said, and kissed Gus good-bye. I wanted to add, I’m not all work, Jules. I play too. In fact, after my celebratory dinner, which will, admittedly, involve a bit of work, fun does await me. More fun than you could ever imagine me having.
But getting nominated for that story made me hungry for another notch in my journalistic belt, one I hoped Matilda could help me carve.
By now, we had a regular table at Tracey’s, a tippy two-top near the server area in front of the kitchen. Matilda was already waiting for me, with yet another clutch of flowers—four oversize peonies, my favorites—and two glasses of champagne. As much as I was enjoying the fantasies and looking forward to more, I was also relishing newfound female companionship. Before S.E.C.R.E.T., I had no idea how much I missed that. And because she was so smart, challenging and honest, Matilda’s company was particularly welcome. She had a lot in common with Marsha Lang, minus all the worries about staying on top and looking good while doing it.
“Congratulations, my dear,” she said, clinking her glass to mine. “Here’s to uncovering more great stories in this great city.”
More great stories. Yes! This was my in.
“Since we’re on the topic of great stories, do you know who’d be my dream ‘get’—the person I’d really like to interview?”
“Michelle Obama?”
“No, I mean locally.”
“Who?”
“Pierre Castille, the Bayou Billionaire. Don’t you think he’d be fascinating?”
“I imagine he’s a busy man.”
She had an amazing poker face. Ever since I saw Pierre Castille drunkenly escorted from the S.E.C.R.E.T. charity event, I had been convinced that there was a link between him and S.E.C.R.E.T. But Matilda was giving nothing away. Realizing the roundabout method wasn’t working, I set down my utensils and clasped my hands together on the table. After more than twenty years as a journalist, I had learned there are times when you have to lay your cards on the table.
“Matilda, I know you know Pierre Castille. I know you’re associated with him in some way. Further, I think you know how to reach him.”
She studied my face placidly. “What’s your particular fascination with Mr. Castille?”
“I told you. He’s a local big shot, a power player in a city where a lot of powerless people live. And he’s elusive. No other news network has interviewed him, so that would be a feather in my cap. And I’d like to ask him some questions about his plans for some land he owns and how his fortune could be better used to—”
Matilda exhaled. “He was a recruit, Solange. In S.E.C.R.E.T. As I’m sure you’ve suspected.”
I had suspected, but still, I tried to mask my astonishment.
“Really? And what happened?”
“Without going into great detail, he pulled some stunts that left our organization in a potentially compromised situation, both economically and in terms of our anonymity. Last year he behaved fraudulently, almost criminally, towards a candidate. So yes, we were associated with Mr. Castille. But we did not escape that association unscathed, my dear. No one does. Not even, I suspect, the Formidable Solange Faraday.”
Twice in one day people close to me had called me formidable. This time, though, I saw it wasn’t a compliment. This time, it was a warning, but one I tried to ignore.
“I’m not sure I quite follow. If S.E.C.R.E.T. was in financial trouble, why did your organization give away fifteen million dollars last year?”
“That was Pierre’s money,” Matilda said, and she went on to explain how Pierre had fraudulently purchased a painting meant to finance S.E.C.R.E.T. for several years to come. “If we’d kept that money, he’d have effectively become our benefactor. And that’s exactly what he wanted—for us to be under his control. We couldn’t have that.”
What a shocking story this would make, filled with intrigue, sex and a tainted fifteen-million-dollar deal.
“Well, I should warn you that I am going to put in a request for a feature interview with him,” I said. “But I’ll steer clear of topics that might … inflame him.” If there was a way to expose Pierre without inadvertently exposing anyone in S.E.C.R.E.T., especially myself, I wanted to find it.
“Putting in the request and having it granted are two different things,” she said. “He’s a tough man to coax into the sunlight.”
Matilda downed the rest of her champagne and then shook her head as thoug
h to clear it of bad memories. Tonight’s prying session was officially over.
“That’s as much attention as I’d like to pay to that man. Because you, my dear, have a lot more to celebrate. Your night is just beginning, after all,” she said, signaling for the bill.
Of course! I had momentarily forgotten the other purpose of our dinner—my Step Four fantasy was meant to begin from here.
“Ready?”
I glanced around the crowded sports bar. “As I’ll ever be!”
Matilda dug into her purse and pulled out a set of car keys. I looked at the logo on the chain and burst out laughing.
“Are you kidding me? A Rolls?”
She dropped the keys into my palm.
“Rolls-Royce Phantom. You have the car for twenty-four hours. The GPS has been pre-programmed. Just hit ‘Go’ on the main menu and follow the directions.”
“It’s so much car! It’s too much car!”
“It is a lot of car. We’re nothing if not generous. But you’ll … need the room.”
Right. “And what am I looking for exactly?”
Matilda glanced around the restaurant and leaned a little closer to me. “You’ll know,” she whispered.
I thanked her and said good-bye, spinning the key chain around my index finger as I made my way to the door.
The Rolls was parked boldly right in front of Tracey’s on Magazine. A few stray smokers, all men, heard me beep it open with my key chain. A long, slow whistle accompanied me as I strutted around to the driver’s side to slink in, just in time to avoid the rain. I’d never be sure if that whistle was for me or the car, but it didn’t matter.
Inside, the buttery leather seats and that dense smell of new-car luxury gave me a momentary high. I felt around for the windshield wiper controls and cued up the GPS system. A smooth female voice instructed me to Please drive to the highlighted route. I buckled up, threw the Rolls into gear and started off, my bracelet and three charms jangling with my every rotation of the upholstered wheel.
The GPS voice was relaxing, sexy. The directions took me out of the downtown core, out of the city, past the park and down towards the 90. With every rainy mile, I was putting work concerns behind me. I’d figure out some way to get at the Pierre story some other time. Tonight was for me. I wanted to say, See, Julius? I’m not all work, no pleasure. You can have both. You can.
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