S.E.C.R.E.T.: An Erotic Novel (10 page)

During the weeks that followed my first fantasy, I was as busy as I had ever been.
I even took on a couple of night shifts so Tracina and Will could go on dates. When
I waved goodbye to them one of those nights, I couldn’t detect an ounce of jealousy
or bitterness in my bones. Well, maybe a droplet of jealousy, but no bitterness. No
longing. No detectable sadness. I had made a vow to be nicer to Tracina, to try to
see what Will saw in her. Maybe we’d become friends, too, I thought, and Will could
make another attempt to set me up with someone—after I’d completed my Steps, of course.
At that moment, while I was thinking about double dating, Dell caught me whistling
in the walk-in fridge. I sometimes stood in there for a few minutes to cool down,
all the while pretending to look for something.

“What are you so happy about, girl?” she asked, lisping through her missing tooth.

“Life, Dell. It’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Not always, no.”

“I think it’s pretty grand,” I said.

“Well, goody for you,” she said as I headed back to the dining area. I left her scooping
out ice cream for a small birthday gathering of bankers.

My couple, my favorite fawning duo, hadn’t returned since the night Pauline dropped
her journal. But thoughts of their caresses were now replaced by lightning flashbacks,
my own memories of that man’s beautiful face between my thighs, of the hungry way
he looked at me, so deliberate, so keen. I thought of his fingers, how they engaged
at just the right moment, and how his firm hands guided and moved me, like I weighed
nothing, like I was made of feathers—

“Cassie, for crying out loud,” Dell yelled, snapping her fingers in front of my eyes.
“You keep on leaving the planet.”

I almost jumped out of my boring brown shoes. “Sorry!”

“Table eleven wants their bill, nine wants more coffee.”

“Yes. Right,” I said, noticing the two girls from table eight blankly staring at me.

Once I’d served the two tables, I went back to my thoughts. Dell had it wrong. I hadn’t
been fantasizing. I was remembering. Those things had actually happened. I was recalling
things that had been done to me, to my body. I gave my head a healthy shake. If this
is what it felt like after
Step One, what would it be like with a few more fantasies under my belt?

One day in early April, on my only day off that week, a cream-colored envelope arrived
in my mailbox. There was no stamp on it. It appeared to have been hand-delivered.
My heart leapt to my throat. I glanced down the street. Nobody. I ripped open the
envelope. Inside was the Step Two card, and the word
Courage
. There was also a single ticket for a jazz show at Halo, a bar on the roof of The
Saint Hotel, a newly built boutique hotel that was making its debut during this year’s
festival. Though I was no big music buff, even I knew these were hard tickets to get.
I looked at the date. Tonight! This wasn’t enough notice! I had nothing to wear! I
did this all the time, excuses, one after the other, building and building, until
the fear got so big it toppled any plan for adventure. That’s how it had always worked
for me. Somehow opening the door to my apartment to a stranger seemed easier to contemplate
than venturing out into the hot night on my own, walking into a bar by myself, and
sitting there alone, waiting for … what? What would I do while I waited? Read? Maybe
three or four weeks is too much time between fantasies. Maybe my courage had retreated.
Yet Step Two was about
Courage
, so I decided to concentrate on that, on staying open, the opposite of my usual way,
which was to begin my day with the
word
no
on my lips. That’s how, hours later, I was trying on little black dresses, and an
hour after that, sitting very still while coats of red lacquer were layered on my
fingers and toenails. The whole time, I told myself I could always back out if I wanted
to. I didn’t have to go through with anything. I could change my mind at any time.

That evening I grabbed my fantasy folder from my night-stand. What is it about going
out alone, seeing a movie alone, or enjoying dinner alone, that is so difficult? I
could never bring myself to do it, preferring to rent a movie at home rather than
sit alone in a darkened theater. But the alone part wasn’t what I was afraid of. The
alone part was easy; I’d felt alone my whole life, even when I was married. No, I
was afraid that everyone else, all those people, coupled and cozy, would see me as
one of The Great Unpicked, The Sadly Unselected, The Sexually Forgotten. I imagined
that they would point and whisper. I imagined that they would pity me. Even I treated
lone customers at the Café with extra care, like they were a little hard of hearing
or something. I may even have been guilty of hovering around their tables too much,
in my attempts to keep them company.

But maybe sometimes people who went out by themselves
wanted
to be alone. There are people like that: confident, solitary, secure with their own
company. Tracina, for instance, pays someone to take her fourteen-year-old brother
for ice cream every Saturday afternoon so she can lie on the couch and watch TV uninterrupted.
She once told me that going to the movies alone was one of her singular pleasures.

“I get to watch what I want, eat without sharing, and I don’t have to sit through
the credits like Will makes me when I’m with him,” she said.

But it’s easy to be alone when it’s a choice, harder when it’s your default position.

I was feeling pure terror about entering that jazz club, when Matilda’s Step Two advice
rang through my head. During a pep talk over the phone, she told me, “Fear is just
fear. We must take action in the face of it, Cassie, because action increases courage.”

Damn it. I could do this.

I called Danica to send the limo.

“It’s on the way, Cassie. Good luck,” she said.

Ten minutes later the limo turned the corner at Chartres off Mandeville, stopping
in front of the Spinster Hotel. Ah! I wasn’t ready! Shoes in hand, I took the stairs
in twos, running out barefoot past a very puzzled Anna Delmonte.

“It’s the second time I’ve seen that limousine parked in front of the house,” she
said as I whizzed by. “Do you know anything about it, Cassie? It’s so odd …”

“I’ll talk to him, Anna. Don’t worry. Or maybe the driver is a woman, right? You never
know.”

“I suppose …”

Without listening to the rest of her reply, I hopped into the limo and then put on
my shoes. I had a funny thought: imagine if Anna knew what I was up to! I wanted to
yell out:
I’m not a spinster! I’m alive for the first time in years!

As the limo sped me to Canal, I looked down at my dress,
a snug black number, tight at the bodice, flaring out at the skirt, leaving off just
below the knee. The top held me up in the right places and did a few favors for my
breasts, which even to me looked full and appealing against the black contour of the
halter. My shoes pinched a bit, but I knew they’d ease up as the night went on. Black
pumps will go with just about everything, I told myself, rationalizing how much I’d
spent on them. I had parted my hair to one side and dried it straight, holding the
front in place with a gold barrette. That was the only piece of jewelry I had on,
except, of course, my S.E.C.R.E.T. bracelet with its singular charm.

“You look lovely tonight, Miss Robichaud,” the driver said. I had the impression S.E.C.R.E.T.
staff members were told to keep a professional distance, something I imagined Danica
found hard to do. She seemed so irrepressible. My “thank you” barely made it through
the window opening before it closed between us.

My heart beat faster as we made turn after turn. I tried to clear my mind as Matilda
had instructed.
Try not to anticipate. Try to be in the moment
.

The limo came to a stop in front of The Saint. My hand was so sweaty it slipped on
the door handle, but the driver was already on the job, getting out and coming around
to open the door and help me out of the back seat.

“Good luck, my dear,” he said.

I nodded my appreciation and then stood for a moment, watching the beautiful people
of the city stream in and out of the main doors—leggy, bold women, trailing perfume
and confidence, the men, looking so proud to be seen with them. Then there was me.
I realized I’d forgotten to wear perfume. My hair, pulled straight an hour ago, was
starting to frizz up. The thought that this fantasy would play out in public made
my fearful heart drop. That’s where hearts should sit, I thought, deep in the gut,
where there is more insulation to hide their anxious beating. And yet, nervous as
I was, I was also … curious. I took a deep breath and headed inside and straight for
the elevators.

A small man in a hotel uniform appeared on my left.

“Can I see your ticket?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, digging in my clutch. “Here.”

He eyed the ticket, then me, clearing his throat.

“Well, then,” he said, pressing the up button. “Welcome to The Saint. We hope you’ll
enjoy your stay.”

“Oh, I’m not staying here. I’m only meeting … well, seeing … 
hearing
, just hearing the music.”

“Of course. Have a lovely evening,” he said, bowing and then backing away from me.

The elevator swallowed me up, its ascent wreaking havoc with my already churning stomach.
I closed my eyes and leaned up against the cool mirrored wall, holding tight to the
rail. As the elevator car neared the penthouse club, I could hear muffled music, many
voices. The doors opened to dozens of smartly dressed people clustered in the dim
lobby, more still in the dark bar beyond the glass doors. It took superhuman strength
for me to peel my fingers from the rail, leave the safe confines of the elevator and
launch myself into the crowd.

Each person was holding a glass of champagne and was engaged in what seemed to be
an interesting conversation. Some women glanced over their shoulders at me the way
you’d look at a potential opponent. Their male companions assessed me too. Were those
looks of … interest? No. Couldn’t be. No way. I moved slowly through the crowd, keeping
my eyes lowered, yet wondering what the hell I was doing in such a swishy place. I
saw some local luminaries, Kay Ladoucer from city council, who also chaired several
prominent charities. She was carrying on an animated conversation with Pierre Castille,
the handsome billionaire land developer known for being a reclusive bachelor. He looked
my way and I averted my eyes. Then I realized what he was actually looking at. Beside
me were gathered several young and coltish daughters of Southern gentry, the kind
of girls whose photographs you see in the
Times-Picayune
society pages.

The Smoking Time Jazz Club band was going to be playing tonight, but they hadn’t yet
taken the stage. I had heard them before at the Blue Nile. I loved the lead singer,
a quirky girl with a partly shaved head and a powerful, hypnotic voice. But I wasn’t
here just to enjoy the music. Who was I meeting, and how would things unfold? Despite
my nervousness, I could not avoid noticing a tall, attractive man talking with a long-legged
woman wearing a brave red dress. As I watched (discreetly, I thought), he dismissed
her and made his way over to me. All the air left my body as he blocked my path to
the bar.

“Hello,” he said, smiling. With his green eyes and blond hair he looked as though
he’d stepped out of a magazine. He wore a beautifully tailored charcoal gray suit
with a white shirt. His tie was thin and black. He seemed a little younger than the
masseur, and more muscular too. I glanced over at the woman in the red dress, whose
posture seemed to suggest defeat. He had left off talking to her to cross the room
and greet
me
? Was he crazy?

“I’m … I’m Cassie,” I said, hoping he couldn’t sense my anxious thoughts.

“I see you don’t have a drink. Let me get you one,” he said, placing his hand on the
small of my back and guiding me through the thickening crowd towards the bar.

“Oh. Yes. Why not?” The band was taking the stage. I could hear them warming up.

“What about your … companion?” I asked.

“What companion?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

I glanced over my shoulder to where the woman had stood. She was gone.

He pulled out an empty stool at the bar and gestured for me to sit. Then he leaned
towards me, moving a strand of hair behind my ear so that he could put his mouth close
to it. I felt his warm breath. I couldn’t help but close my eyes and lean into him.

“Cassie, I’ve ordered you some champagne,” he said. “I’m going to check on something.
While I’m away, I want you to do me a favor.” He put a finger to my jawline and gently
traced it. He was looking deep into my eyes. The
man was beguiling, his beautiful mouth just an inch away from my own.

“While I’m gone, take off your panties. Drop them on the floor under the bar. But
don’t let anyone see.”