S.E.C.R.E.T.: An Erotic Novel (2 page)

“Here you go,” I said, my voice rising an octave. I slid the bill on the part of the
table not covered by their limbs. They seemed astonished by my presence.

“Oh. Thanks!” the woman said, straightening.

“Was everything okay?” I asked. Why was I feeling shy towards them?

“Perfect as always,” she said.

“It was great, thanks,” the man added, digging for his wallet.

“Let me get this one. You always pay.” The woman leaned sideways and pulled her wallet
from her purse and gave me a credit card. Her bracelet tinkled as she moved. “Here
you go, sweetheart.” She was my age and calling me “sweetheart”?
Her confidence let her get away with it. When I took the credit card, I thought I
saw concern flash across her eyes. Was she noticing my stained brown work shirt? The
one I always wore because it matched the color of the food that ended up on it? I
felt suddenly aware of my appearance. I also realized I wasn’t wearing any makeup.
Oh God, and my shoes—brown and flat. No stockings—ankle socks, if you can believe
it. What had happened to me? When had I turned prematurely into a middle-aged frump?

My face burned as I walked away, shoving the credit card in my apron. I headed straight
for the washroom to splash cold water on my face. I smoothed down my apron and looked
in the mirror. I wore brown clothing because it was practical. I can’t wear a dress.
I am a waitress. As for my messy ponytail, hair has to be tied back. It’s regulation.
I supposed I could comb it back more smoothly, instead of sloppily wrapping it up
in an elastic like a clutch of asparagus. My shoes were the shoes of a woman who hadn’t
given a lot of thought to her feet, despite how nice I’ve been told mine are. And
it’s true that I hadn’t had a professional manicure since the night before my wedding.
But those things are a waste of money. Still, how had I let it come to this? I had
officially let myself go. Five Years lay slumped against the bathroom door, exhausted.
I returned to the table with the credit card slip, avoiding eye contact with either
of them.

“Have you worked here long?” the man asked, while the woman scribbled her signature.

“About four years.”

“You’re very good at your job.”

“Thank you.” I felt heat rise in my face.

“We’ll see you next week,” the woman said. “I just love this old place.”

“It’s seen better days.”

“It’s perfect for us,” she added, handing me the bill and winking at her man.

I looked at her signature, expecting something florid and interesting.
Pauline Davis
seemed plain and small, which was kind of reassuring to me in that moment.

My eyes followed the couple as they left, walking past the tables and outside, where
they kissed and parted ways. As she passed the front window, the woman glanced in
at me and waved. I must have looked like such a dork, standing there staring at them.
I waved meekly back at her through the dusty glass.

My trance was broken by an elderly woman sitting at the next table. “That lady dropped
something,” she said, pointing under the table.

I bent to retrieve a small, burgundy notebook. It looked well worn and was soft to
the touch, like skin. The cover had the initials
PD
embossed in gold, the same gold edging the pages. I gingerly opened it to the first
page, looking for Pauline’s address or number, and accidentally caught a glimpse of
the contents:
“… his mouth on me … never felt so alive … it shot through me like a white-hot … coming
over me in waves, swirling … bent me over the …”

I slapped the diary shut.

“You might be able to catch her,” said the woman, slowly chewing a pastry. I noticed
she was missing a front tooth.

“Probably too late,” I said. “I’ll … just hold on to it. She’s in here a lot.”

The woman shrugged and pulled another strip off her croissant. I tucked the notebook
into my waitressing pouch, a shiver of excitement running up my spine. For the rest
of my shift, until Tracina arrived in her impatient bubble-gum haze, spiral curls
bouncing in her high ponytail, the notebook felt alive in my front pocket. For the
first time in a long time, New Orleans at dusk didn’t seem quite as lonely.

On my walk home, I counted the years. It had been six since Scott and I first came
to New Orleans from Detroit to start over. Housing was cheap and Scott had just lost
the last job he ever hoped to hold in the auto industry. We both thought a fresh start
in a new city looking to rebuild itself after a hurricane would be a good backdrop
for a marriage hoping to do the same thing.

We found a cute little blue house on Dauphine Street, in Marigny, where other young
people were flocking. I had some luck finding a job as a vet’s assistant at an animal
shelter in Metairie. But Scott blew through several positions on the rigs and then
he blew two years of sobriety when a night of drinking turned into a two-week bender.
After he hit me for the second time in two years, I knew it was over. I suddenly
got the sense of how much effort it had taken him to hold off hitting me since the
first time he’d taken a drunken fist to my face. I moved a few blocks away to a one-bedroom
apartment, the first and only place I looked at.

One night a few months later, Scott called to see if I’d meet him at Café Rose so
he could make amends for his behavior, and I agreed. He’d stopped drinking, he said,
this time for good. But his apologies sounded hollow and his demeanor still flinty
and defensive. By the end of our meal I was fighting back tears and he was standing
over me hissing a final few
sorry
s over my lowered head.

“I
do
mean it. I know I don’t sound sorry, but in my heart, Cassie, I live every day with
what I did to you. I don’t know how to make you get over it,” he said, and then he
stormed out.

Of course he left me with the bill.

On my way out, I noticed the job posting for a lunch waitress. I had long been thinking
about quitting my job at the vet clinic. There I took care of the cats and walked
the dogs on the afternoon shift, but the post-Katrina strays weren’t getting adopted,
so my job mostly consisted of shaving spots on the skinny legs of otherwise healthy
animals in preparation for euthanasia. I began to hate going to work every day. I
hated looking into those sad, tired eyes. That night I filled out an application for
the restaurant.

That was also the night the road washed out near Parlange, and Scott drove his car
into False River and drowned.

I did wonder whether it was an accident or a suicide, but fortunately our insurance
company didn’t question it—he
was sober, after all. And since the guardrails had rusted at the bolts, I received
a healthy settlement from the county. But what was Scott doing out there that night
anyway? It was so like him to make a grandiose exit that would leave me laden with
guilt. I wasn’t happy to see him dead. But I wasn’t sad either. And it was there,
in that numb limbo, that I had remained ever since.

Two days after flying back from his funeral in Ann Arbor—where I sat alone because
Scott’s family blamed me for his death—I got a phone call from Will. At first, his
voice kind of threw me, its timbre so much like Scott’s, minus the slurring.

“Am I speaking with Cassie Robichaud?”

“You are. Who’s this?”

“My name’s Will Foret. I own Café Rose? You dropped off a résumé last week. We’re
looking for someone to start right away for the breakfast and lunch shift. I know
you don’t have a lot of experience, but I got a good vibe from you when we met the
other day, and—”

A good vibe?

“When did we meet?”

“When you, uh, dropped off your résumé.”

“I’m sorry, of course I remember. Sorry, yes, I could come in on Thursday.”

“Thursday’s good. How about ten-thirty. I’ll show you the ropes.”

Forty-eight hours later, I was shaking Will’s hand, and shaking my head at the fact
that I actually hadn’t remembered
him—that’s how out of it I’d been that night. We joke about it now (“Yeah, the time
I completely bowled you over with my first impression,
that you don’t even remember!
”), but I was in such a fog after that fight with Scott that I could have spoken with
Brad Pitt and failed to notice. So meeting Will again, I was taken aback at how unassumingly
handsome he was.

Will didn’t promise I’d make great money; the Café is just a bit north of the hot
spots, and isn’t open at night. He mentioned something about expanding upstairs, but
that was years away.

“Mostly locals hang out and eat here. Tim and the guys from Michael’s bike shop. Lotta
musicians. Some you’ll find sleeping in the doorway because they’ve played on the
stoop all night. Local characters who like to linger for hours. But they all drink
a lot of coffee.”

“Sounds good.”

His job training consisted of an unenthusiastic tour where he pointed and mumbled
instructions on how to use the dishwasher and the coffee grinder and where he kept
the cleaning supplies.

“City says you have to wear your hair tied back. Other than that, I’m not too picky.
We don’t have uniforms, but it’s a fast turnaround at lunch, so be practical.”

“ ‘Practical’ is my middle name,” I said.

“I do plan to renovate,” he said, when he saw me noticing a chip in the tile floor
and, later, a wobbly ceiling fan. The place was run-down but homey and only a ten-minute
walk from my apartment at Chartres and Mandeville. He told
me he named it Café Rose after Rose Nicaud, an ex-slave who used to sell her own blend
of coffee from a cart on the streets of New Orleans. Will was distantly related to
her on his mother’s side, he said.

“You should see our family reunion pictures. It’s like a group shot from the United
Nations. Every color represented … So? You want the job?”

I nodded enthusiastically, and Will shook my hand again.

After that, my life shrunk to a few essential blocks of Marigny. Maybe I’d go to Tremé
to hear Angela Rejean, one of Tracina’s friends who worked at Maison. Or I’d wander
antique or second-hand shops on Magazine. But I rarely went beyond those neighborhoods,
and stopped going to the Museum of Art or Audubon Park altogether. In fact, it may
be strange to say, but I could have gone the rest of my life in the city without ever
seeing the water.

I did mourn. After all, Scott was the first and only man I’d ever been with. I’d break
down crying at odd times, while on a bus or in the middle of brushing my teeth. Waking
from a long nap in a darkened bedroom always triggered tears. But it wasn’t just Scott
I mourned. I mourned the loss of nearly fifteen years of my life spent listening to
his constant put-downs and complaints. And that’s what I was left with. I didn’t know
how to shut off the critical voice that, in Scott’s absence, continued to note my
flaws and highlight my mistakes.
How come you haven’t joined a gym? No one wants a woman over thirty-five. All you
do is watch TV. You could be so much prettier if you just made an effort
. Five Years.

I threw myself into work. The pace suited me well. We served the only breakfast on
the street, nothing fancy: eggs any way, sausage, toast, fruit, yogurt, pastries and
croissants. Lunch was never elaborate: soups and sandwiches, or sometimes a one-pot
dish like bouillabaisse, lentil stew or a jambalaya if Dell came in early and felt
like whipping something up. She was a better cook than a waitress, but she couldn’t
stand being in the kitchen all day.

I only worked four days a week, from nine to four, sometimes later if I stuck around
for a meal and a visit with Will. If Tracina was running late, I’d start her tables
for her. I never complained. I always kept busy.

I could have made more money in the afternoons, but I liked the morning shift. I loved
hosing the night’s dirt off the grimy sidewalk first thing in the morning. I loved
how the sun freckled the patio tables. I loved stocking the pastry display case, while
the coffee brewed and the soup simmered. I loved taking my time to cash out, spreading
my money on one of the tippy tables by the big front windows. But there was always
something lonely about heading home.

My life began to take on a steady, reliable rhythm: work, home, read, sleep. Work,
home, read, sleep. Work,
movie
, home, read, sleep. It wouldn’t have taken a superhuman effort to shift out of it,
but I just couldn’t make a change.

I thought that after a while I would automatically start living again, dating even.
I thought there’d be a magical day when the rut would fill itself in, and I’d join
the world
again. Like a switch would turn on. The idea of taking a course crossed my mind. Finishing
my degree. But I was too numb to commit. I was slouching towards middle age with no
brakes on, my fat calico cat, Dixie, a former stray, aging right along with me.

“You say you have a fat cat like it’s something that
she
caused,” Scott used to say to me. “She didn’t get here fat. You did this to her.”