S.E.C.R.E.T.: An Erotic Novel (14 page)

T
hree weeks after my near resignation, my Step Four card arrived the old-fashioned
way, by mail. I took the stairs back up to my apartment two at a time, feeling as
excited to see those envelopes as I did contemplating the fantasies. It was like getting
an invitation to an amazing party every month. Thoughts of Jesse would creep in now
and again, mostly leaving me marveling that S.E.C.R.E.T. had picked him, a tattooed
pastry chef, as my “type.” But they were right. It made me realize that I’d chosen
men, crushes, dates from such a narrow field. But I didn’t regret my decision to stay
in S.E.C.R.E.T. I was discovering too much about myself to stop now. Still, sometimes
a memory of his arms, his wicked smile, would flash cross my mind and send a shiver
through my whole body.

I ripped open the manila envelope. The smaller, more ornate one slipped out. My Step
Four card. The word
Generosity
was elegantly printed on the back. Inside was an invitation for a home-cooked meal
at the Mansion on the
second Friday of the month. The Mansion. A home-cooked meal. Generosity indeed! The
dress code, however, seemed weirdly specific:
Please wear black yoga pants, a plain white T-shirt, hair in a ponytail, sneakers,
very little makeup
. A part of me was a little disappointed that I’d be going to the Mansion but wouldn’t
be allowed to wear something ultra-sexy or sophisticated. Oh well, at least I wouldn’t
have to go shopping beforehand. And at least I would finally be going to the Mansion,
this mythical place that had seized my imagination in both good and slightly scary
ways.

My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Will! I had promised him I would
go with him to a restaurant supply auction in Metairie. We needed new trays, new chairs
to replace the constantly fraying ones, and a sturdier prep table as ours had become
mysteriously tippy. Will was also on the lookout for a dough mixer and a deep-fryer
so we could start making our own pastries and maybe even beignets. Normally he would
have asked Tracina to go with him, but her ankle was still on the mend. She didn’t
need crutches anymore, but she was nevertheless limping around the dining room, making
Will feel guilty about the accident. She even jokingly suggested that had she not
been dating him, she might have sued. I’m not sure she was kidding. I was to be Will’s
substitute girlfriend for the day.

“Be right there!” I yelled.

I shoved the envelope into my folder, slipped the folder between my mattresses and
raced to the door, interrupting
Will’s second knock. He had on one of the shirts I loved best on him, a muted red
button-up that Tracina had bought. As much as she bugged me, I had to admit she was
getting him to dress a lot better, had even convinced him to cut his hair a bit shorter.

“Hi! Right. Come in.”

“I’m double-parked. Just come down when you’re ready. You didn’t hear my honking?”

“Sorry, no, I was … vacuuming.”

Will glanced around my disheveled place, my unvacuumed living room. “Right,” he said.
“I’ll be downstairs.”

Will was distant and distracted on the short trip, changing the radio station whenever
a song he didn’t like came on, or if a good one was followed by a loud commercial.

“You seem jumpy,” I said.

“I’m a little off, I guess.”

“What’s got you feeling off?”

“What do you care?”

“What do you mean ‘what do you care’? I’m your friend. Thought I’d ask.”

Will was silent for half a mile after that. I eventually turned away from him to take
in the scenery. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Are things with you and Tracina
okay? I saw the little tiff over the car the other day.”

“They’re peachy, Cassie. Thank you for asking.”

Whoa. I couldn’t remember a time when Will had been so short with me. “Okay, then,”
I said. “I won’t pry anymore. But if I knew you were going to be such crappy company
today, I wouldn’t have come. It’s Sunday. My day off, remember? I thought this would
be kind of fun, but—”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupted. “You’re not having
fun
? I should work a bit harder so you can have
fun
. Should I also stop interrupting your conversations with your new fun friends at
work?”

He was talking about Matilda. I had asked her not to come by the restaurant so much,
but the other day, after our talk about Jesse, Will had made a remark about how I
shouldn’t sit with customers when I’m working.

“She’s a regular that I’m getting to know as a friend, is all. What is so wrong with
that?”

“A regular customer who buys you jewelry to match her own?” He glanced over at the
bracelet resting against my thigh. I loved its hammer finish, its pale gold sheen.
It was so pretty, I couldn’t help but wear it once I’d started to collect charms.

“This?” I said, holding up my wrist. “This. I … got it from a friend of hers. A friend
of hers who makes them. I admired it and I wanted one too. That’s what girls do, Will.”
I hoped I sounded convincing.

“How much did it cost? It looks like eighteen-karat gold.”

“I saved for it. But that’s really none of your business.”

Will sighed and then went silent again.

“Am I not allowed to talk to our customers now, is that it? Because I gotta say, I
work hard and that restaurant means a lot to me too. You know that I’d do anything
to—”

“I’m sorry.”

“—to—”

“
Listen
to me, Cassie. I am sorry. For real. I don’t know why I’m so … Things are good with
Tracina. But she’s looking for … She wants to take things to the next level, and I’m
not sure I’m ready, you know? So yes, I’m a little antsy. I’m a little on edge about
things.”

“Are you talking about
marriage
?” I nearly choked out the word. Why? I had rejected Will. Of course he should marry
the girl he loves, right?

“No! God no. I mean like living together … but yeah, eventually marriage is what she
wants.”

“Is that what you want, Will?”

It was near high noon. The sun was pouring in through the sunroof, heating the tops
of our heads. It was making me a little dizzy.

“Sure it is. I mean, why not, right? Why wouldn’t I want that? She’s a great gal,”
he said. He was looking straight ahead at the road. Then he turned to me for a moment,
smiling weakly.

“Wow, your passion is blinding,” I said, and we both laughed.

We arrived at the auction parking lot. It was half empty, and that was good—fewer
people meant lower prices.

“Let’s go buy some junk,” he said, turning off the engine and almost jumping out of
the car.

I had a momentary urge to sit there with him awhile, to comfort him, to touch his
hair, to tell him it would be okay, that all he had to do was be honest with himself.
But I also
felt a pang of jealousy. Tracina had never seemed to mind my friendship with Will,
wasn’t the slightest bit suspicious of our time together, which I actually found a
little galling. I knew I was no threat to her, and yet there was a part of me that
wanted to cause some discomfort, a growing piece of me that wanted to prove I was
a force to be reckoned with, even if just a small force.

But I didn’t have a chance to say anything. Will was already halfway to the auction
house, so I opened the car door, stepped out and followed him.

Friday came far too slowly. I had laid out a new pair of black yoga pants and a stretchy
white T-shirt, which I decided to wear over a tight black tank top. Bad enough that
I was wearing workout clothes, but I was careful to keep Dixie away from the pants.
I didn’t need to show up at the Mansion covered in furballs like some middle-aged
cat lady. Right at the appointed time, I saw the limo pull up in front of my building.
I was down and out the door before the driver could reach the buzzer.

“I’m here,” I said, greeting him breathlessly.

With a gloved hand, he directed me to the car and opened the back door for me.

“Thank you,” I said, settling into the plush seat and glancing back at my building.
A lace curtain on the main floor parted and dropped. Poor confused Anna.

In the limo, there was a bucket with champagne and water on ice. I grabbed a water
bottle; I did not want to arrive half-drunk. It was 7 p.m. and traffic was light,
so we were in front of the S.E.C.R.E.T. headquarters in no time. Normally I took the
gate off the street to the coach house, which was walled off from the main estate.
This time the double gates leading directly to the Mansion opened automatically to
allow the limo. Driving past the coach house, I could see over the wall of vines that
all four dormer lights were on. I wondered what kind of work was being done in the
coach house on a Friday night, what kinds of scenarios were being plotted for me and
perhaps for other women who might also be going through the steps right now. Is there
more than one? Am I the only one? So many questions I knew Matilda would never answer
unless I became a S.E.C.R.E.T. member.

If the courtyard surrounding the coach house was a tangle of vines and bushes, the
grounds of the Mansion beyond were trimmed and pristine, giving off an unearthly bright
green glow that made the short grass look almost fake. There was a thick smell of
roses in the air, roses that climbed halfway up the sides of the Mansion and looked
like a giant crinoline in pink, yellow and white. The building had an Italianate facade
typical of some of the grander homes in the neighborhood, with wide white columns
that shaded the cool porch and supported a rounded balcony above. But it was grand
in a way that the other houses in the area weren’t. And though beautiful, it felt
standoffish, a little too perfect. The whole building was covered in pale gray
stucco with white cornices, and the porch wrapped around the top and bottom. Ornate
Juliet balconies framed small doorways on the second and third floors. The whole place
was lit from within by a warm, dusky glow that was inviting but also strange. We pulled
up at the side entrance, but the cobblestone driveway continued over a rolling hill
that led to a garage in the backyard. It looked like a place you’d never want to leave,
but that you could never really live in either.

A woman dressed in a black-and-white uniform appeared from the side door. She waved.
I lowered the limo’s back window.

“You must be Cassie,” she said. “My name is Claudette.”

I’d become accustomed to waiting for the driver to get out of the car and open my
door. When I stepped out, I noticed a few bodyguard types wandering the grounds, all
wearing tailored suits and dark sunglasses, one of them speaking into an earpiece.

Claudette said, “He’s waiting for you in the kitchen. He doesn’t have very long, but
he’s quite excited to meet you.”

“Who’s
he
?” I asked, following her. And what did she mean by
he
doesn’t have very long? Wasn’t this supposed to be
my
fantasy? “You’ll see,” she said, keeping a reassuring hand on my back as she ushered
me in through the door.

The side entrance had a marble floor in a black-and-white houndstooth design that
carried down the hallway. A small fountain framed by two cherubs spilled water from
vases into a shallow pool. Peonies poked out of giant vases. I caught a glimpse of
a spectacular foyer to my right.
Another bodyguard was sitting on a chair at the base of the stairs, reading a newspaper.

“Why don’t you wait outside,” Claudette said to him.

The big man hesitated before abandoning the seat.

We made our way down a long hall, following the sound of loud hip-hop or rap music;
I didn’t really know the difference. My heart was pounding. I felt terribly underdressed
for this place and wondered why they had me in such a plain, everyday outfit. The
bodyguards, the tight schedule, the music—all was very confusing. We headed for what
seemed to be the back of the house, passing a number of small plush chairs that lined
a wide hallway, the music getting louder as we appraoched a set of double oak doors.
I noticed the round inlaid windows were covered in black tissue paper. What was going
on?

Claudette swung open a door and I was hit with the sound of music and the smell of
warm soup, seafood, tomatoes, maybe, and spices. I turned to ask her where I was going
and who I was going to meet, but she was gone, the door swinging quietly behind her.
I looked around the large kitchen, decorated like an old-fashioned scullery, the shiny
lacquer walls white to halfway up, then black. Dozens of stained copper pots were
strung high over the kitchen island. The appliances were as big as small cars, but
they were modern, only decked out to look old. The Sub-Zero fridge was like the one
we had at work, except much newer and spotless. The stove was black iron, with eight
burners, nothing like the one in the Café’s kitchen. This was the kind of kitchen
you’d find in a castle.

Then
he
popped up, in front of the stove, his shirtless back facing me. He had been bent
over, adjusting a flame, and now he stirred something cooking in a big pot, all the
while talking loudly into a phone receiver cradled in his neck. His back had the muscles
of a natural athlete, not a bodybuilder; his brown skin was flawless. His baggy jeans
were slung low but not too low, just enough to show off a ridiculously lean waist.
He was talking and stirring at the same time.