Instead of just plopping his coffee in front of him, I asked the chatty old man with the fancy carved walking stick some questions about his life. He told me about a wife who ran off with his lawyer and the three daughters he rarely saw. I began to understand that this man’s eccentricities were probably meant to draw people to him, so he could talk and feel less lonely. And with a little encouragement, Tim from Michael’s bike shop a few doors down told me some harrowing tales about surviving the hurricanes, and about some friends who didn’t make it. “Many survived the hurricane only to die of heartbreak after it,” he said.
And I believed him, knowing that loss and disappointment can create such pain.
New Orleans was experiencing one of the warmest winters on record, so when a volunteer called to tell me I had won the Revitalization Ball’s raffle for a trip for two to Whistler, British Columbia, for the weekend, I was excited. I wanted to ski again, but mostly I needed to feel a real winter on my skin. Though I embraced the South and was beginning to know the city in my bones, I was a Northern girl at heart.
Before leaving for my trip, I asked Anna to keep Dixie for the week in her apartment downstairs. I didn’t want to give her access to my place in case she snooped around and found my fantasy journal, or any other evidence that explained those mysterious limo rides. When I told Matilda about my prize and that I’d be away, beyond telling me to have fun and to get in touch when I was back, she didn’t say much.
Will was a little reluctant to give me the time off, but there was always a short post-holiday lull before Mardi Gras kicked in. I reminded him that this was the perfect time for me to take vacation days.
“I guess,” he said after I told him. He’d joined me outside for a quick coffee after the breakfast crowd left. “Are you going alone?”
“I don’t really have anyone I could go with.”
“What about Pierre Castille?” He practically spat out the name.
“Oh, please,” I said, hopefully camouflaging the shudder I felt at hearing “Pierre” spoken out loud. “That was nothing. In every sense of the word.”
“You cast a spell on him, Cassie. Has he been in touch?” Will made no attempt to hide his jealousy, which now hovered over our metal patio table like a bit of sullen weather.
“No, Will, he has not. Nor do I expect him to,” I said, meaning it. I ran the hem of my apron through my fingers, thinking how wildly curious I was about Will’s connection to Pierre. I finally got up the nerve to ask.
“So, how well do you know Pierre exactly? And why had you never mentioned him before?”
“Holy Cross,” he said, referring to a private school for boys. “I went on scholarship. His dad pulled some strings to get me in.”
“So you were friends as kids?”
“Best friends. For years. But time and temperament pulled us apart. Then this place put a nail in the coffin,” he said, pointing to the condominium across the street. “His father built Castille Development, and the Castilles built that monstrosity. I fought against it. I lost. Don’t know why it had to be nine stories. Four, maybe five, but they built a fucking high-rise on Frenchmen. How can city council allow that but not allow me to have a couple dozen people eating dinner and having drinks upstairs at Café Rose?”
“Well, there is the matter of the aging beams. And also the sixty-year-old electrical wiring.”
“I would fix those things, Cassie, I would,” he said, then took a sip of his coffee.
“With the money you were going to donate when you bid on me at the ball?” I said.
He winced at the memory, and I was sorry to have brought it up.
“I was momentarily swept up in the proceedings.” Then, quickly changing the subject, he added, “I’d take out a loan to do the renos. I might even qualify for an improvement grant. Or one of those hurricane funds, maybe. I need to figure out a way to earn more money from this goddamn building.”
I glanced across the street at the nine-story, blond-brick building, thinking that every time Will looked at it, he probably thought of Pierre.
“I’ll miss you, Cassie.”
I couldn’t believe I’d heard what I just heard. “It’s just four days.”
“I didn’t know you skied.”
“It’s been a while. Ten years,” I said, reminded that my old skiwear was probably horribly out of date. “You ever ski?”
“Nope. Southern boy born and bred. I’m still amazed by snow, when we get it. Take pictures, will you?” he asked. Then adopting the deepest of Southern accents, he added, “ ’Cause I ain’t never seen no big mountains ’afore in my en-tire life!”
Staring up at Whistler Mountain three weeks later, centering it through a viewfinder for a photograph, I had to admit I’d never seen a mountain this big either. In Michigan we skied on hills—high ones, steep ones, but hills nonetheless. They had names like Mount Brighton and Mount Holly, but they weren’t full-on mountains. Not like this. Despite the fact that it was a clear day, I couldn’t even see the top, and yet for January it wasn’t nearly as cold here in British Columbia as Michigan winters could get. In fact, I began to curse my brand-new baby-blue one-piece suit because I had to unzip the jacket and let it collapse around my waist to get some relief from the heat generated by the beating sun. I was sure I looked like an oddly colored tulip with wilted petals. My white toque and white mitts soon became dotted with coffee and hot chocolate because it took a day and a half of pacing at the foot of the mountain before I got the nerve to take the chair to the top.
I’d spent some time in Canada, in Windsor, Ontario, in particular, because the drinking age was lower than Michigan’s and I was dating Scott, a man who drank a lot even before I married him. I remember for a while trying to keep up with him, but I just didn’t like the effects of all that alcohol on my body. Still, it was the hallmark of our courtship that everything Scott did and liked, I would find myself doing and liking as well. He drove Fords, and so a Focus was my first car. He liked Thai food, so I became a fan myself. Scott was an avid skier, so I became one too. But skiing was about the only thing he introduced me to that I actually liked and eventually became pretty good at.
At first we skied together, Scott never more in his element than when he was telling or showing me how to do something. But I was a willing partner, so wanting it to work, for us to bond and click, that I risked breaking my neck on moguls after only three days of lessons. I was a natural, something that pleased Scott at first and then slowly began to bother him. Eventually, while I’d hit the slopes in the morning, Scott would stay back and keep a couch warm in front of the fire and a brandy ready for when I returned. Skiing alone, I felt a sense of independence and the thrill that comes from courting adrenaline rushes. I loved going fast and the feel of my thigh muscles working hard in the cold. But this newfound hobby was short-lived. Once Scott saw that I was actually enjoying myself, and sometimes even drawing a bit of male attention my way, we stopped skiing altogether.
Now, trudging through Whistler’s crowded main square in my new ski outfit, I felt some bad déjà vu, but also some good. Before Scott got sicker, I had to admit some of our happiest days as a couple were spent on those weekend trips to the Upper Peninsula. Maybe this is what it felt like to begin forgiving Scott, to let go of my resentment towards him and his selfish decisions, the ones that had left me a widow at twenty-nine. I hoped so. I was done blaming him for my aloneness, done feeling sad about it. And on days like today, when the sun was bright and the snow was sparkling, I could even say I loved my life more because it was finally, completely my own. I looked up at the mountain. I would never take this kind of beauty for granted, even if I lived here and saw this every single day. It wasn’t just gratitude that flooded my heart at that moment, but unadulterated joy.
“Here, let me take a picture of you in front of the mountain.”
I was startled by the voice and the hand, which before I could protest was wrapping around my camera.
“Whoa!” I said, pulling
it away. It took me a couple of seconds to take in the young man with a dimple in his left cheek, and the shaggy brown hair peeking out from under his black toque. I detected a slight French accent.
“I wasn’t trying to take it,” he said, his palms open to me in surrender. Then he smiled, his teeth bright white against his sun-kissed face. “I thought you’d like to be in the picture. My name is Theo.”
“Hi,” I said, cautiously offering a hand, the other one still holding my camera out of his reach. He couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. But this was a face that basked in sun and wind all day. The sexy wrinkles around brown eyes gave him a patina of maturity despite his youth. “Cassie.”
“And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I work here. I’m a ski instructor.”
Hmm. I had been alone for two days, and I’d enjoyed those days a lot. But here was this gorgeous man in front of me. In all likelihood he was one of Matilda’s. I decided to cut to the chase.
“So you work here, in Whistler? Or are you one of the … you know …?”
He cocked his head at my question.
“One of the … you-know-whats? … One of the … men?”
He glanced around the crowded village square, a confused look on his face. “Well, I am … a man,” he said, clearly drawing a blank.
It occurred to me then that he could be just a guy, a random guy, someone very cute who happened to come up to talk to me, someone with no relation to S.E.C.R.E.T. at all. This seemed less impossible to imagine, and I smiled at that thought.
“Okay,” I said. “Now I’m sorry. And I didn’t mean to assume you were a camera thief.” I was participating in the Canadian pastime of apologizing to strangers, something referred to in my guidebook.
“How about a free ski lesson to make it up to me?” the man offered. Yes, there definitely was a slight French accent—or rather, Québécois.
“What if I don’t need a lesson?” I said, feeling a little confidence return.
“So you’re familiar with these slopes?” He smiled an irresistible smile. “You know the conditions and can spot the black diamond runs, know which lifts take you where, and which beginner runs turn treacherous if you’re not paying attention?” Who was I kidding?
“No, actually,” I admitted. “I’ve been circling the base for a couple of days. I don’t know if I have the nerve to go up.”
“I’ll be your nerve,” he said, giving me his arm.
Theo was a natural teacher, and though I resisted the scarier black diamond runs, after an hour of easily carving up the Saddle, the cold glacial slope where the snow is as sharp and crisp as I’d ever known snow to be, we took an express lift to the Symphony Bowl. Theo promised me a mix of challenging drops with easy ridges to give my quivering thigh muscles a bit of a break, then a leisurely five-mile run to the village. I was glad for my nightly running routine in New Orleans. Had I hit the slopes with no prior conditioning, I’d have been paralytic in front of a fire for the rest of the weekend.
At the rim of the Bowl, I had to stop. Yes, the white rippled snow, which stretched to meet a sky so blue it hurt to look at it, was utterly breathtaking. But I also marveled at how my world had changed with a simple “yes.” Over the last several months, I had been able to do things that would have been utterly inconceivable a year ago. Not just the sex with strangers, but volunteering for the Ball, taking up running, dressing a little sexier, being more outgoing with people, standing up for myself, and now, coming here, alone, with little idea of how my four days would unfold. I never would have done these things before accepting the gift of S.E.C.R.E.T.
When this young man balancing skis on his shoulder had approached me in the square, instead of recoiling from the advance, or questioning it, I tried to accept that this was possible, that I might be worthy of this man’s attention. An hour later, quite literally on top of the world, I began to feel transformed. Yet there was still part of me that doubted the spontaneity. Part of me was still waiting for us to reach a crest and share a lingering look, and for Theo to ask if I’d accept the Step.
“Beautiful,” Theo muttered, stopping next to me and taking in the view I was admiring.
“I know. I don’t think I’ve seen anything this spectacular in my entire life.”
“I meant you,” he said, and I caught a glimpse of his casual grin, before he pushed off and dropped over the lip of the Bowl.
I couldn’t help but follow him down, and for a few terrifying seconds I was airborne. After a wobbly landing, I righted myself and fell into the groove he’d carved ahead of me. He expertly weaved through the glades, glancing back every once in a while to make sure I was keeping up. After a hard right turn at an unmarked path, we soon joined a cluster of skiers beating dusk to the cozy village, now twinkling yellow and pink in the fading sun.
At the base we skied up to each other, and he held up a hand for a high-five.
“Brave girl!” he said.
“What was so brave?” I asked as our gloved hands made contact. I felt flushed and giddy from the fast trip down.
“The first mile of that last run was a black diamond run and you just did it. Without even thinking!”
I felt something like pride mingled with glee.
“A drink to celebrate?” I asked.
We made our way to Chateau Whistler, where I was staying, and crossed the Great Hall, where everyone seemed to know Theo. He introduced me to the waiter, Marcel, an old friend also from Québec, who brought us fondue and two hot rum toddies, followed by steaming bowls of mussels and frites. I was so hungry I began devouring handfuls of fries, then caught myself.
“Oh my God,” I said, mortified. “I’m eating like an animal. Look at me,” I said, unable to resist popping another handful into my mouth.
“That’s what I’ve been doing all day,” he said, reaching across the table and pulling me towards him for a kiss. His hands were strong and callused from gripping ski poles all day. His hair was tousled and I knew mine was too, though probably not so adorably. But it didn’t matter. This guy was into me, I could tell. I flashed back to Pauline and her man in Café Rose, and their intense connection. Now I was having the same sort of experience. I shyly glanced around the chalet to see if anyone was noticing this … me … us. No. We were in our own private world, even in public.
We talked for a long time after that, mostly about skiing and the feeling it gave us, reliving for each other our finest moments from that day. I wasn’t avoiding any personal questions. They just didn’t seem as important as the way he was touching my wrist or looking into my eyes. After dinner, when he snatched the bill off the table and stood looking down at me, holding out his hand, I knew we weren’t going to say good-night anytime soon.
I hadn’t even realized how bone-chilled I was until Theo peeled my clothes off in the bathroom of my hotel room, one layer after the other.
“Is there some flesh underneath all of this?” he joked as he pulled off my leggings.
“Yes.” I laughed.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
After he’d flung my clothes in a pile just outside the bathroom, I was completely naked except for a few impressive bruises blooming on my calves and arms. Those elicited a long slow whistle from Theo.
“Wow, war wounds.” He turned on the shower and steam started to fill the room. “Time to warm you up.”
“You’re not making me go in there on my own, are you?” I asked, more shocked by my boldness than he seemed to be.
He laughed, ripping off his clothes. His body was fit and athletic. Yes, this man skied all day. All year, probably. I stepped into the shower and he joined me, and seconds later our mouths met under the gushing water. He trailed his hands down my arms, guiding my hands up over my head and pushing them against the wet wall behind us. He used his knees to coax mine open, lifting my body slightly so my legs were on either side of him. He was firm but not forceful. I felt like a starfish pressed against the wall. He licked down t
he side of my neck, his hardness against my stomach. Then he gathered one of my breasts in his wide hand and sucked the droplets of water off my nipple. The fingers of his other hand began an aching descent down my body, until he slipped one, then another, inside. I could feel my own wetness while the water pummeled us. He locked eyes with me, and I brought my arms down and entwined my hands in his wet hair. The water was making my feet slip, so he gently placed one hand behind my buttocks, anchoring me there.
“You like this?”
“I’ve never done this before,” I said.
“Want to try something new, then?”
The steam in the shower was building around us. I could feel all the pores of my skin opening to him, all of me opening to him.
“I’d try anything with you,” I said.
He lifted my naked body around his hips, and before I knew it he was carrying me, dripping, out of the bathroom and across the tile and then the carpet to the king-size bed, where he laid me down. He returned to the bathroom to shut the shower off and to find his pants, digging into his pockets, I assumed, for a condom. Then he stood at the edge of the bed, glistening.
I crawled towards him, taking him into my mouth while he watched. Seconds later, he ripped open the package and handed me the condom. I unfurled it over him, and then he gently pushed me down onto my back and licked me expertly, eagerly, my knees splayed open, an arm flung across my eyes. Before I could even catch my breath, he turned me over in his strong arms, so my back was to his front, and I could feel his erection harder than it had been even a few minutes before.
S.E.C.R.E.T.: An Erotic Novel Page 17