“I could ask,” I said, realizing his joke.
“ ’Cause I’m really no one’s idea of a fantasy man.”
“Well … you are mine.”
He kissed me for that, once, twice.
“So what happens to us S.E.C.R.E.T. rejects? Do you have to kill me or something?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Can we at least have sex one last time?”
“Yeah, but not here,” I said, looking around. “It’s beautiful, this place, but I want you to take me home.”
Before I could finish my sentence, he flung my dress at me and gathered up his pants. We dressed faster than a couple of firemen called to a five-alarm emergency. He extended his hand and in one swift move threw me over his shoulder, and I kicked and laughed as he carried me down the hallway and out the front door of the Mansion.
It was the last time I’d set foot in that place for several months. And even then, I wouldn’t be alone. We’d both return, for a different kind of fantasy altogether.
The truth came out that night in bits and pieces, between sex and kisses, between bites of pizza and a bottle and a half of wine we took from the restaurant and drank while sitting on my kitchen floor, where we had sex one more time before the sun came up. We both knew we’d be wrecked the next day, but two of us hobbled by hangovers had to add up to at least one stellar restaurateur.
He came out with it first.
“It’s been awful not having you in my life, Cassie. And by life I mean my heart, my side, my bed. So I had secretly hoped this would happen. That’s the real reason I volunteered with S.E.C.R.E.T. I meant everything I said before about the good I think the organization does. I was wrong before. But I hoped I’d either make you jealous if we didn’t get paired up, or make you crazy for missing me if we did.”
“So you were never going to go through with the fantasy?”
“Well, let’s put it this way: I wouldn’t have gone through the training with anyone else, and I knew I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else if the training was going to be with you.”
“Mission accomplished,” I said, leaning on his shoulder. “I was surprised you volunteered with S.E.C.R.E.T. I thought the whole thing disgusted you. I thought I disgusted you.”
“You’ve never disgusted me. The truth is more embarrassing than that. I felt … threatened. I was an idiot.”
Will threw his arm around me and pulled me closer. My hand slid down his warm, familiar stomach, then farther down, and I softly cupped my hand over him, making him erect again.
“I thought you were dating up a storm. I thought you were happy. And then when I discovered your … I don’t want to call it a ‘secret life’ … my first thought was not What a slut, but I can’t compete. I couldn’t take being dumped again for a better guy, for someone more … I don’t know … powerful, I guess. You saw Carruthers. His watch is the size of a fucking six-pack. You saw the car he drove, the job he has. Guys pay attention to that shit—the things we aren’t, the stuff we don’t have. I may not have been madly in love with Tracina, but I was geared up to be her partner and a parent and a provider, and when I was thrown over for Mr. Fucking Big, it hurt. I mean, you know me. I struggle. Then your boyfriend with the great left hook shows up and does what I should have done to fucking Castille. He stepped up when I should have.” He paused. “By the way, are you still seeing him? That Jesse guy?”
Dixie came over and nestled between us like a fur island.
“No. We’re just friends. We’ve really always been just friends.”
“You’re not in love with him?”
“Never was. And he’s not in love with me. He loves someone else. And so do I,” I said, beginning my aching assault on his body.
The thing about Will was that he had no idea how sexy he was, which is precisely what made him so sexy, even when he struggled. Especially when he struggled. On the floor of my kitchen, we unspooled our legs from the sheets we’d dragged there, moving the cat over in a loving but firm way. Will laid me down on that floor at dawn and entered me again while kissing me, saying my name over and over, holding my face between his hands, while I clutched his gorgeous ass and pressed my knees back, opening myself to him, inviting him all the way inside.
While he thrust into me, reintroducing himself to my body, it felt like we’d never been away from each other. I shifted my hips and reached back to press the cupboard doors so I could arch for him. He felt so right, so perfect inside me, our bodies formed just for this.
“How’s this for a fantasy,” he whispered. “Sex with me on your kitchen floor.”
“This is the only fantasy I’ve ever really wanted. The only one I ever hoped would come true.”
SOLANGE
Having fantastical, dramatic, exquisite sex with gorgeous strangers reminded me of what was potent about having great sex with just one good man. That wasn’t the goal of S.E.C.R.E.T.; that wasn’t even my goal. But that was my epiphany on my flight home, as I shook off the sickening Pierre interlude with every mile I put between us, rocking my body to make the plane go faster. I had people waiting for me. My people: my boy and my man.
I almost steamrolled everyone at the arrivals gate, everyone keeping me away from Gus a second longer. My need to grab my son and smell him and squeeze him was so overwhelming, I was worried I’d break him. And there, standing behind Gus, was my impossibly handsome ex-husband, his smile full of questions. Why are you home early, Solange? Why did you insist I pick you up at the airport? Why are you wearing your hair the way I love? And why are you looking at me with those brown eyes as though you’re seeing me for the first time?
The answers to those questions would naturally surface over the next few weeks and months. But that day, I didn’t have words for my feelings, which is why I said very little on the way home. I just stole glances at Julius from the passenger side of the food truck. He had had to park the truck far away because it was too tall for the short-term airport garage. Instead of feeling frustrated, hypervigilant and over-competent, I let that man carry all my luggage. I let him be the man he wanted to be, instead of molding him into the one I had thought he should be. It is a strange revelation to look at someone you know well and see a whole dimension you have been blind to.
While Gus sat buckled in the trundle seat behind his dad, playing a game on my phone, Julius caught me up on his business, which had expanded yet again for Jazz Fest.
“Three trucks total. After Jazz Fest, two are fully paid for so it’s all profit from now on. It’s crazy, Solange. But I’m thinking of opening a small, permanent kiosk off Jackson Square. I’ve been talking to other franchises to see if we can share space.”
“Congratulations, Julius. You found your niche.”
“It took me a while. But yeah, I did.”
“It takes what it takes.”
He looked at me, on his face another unspoken question: Who are you and what have you done with my hyper-critical ex-wife? I was noticing how happiness made him even more handsome, and how success had made him sexier. It wasn’t that Julius was now worthy of my attention because he had found some confidence and security. It was that he finally seemed worthy to himself. And for some reason, this … relaxed me. I would take a bumpy, lumbering ride in a glossy food truck over a carriage ride in Paris any day.
When he pulled into my driveway on State Street, he was as shocked at the invitation to stay for dinner as I was when he accepted. We ordered pizza. We chatted about the week, what they did, what I did, what Paris was like, what I was like in Paris. I told them I sang, that it was a lark and a fluke, but it was something I needed to try to do again, even just for me. And I told Julius the truth, that the interview with the elusive, infamous Bayou Billionaire was a total bust, that it hadn’t yielded what I had hoped it would.
“Turns out that the man doesn’t have much to say. Not much worth listening to anyway,” I said, tossing crust into the pizza box. The truth might come out, and it might shatter my world. But all
I felt in that moment was gratitude and confidence. And at least for now, all my secrets were still safe.
After Gus went to bed, my ex-husband stood in the darkened doorway of my childhood home saying good night to me for far too long. At one point I was laughing at something he said, unconsciously hooking my index finger in the waist of his jeans, an intimacy so automatic it was like breathing.
He looked down at my hand with a note of alarm and I pulled it away like I’d touched a hot flame.
“I should … go,” he said, looking slightly concerned.
“Okay.”
“Good night then.” He turned.
“Right,” I said, waving to the back of his head. He was hurriedly making his way to his food truck parked in front of the house. I was the one who had ended our marriage. I had to remember that. Trust wasn’t going to come easy. And Pierre was a loaded gun. Once he exposed my involvement in S.E.C.R.E.T., a reunion might be out of the question anyway. Julius may not judge me, but the revelations wouldn’t endear me to him either. Still, I had come to a kind of peace with that on the plane ride home. I decided I had meant the words I said to Pierre; I had done nothing to be ashamed of; this was a great story with a happy ending, regardless of whether Julius and I reunited. Over time, I came to realize that mine was a story that mirrored the experience of every woman in S.E.C.R.E.T. We were all made better for its existence, me, Cassie, Dauphine, Matilda, Angela, Bernice, all of us.
In fact, far from being diminished or tarnished by S.E.C.R.E.T., our lives had been greatly enhanced.
If I was to be exposed, so be it.
If there were consequences, I’d face them.
If I lost my second chance with Julius, I might as well find out sooner rather than later.
A week later I received a package at work, special delivery from Pierre Castille. Inside were two envelopes, a thin one with my name on it and a thick one addressed to Matilda. I headed to the Coach House after work with a heavy heart.
Matilda and I sat across from each other at her desk. I went first, opening my envelope, which contained a note and a loose charm that dropped from its folds, a Step Eight charm, Bravery scrolled on one side.
Dear Solange,
I apologize for my abominable behavior. Should our paths ever cross again, I can only hope to exhibit an ounce of the bravery you showed that day. By the way, your secret is safe. It’s your story to tell.
With head bowed,
Pierre Castille
I looked at Matilda, whose eyes were saucers behind her thick stack of papers. “I can scarcely believe it,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Open yours.”
She ripped the envelope open and removed a letter, then passed it my way.
“Read it to me, Solange. I’m vibrating from nerves.”
I scanned the words on the cover letter, written in the same neat penmanship as my note.
“He’s returning something called Red Rage,” I said. “It’ll arrive tomorrow by special freight.”
“He’s what? That’s … that’s the painting he bought from us in Buenos Aires. What else does he say?”
I cleared my throat and read.
“ … the painting was never mine to begin with, Matilda,” I read. “In fact, I can’t look at it without thinking of my ungentlemanly actions towards Cassie, towards Dauphine in Buenos Aires, and I’m sure you’ve heard about Solange in Paris. I’m a man unused to hearing no, to being denied what I want. I’ve decided to make amends by returning the painting. My hope is that we can keep all of this matter a ‘secret,’ as it were, now and in perpetuity. I hope this gift will guarantee many more healthy years for your group. Yours remorsefully, Pierre Castille.”
We were both quiet for some time.
“Well, this has been a very interesting day,” Matilda said, staring into the middle distance. “What exactly did you do to that man, Solange?”
I told her about what might have been his moment of clarity—my well-placed knee to his groin.
“Well, you certainly had an impact. I am so sorry you went through that. All I can say is thank you. This means that S.E.C.R.E.T. is not only alive and well, but we have the means to make your last fantasy a really, really good one,” she said.
“Truth be told, Matilda, my time in S.E.C.R.E.T. has been incredible. And I want to thank you for each and every one of my fantasies. But they’ve also given me a whole new appreciation for my reality. And there’s one staring me straight in the face. I can’t ignore it any longer.”
I told her about my renewed feelings for Julius, that they had come almost out of nowhere.
“Does Julius know?” she asked.
“I think he suspects something’s up. But I was the one who ended things with him. So he’s rightfully wary. Any advice on how to win back your ex?”
“I wish I knew myself, Solange,” she said wistfully.
Just then, we heard the grinding sound of the front gates opening. Through her office window, we watched a limo ease through and turn towards the Mansion’s front portico.
Matilda looked at her watch. “Sit back in your chair for a tight second. Your recruit has just arrived for his training session.”
“You can probably give him the night off,” I joked, resisting the urge to sneak a peek.
“True. I could do that,” she said, her eyes still on the limo, a sly smile playing across her lips. “But I think I’ll just let the training session proceed. Why not? It’s just sex, right? That’s the easy part. It’s love that vexes.”
Gus had been looking forward to sleeping at his dad’s that night, and I was looking forward to seeing Julius, so we were both a little disappointed when he texted to say that his deep-fry guy and the cashier on one of his trucks both called in sick.
When I told Gus his night with his dad was canceled, instead of sulking, he said, “Why don’t we go help him?”
“My brilliant child,” I said, kissing his face a bunch of times.
He resisted me, but only a little.
We headed up to the Freret Street location dressed to serve. I was a natural with that fry basket; Gus made a champion coin roller. Some people recognized me from the news, and I joked that I was moonlighting so that I could spend more time with my men.
“Great team effort,” Julius said at closing time, locking up the truck and drawing back the awning.
“The Formidable Faradays,” Gus added.
“That’s us, baby,” I said, my eyes lingering on Julius.
I hadn’t packed an overnight bag for Gus, so Julius had to drop us off. I invited him to stay for a late bite, and he took off his shoes at the door and didn’t leave. We ate together, and laughed together, the three of us at one table. After dinner, after I cleaned up, and after he tucked Gus in, Julius found me standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up at him, hopeful, expectant, adoring.
“Are you coming down? Or … am I coming up?” I asked, a quaver in my voice.
“Let’s meet in the middle,” he said.
I slowly took those stairs one by one, carefully stepping into his broad arms.
“Is this for real, Solange?”
I looked up at him and nodded. He kissed me full on the mouth and for a second he felt all new to me—his hands, his lips, his taste. He broke free a minute later only to pull me up the stairs with him. In the bedroom with the door shut, his body became a place I had been to before and knew so well and missed so much.
He stripped me with the concentration of a doctor removing bandages from someone almost fully healed. I let him. The T-shirt that still smelled like the food truck came flying off. My bra he kept on for a second, admiring it. I had picked out my lingerie carefully this time, hoping there was a chance this could happen. His knuckle traced the shape of my breasts beneath the lace, knowing once it came off there was no turning back; the sight of my breasts had always made that man crazy.
He pulled off my jeans, one leg, then the other. He did it reverently, disbelieving his luck, h
alf waiting for me to stop him, to say, This is nuts; this can’t ever work again. I couldn’t speak, I could only marvel at his sinewy body, my fingers taking ownership with every inch they touched. This stomach, mine. These arms now bracketing me as I lay across the bed, mine. This back my nails are lightly dragging across, mine.
I was so wet by the time he entered me, and he was so hard, so insistent, saying my name over and over in my ear, his voice catching, making me dizzy with every thrust of his body, all I could think was: Mine. Mine. Mine again.
EPILOGUE
CASSIE
When it came time for the wedding, Matilda told me to spare no expense.
“Seriously?” I said, too excited to contain myself. “But it’s during Mardi Gras week. Everything’s going to be more expensive.”
“Spend whatever it takes, Cassie. What’s a wedding but one big fantasy, the fantasy of a lifetime?”
On an unseasonably warm February morning, the skies unbearably blue, the wind sweet, the city getting ready for its big party, Will and I headed down to the French Market at the crack of dawn to pick out the fattest lobsters and the juiciest prawns, which would go into making the biggest backyard jambalaya ever seen in New Orleans. It was Dell’s idea to boil the corn and potatoes over three cauldrons built into the concrete hot tub, drained just for that occasion.
The whole garden behind the Mansion was festooned in ribbons and flowers, Mason jars stuffed with early magnolias, pink-and-white streamers draped off picnic tables, in between which Gus and Finn ran around with the other children over grass strewn with white and purple petals and beads. We wanted this wedding to be perfect and we threw ourselves into every detail, from the dress that Dauphine Mason helped me source and ship from Paris, to the music Mark Drury volunteered to handle, to the cake that we commissioned from Jesse Turnbull.
Claire had been up half the night helping Jesse put the finishing touches on the cake and learning all there was to know about making marzipan roses. But when it came time to help Jesse lift the five-tiered masterpiece out of the back of the van, the only person I’d entrust with that task was Will. To watch those two men cooperatively, carefully, gingerly, tenderly follow me around the side of the Mansion to the table, carrying a wedding cake the size of a small person, was to really know friendship and joy, forgiveness and love.
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