S.E.C.R.E.T. (Secret 1)

She didn’t seem at all surprised to hear from me. We had a brief conversation about work and the weather, and then I made an appointment for the next afternoon at her office in the Lower Garden District, on Third, near Coliseum.

“It’s the small white coach house next to the big mansion on the corner,” she said, as though I’d know exactly where that was. In fact I always avoided the tourist spots, crowds, people in general, but I said I’d have no trouble finding it. “There’s a buzzer at the gate. Give yourself a couple of hours. The first consultation’s always the longest.”

Dell entered the kitchen as I tore the address off the back of the paper menu on which I wrote it. She peered sternly over her reading glasses at me.

“What?” I barked.

What kind of help was this Matilda woman going to offer? I had no idea, but if it was the kind that would end with an ardent man sitting across from me at a table, it was the kind of help I welcomed. Still, I worried. Cassie, you don’t know who this woman is. You’re okay on your own. You don’t need anyone. You’re fine. That was my mind talking, but my body told it to shut up. And that was the end of that.

The day of our meeting I left my shift early, instead of waiting for Tracina or Will. As soon as the dining room died, I yelled goodbye to Dell and headed home to shower. From the back of the closet, I pulled out the white sundress I had bought for my thirtieth birthday. Scott had stood me up that night, and I hadn’t worn it since. Five years in the South had darkened my skin and four years of waitressing had toned my arms, so I was shocked to see that it actually looked better on me now. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I kept a hand over my nervous stomach. Why was I nauseous? Because I knew I was letting something into my life, some element of excitement, maybe even danger? I tried to recall those steps from the journal, Surrender, Generosity, Fearlessness, Courage. I couldn’t remember them all, but pondering them this last week had created such an incredible pull, straight from the gut, that making that phone call had been more a compulsion than a decision.

The Magazine Street bus was packed with tourists and cleaning ladies heading to the Garden District. I got off at Third, stopping in front of a bar called Tracey’s. I contemplated putting back a couple of shots to steel my nerves. Scott and I had done the Garden District tour when we first moved here, gawking at the colorful mansions, the pink Greek Revivals, the ones with Italianate architecture, the wrought-iron gates and the obvious money oozing everywhere. New Orleans was a study in contrasts. Rich neighborhoods next to poor ones, the ugly next to the beautiful. It frustrated Scott, but I liked that about this city. It was all extremes.

I headed north. At Camp Street, I got confused. Had I gone too far in the wrong direction? I stopped abruptly, causing a small pileup.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, to an alarmed young woman behind me holding the hands of a child and a dirty-faced toddler. I continued up Third, staying closer to the houses to let a group of tourists pass me.

Turn around, Cassie, and go home. You don’t need help.

But I do! One meeting. One, maybe two hours with Matilda. What could it possibly hurt?

Cassie, what if they make you do awful things? Things you don’t want to do?

That’s ridiculous. That’s not going to happen.

How do you know?

Because Matilda was kind to me. She peered into my loneliness and didn’t laugh at it. She made me feel like it was a temporary condition, perhaps even curable.

If you’re so lonely, why don’t you just go to bars like everyone else?

Because I’m afraid.

Afraid? And this is less scary?

“Yes, frankly it is!” I mumbled.

“Cassie? Is that you?” I turned around. It was Matilda on the sidewalk behind me, a line of concern across her brow. She was carrying a plastic bag in one hand and a clutch of gladiolas in the other. “Are you all right? Did you have trouble finding the place?”

I was absently clutching a wrought-iron gate, using it either to hold me up or to hold me in place.

“Oh my goodness. Hi. Yes. No. I guess I’m a little early. I thought I’d sit for a bit.”

“You’re right on time, actually. Come, let’s go in and I’ll get you something cold to drink. It’s a hot one.”

I had no choice now. I couldn’t turn back. All I had to do was follow this woman through the gate, into which she was now punching an elaborate security code. I glanced down Third and watched Five Years slink off without looking back at me.

I followed Matilda through a lush courtyard with overgrown vines and trees. My mind was still holding on to my mother’s legs like a scared toddler. We were heading for the red door of a quaint, white coach house to the left of a massive mansion that had been barely visible from the street. A wave of dizziness rolled over me.

“Stop. Wait. I don’t know if I can do this, Matilda.”

“Do what, Cassie?” She turned to face me, the red flowers framing her face, setting off her red hair.

“This, whatever this is.”

She laughed. “Why don’t you find out what this is and then make up your mind—how about that?”

I stood still, my palms soaked in sweat. I resisted wiping them on my dress.