S.E.C.R.E.T. Revealed (Secret 3)

“I don’t know if that’s what I’d call myself, but yeah, in that moment, it felt, I don’t know … like it was just the right kind of spice to add.”

“I’ll keep that flavor on hand in the future,” he said, holding up a wide palm to high-five me, the punctuation to a lame, sweet joke.

Just as I was thinking, How lucky am I that my friend Will is next to me in bed, he pulled my whole head to his face for a long, deep kiss.

His mouth on my mouth—that’s what I’ll remember the most about that day.

“Who knew you were some kind of sex goddess,” he whispered, cupping my chin.

I threw my head back and laughed, because he had no idea about S.E.C.R.E.T.

But less than a week later, Will would discover from whence his so-called sex goddess learned to be so goddess-y—and I would be left standing in a dark hallway at Latrobe’s. He’d think of me as some dirty slut, covered in another man’s scent, another man’s pleasure, eight different men not counting Will: all from S.E.C.R.E.T—nine if you count Mark Drury, my recruit.

Soon I would no longer be a sex goddess to Will but rather a dangerous woman.

Soon this man who once could not get enough of me would not be able to get away from me fast enough.

SOLANGE

I grew up in this house so I knew every plane and corner, every nook and cranny; the cracks in the tile roof from hurricanes that failed to do more than bruise the siding; the grouting that needed tending to on the only stone porch on State Street. These flaws always drew my eye when I pulled my Volkswagen into the cobblestone driveway. My dad had bought this Craftsman-style house from its original owners, and for a time we were the only black family for two blocks in Uptown. So I was still conscious of keeping it looking as pretty and pristine as he had. But lately I’d let things slip. What can I say? I’d been busy. And I’d never been the obedient type.

Still, when I pulled up that warm fall day, I knew something was not quite right. Or that something was very right, depending on how you looked at it. The broken roof tiles had been replaced, the newer ones now a little more vivid than the old ones surrounding them. And the grout was dark where it had been newly filled in around the porch stones. My ten-year-old son, Gus, was with my ex, Julius, for the weekend. These were jobs he had said he’d help me with. When he got around to it. I said, No. I’ll do it. I can take care of myself, thank you very much.

But between ten-hour shifts with grumpy news crews chasing breaking stories and weekends anchoring, I had no time to properly research the right maintenance company or to ask around at work if anyone could recommend a good contractor. They were so hard to find in New Orleans, so many were booked up on the Warehouse District condo boom or on big government reconstruction jobs. And Julius was never any good as a handyman. My ex-husband was an entrepreneur, a creative type, or at least that’s how he saw himself. So how the hell had these repairs come about? Surely if Julius had tackled them, or found someone who could, he’d have told me.

It was only when I threw my car into park that I noticed the white utility truck in front of my house, a long ladder jutting out. Someone was here. I quietly exited, not fully closing my car door. Just then I heard a metal on metal clanging sound coming from my backyard.

My journalist instincts were on high alert. Leave your purse in the car. Just take your keys. Be prepared to throw them. Don’t go into the house. Observe from the outside in. I was wearing heels so I padded on my toes, navigating the side drive, noticing as I did so that the leaky hose had been repaired. Wow. Nice. But still. How? And who?

I looked across the street. Dr. Franz in the brick Colonial was washing his car. Okay, good. There’d be a witness, someone to hear me scream in case whoever was in my backyard tinkering and hammering was actually breaking into it my house.

Ding, ding, plink, plink. The sounds continued. Feeling bolder, I made my way to the gate and raised my hand to unlock it, but the lock was completely gone, removed by the screws! My heart leapt. Should I stop here and call the cops? I padded around for my phone, but realized it was in my purse in the car. Damn it. I stepped onto the grass, my heels sinking into the moist lawn. Who watered it?

Carefully peeking around the corner, I saw him: a young man bent over a portable sawhorse, hammering away at something. It was 73 degrees, a hot day for November, so he was shirtless, an expanse of muscled back deeply browned by the sun. When the police asked for a description I’d say he was probably Italian, Greek or Hispanic, lithe, with more of a dancer’s body than a construction worker’s. No. I wouldn’t use the term dancer’s body with the police, would I? I was five-eight, shoes off, so I put him at five-eleven. Full head of curly black hair. Sinewy forearms. Not that I would describe them to the cops as sinewy; I wouldn’t say that. Thick, maybe. Ropy? No. Wait. Why would I even describe his forearms? Well, they were remarkable. He looked to be twenty-five, thirty tops. Faded khaki work pants, naked torso, a white T-shirt hanging out of his back pocket.

He continued hammering at something finicky resting on a platform strung between the sawhorses, his tool belt hanging crooked around his lean hips. More tools were neatly laid out on a portable worktable set up on the back patio. (Yes, Officer, that’s when I came upon a young, lithe Italian man with a dancer’s body, brown rippled skin, black curly hair, lean hips and incredibly sexy forearms—he was doing repairs on my place. Arrest him.)

The man looked relaxed. At home. At my home. Maybe police weren’t necessary.

“Ahem.”

He didn’t hear me.

“Hello,” I said a little louder.

That sent his hammer flying out behind him, landing just a foot in front of me on the grass.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, turning around. “You scared me!”

“I scared you? This is my backyard you’re hammering away in.”

I finally took in his face, full on. He was seriously handsome but with gentle features: soft brown eyes, full lips. He gave me an easy smile and rested a hand on his hip, his other hand pulling the T-shirt out of his back pocket to wipe his brow.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

I realized I was holding my car keys so hard they’d pressed grooves into my skin.

“I just got home. How long have you been working here?”