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

“For what I said to you, that night. At Latrobe’s. For the way I treated you.”

“No. Don’t—”

“No. You need to hear it. You’ve made all the difference in her life. In both our lives.”

Who knows how long we would have stood there marveling at each other’s faces, our hands touching. We never had a chance to find out, because Jesse walked in at that moment, shattering everything.

“Okay. Yeah. I’m sorry,” he said, immediately spinning away from us as though he’d walked in on his parents having sex. Before bolting, he carefully placed my phone on the nearest counter. “You left it in my truck.”

Will gave me a tacit go after him nod. Strange how the tables had turned; now it was Will urging me to fix things with Jesse. Guilt, that constant, awful companion, followed me out the door.

Steps behind Jesse on the sidewalk, I called his name, one, two, three times. He finally froze in his tracks, his back to me, probably giving his face a second or two to arrange itself into an I don’t really give a shit expression before turning around.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said. “Your phone kept ringing and ringing and I thought—”

“You didn’t intrude. We were just having some kind words over Claire. That’s all.”

“How is she?”

“Good. Better. Yeah. Don’t leave like this, okay? Come back. Come in for a beer.”

I clasped the hem of his T-shirt, giving it a gentle tug. Jesse wouldn’t move.

“I can’t right now.”

“You’re mad.”

“No, baby, I’m not mad. Just realistic.”

And with that, he got into his truck and drove away from me, at first slowly, until he turned the corner at the Praline Connection and sped up, leaving dust in his wake.

SOLANGE

At least twice a year a big movie opened in New Orleans, generally one also shot here. The state provided lucrative tax breaks to drum up film and TV business. But even when I was younger and greener, when it should have been fun to cover red carpet events and to meet famous people, I balked. It was so easy to get pigeonholed as a “female” reporter, instead of a serious reporter, to be given frivolous stories and to be seen as shallow or, worse, glamorous. So when I was assigned to interview a certain Major Movie Star (a.k.a. MMS) in town for his film opening, I didn’t just say no, I barked it and left the assignment meeting.

Denise followed me out, pushing me into my office and shutting the door. She was hyperventilating.

“Solange, you don’t get it. He … requested you. He followed your port lands story while he was here filming the movie. It’s an exclusive interview. Either you get it, or no one from this station does.”

“Oh, wow. He picked me? How, like, amazing!” I faux-squealed.

“I know, right?” she said, my tone having completely eluded her.

“My answer is no,” I said, turning to some papers on my desk.

“Solange Faraday, you know I am a great admirer of yours. You’re my mentor, in fact. But if you think one interview with a hot, smart actor is going to undermine your entire career, then you don’t have much confidence in your body of work.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” I muttered. I stopped moving papers around. Gus was with his dad that night. I could do it. But …

“There will be conditions,” I said. I told her I wasn’t going to focus all my questions on the movie or his love interest in the movie. Nor did I care about which Italian or British starlet the MMS was currently dating, let alone why he had never married. My plan was to ignore his personal life and talk to him about politics, about his well-known international philanthropy and his opinion on voter apathy. If the network wanted a feature interview, I’d give it to them, on my terms.

“And you’re coming with me to deal with his publicist,” I said to Denise, who didn’t even bother to hide her glee. “I don’t talk to publicists.”

When the day came, reluctantly, sternly, I put on some coral lipstick and my nerdiest glasses and buttoned up my blouse to the top, hoping this outfit would convey, “I am not the starstruck type. I am here for a story, not for a star.”

Jazz Fest wasn’t for a couple more weeks, but the Ritz was a madhouse. Denise was a pro, ushering the crew and me through the glut of other cameras and ensuring that we were going last, always the best spot to have if you want extra time with your subject.

When it was our turn, the publicist poked her head out of the suite and called my name like it was my turn at the free medical clinic, pronouncing my name “Soh-LANG.”