Generosity.
“I was wondering … are you free for dinner next Saturday? I could cook.”
“I have to wait a week? Where do you live?”
Fearlessness.
“In the Marigny, not far from where I work.”
Confidence.
“I mean, if you’re not available next Saturday, the Saturday after is fine,” I added.
“I usually take care of my son on Saturdays,” he said. “But I think I can figure something out.”
Curiosity.
“Right. You have a son. How old is he now?”
“He’s six, actually. I have him every Wednesday, and every other Friday and Saturday until six. Then I drop him at his ma’s. His birthday was four days ago.”
Bravery.
“Aw. Sweet. Well, why don’t you come over after you drop him off next Saturday? I’ll make us something to eat. Bring a bottle of wine or whatever you want to drink.”
“I will do that, Miss Robichaud.”
Exuberance.
“Great! I’m looking forward to it. I’m in the green house on the corner of Chartres and Mandeville. Second floor. See you then.”
I must have leapt two feet in the air when I hung up. I had a date with a virtual stranger, a guy whose last name I did not know, a tattoo-covered single father whom I’d met during an amazing, anonymous sexual encounter because of our mutual membership in an underground group that orchestrated sex fantasies for affection-starved women. And I couldn’t have been more excited.
“I did it,” I said to Dixie, flat on her back, playing with the charms on my bracelet.
DAUPHINE
I SHOULD HAVE known something was off when a different driver, not Ernesto, arrived twenty minutes later than the appointed time. I sat in the lobby of the Palace Alvear Hotel, in my new side-buttoned, black brocade dress with three-quarter sleeves, the better to show off my bracelet. I had found the dress buried in a rack in a shop in San Telmo, a gorgeous, form-fitting cocktail confection that stopped just below the knee, a conservative length set off by the way it hugged my curves. Watching the way my new driver took me in while striding confidently towards me in the lobby of the hotel told me the dress was worth every penny. His own uniform, on the other hand, was a little too snug, the hat too large, the sleeves too short. He just didn’t have the physique of a man who sat behind the wheel of a limousine all day, which, in fact, was a high compliment.
“Lo siento, Señora Dauphine,” he said, apologizing for his lateness, his veined wrists peeking out from his cuffs when he extended an ungloved hand.
I felt a sizzle up my arm when I shook it. Where Ernesto had a boyish charm, this new driver was pure masculinity. But a second alarm bell went off after he settled me in the back seat.
“A donde vamos?” he asked. Where are we going?
If he had been sent by S.E.C.R.E.T., wouldn’t he know the address? Matilda had said the auction was top secret and only a few well-heeled invitees knew its location. That information had been delivered via phone call, not by invitation, in order to avoid attention from the press.
I met his smiling green eyes in the rearview mirror. He was the kind of man who knew he had a certain effect on women.
“Vamos al Teatro Colón, por supesto,” I said, directing him to the historical theatre downtown. I couldn’t help being charmed by his looks. So shallow, Dauphine, I scolded, resting back into my seat.
The next alarm when off on the slow drive to the theater, when, every block or so, he consulted a GPS, adjusting and readjusting his rearview mirror. And yet when we pulled up to the Teatro Colón, a block-long building that looked like a creamy marble wedding cake, my concerns about this man were immediately replaced by trepidations about the auction. A tuxedoed valet stood curbside to greet me. He ignored my driver as he opened the door and helped me out of the car.
“Wow,” I said, sounding like the gosh-gollyest American who ever was.
“Miss Mason, it is a privilege to meet you. And I am sorry if you had … trouble finding the Teatro Colón.” He eyed my driver. “Quíen es usted?”
“Dante,” my driver answered, as he grasped me by the upper arm.