S.E.C.R.E.T. Shared (Secret 2)

She had me there and she knew it.

“I thought you only wanted to guide this year.”

“I do. I’m happy to guide.”

“So everything is as it should be.” She looked at her watch. “Why don’t you put some coffee on?”

I headed to the kitchenette off the foyer. I thought of the way Jesse had kissed me. That kiss. That hungry, searching kiss! The way he pressed me against the cool tiles. How he lifted me onto the prep table, bringing me to orgasm with his mouth, that mouth, just his mouth, because he never entered me … Oh god, there I was getting wet just thinking of the possibility of Jesse inside me, moving on top of me, his arm muscles flexing in the light … I had the sudden urge to waltz back into the boardroom and remove his name.

Danica stuck her head in the kitchenette.

“She’s here. Dauphine. She’s out at the gate. Ready?”

“Yup, sure, ready,” I said, my hands deep in my front pockets. “Let’s go!”

DAUPHINE

HOW MANY TIMES had I walked past this mansion without any idea what went on in here? I lived only a few blocks away. The possibility of a lusher life had been right under my nose, and yet I couldn’t see it and hadn’t known it. It’s funny how you don’t know you’re ready for change until it appears on your doorstep. I stood in front of that imposing, vine-covered gate on Third Street, contemplating entering. You can always leave, I told myself. You do not have to stay. You do not have to do anything you don’t want to do.

My unspoken motto in life had always been: if I can’t control it, I don’t trust it. It had worked with my business—I trusted almost no one after buying Charlotte out (Elizabeth being the rare exception), and I took control of the store myself. But my controlling nature had also prevented me from moving, changing and growing. I had stopped taking risks. Jeez, I even cut my own hair because I didn’t trust anyone else to do it. I’d sweep it to the front of my face and trim the ends in the mirror. Luke used to say it wasn’t Charlotte that broke us up, it was the fact that I stood frozen in the tracks of my life.

When I saw Cassie coming out of the Coach House, she didn’t recognize me at first. My hair was down and I wasn’t wearing a dress. Instead I had picked out ’60s-style side-zipper clam-diggers, a sleeveless floral blouse and espadrilles. I wanted to seem casual but not too casual; pulled together, but not completely buttoned-down. Cassie didn’t look nearly as neurotic in her jeans and white T-shirt.

Okay, stop thinking, Dauphine!

“Am I late?”

“You’re right on time. Ready?”

“Ready as the Arizona rain.”

I followed her through the ivy-covered gate. The grounds behind the high fence were as I had imagined—impeccable, crew-cut green grass, vivid pink hydrangea bushes, white roses the size of a toddler’s tutu dancing up the curved portico. Up close, the Mansion put a spell on you; you simply wanted to be inside of it. Cassie kept her hand wrapped around my upper arm, gently guiding me towards the red door of a square building to our left.

Matilda opened the door before we knocked.

“Dauphine, the woman with the beautiful name. Welcome to the Coach House. The Committee is very excited to meet you.”

It all happened so fast that I didn’t get a chance to take in the decor, though I thought I recognized two large abstracts lining the walls, the colors and brush technique distinct.

“Oh my goodness! Are those … Mendoza abstracts?” I asked, much to Matilda’s delight.

“Why yes! They’re the last two from our collection. We’re the executors of Carolina Mendoza’s estate. You know her work?”

“Design major. Modern Louisiana Art was one of my courses,” I said, gazing up at the largest of the two paintings, which featured two fiery red squares that faded into yellow and orange at the edges. I quickly retrieved some facts about her from my filing cabinet brain: a young revolutionary from South America, a passionate feminist …

“She was a dear friend and one of S.E.C.R.E.T.’s founders,” Matilda added. “The sale of her paintings every few years funds our endeavors. In fact, this year we’re selling this one, Red Rage. We’ll be sad to part with it.”

“I bet. It’s beautiful.”

We passed a punky-looking young woman at reception with black hair and vivid red lips.

“Danica, this is Dauphine.”

“Hi!” she said. “I’m a big fan of your store.”

“Oh, yes. Thanks.”

I vaguely recognized her, though members of the young hipster set sometimes blend into to one another. And those types rarely bought intact vintage, always tweaking and altering expert tailoring to make it their own.