L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

A
fter my blindfold fantasy, life seemed more vivid. All of my senses were alive. I paid
greater attention to the things and people I used to ignore. As I walked, I’d let my
hands trail the gates in the Garden District, noticing the cornhusks or the little birds
carved into the wrought iron, imagining the artist creating those ornamental touches. It
used to irritate me when our regulars at the Café would take up a table outside, order
one coee and spend the morning chatting with everyone walking by, clogging the
narrow sidewalk with dogs and bikes. Now I marveled at the early morning intimacy of
Frenchmen Street, how people from dierent races and ages all convened around the
same table at the Café. I felt lucky to be a part of this community. I began, in fact, to
feel at home.
Instead of just plopping his coee in front of him, I asked the chatty old man with the
fancy carved walking stick some questions about his life. He told me about a wife who
ran o with his lawyer and the three daughters he rarely saw. I began to understand
that this man’s eccentricities were probably meant to draw people to him, so he could
talk and feel less lonely. And with a little encouragement, Tim from Michael’s bike shop
a few doors down told me some harrowing tales about surviving the hurricanes, and
about some friends who didn’t make it. “Many survived the hurricane only to die of
heartbreak after it,” he said.
And I believed him, knowing that loss and disappointment can create such pain.
New Orleans was experiencing one of the warmest winters on record, so when a
volunteer called to tell me I had won the Revitalization Ball’s rae for a trip for two to
Whistler, British Columbia, for the weekend, I was excited. I wanted to ski again, but
mostly I needed to feel a real winter on my skin. Though I embraced the South and was
beginning to know the city in my bones, I was a Northern girl at heart.
Before leaving for my trip, I asked Anna to keep Dixie for the week in her apartment
downstairs. I didn’t want to give her access to my place in case she snooped around and
found my fantasy journal, or any other evidence that explained those mysterious limo
rides. When I told Matilda about my prize and that I’d be away, beyond telling me to
have fun and to get in touch when I was back, she didn’t say much.
Will was a little reluctant to give me the time o, but there was always a short postholiday
lull before Mardi Gras kicked in. I reminded him that this was the perfect time
for me to take vacation days.
“I guess,” he said after I told him. He’d joined me outside for a quick coee after the
breakfast crowd left. “Are you going alone?”
“I don’t really have anyone I could go with.”
“What about Pierre Castille?” He practically spat out the name.
“Oh, please,” I said, hopefully camouaging the shudder I felt at hearing “Pierre”
spoken out loud. “That was nothing. In every sense of the word.”
“You cast a spell on him, Cassie. Has he been in touch?” Will made no attempt to hide