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

his jealousy, which now hovered over our metal patio table like a bit of sullen weather.
“No, Will, he has not. Nor do I expect him to,” I said, meaning it. I ran the hem of my
apron through my ngers, thinking how wildly curious I was about Will’s connection to
Pierre. I finally got up the nerve to ask.
“So, how well do you know Pierre exactly? And why had you never mentioned him
before?”
“Holy Cross,” he said, referring to a private school for boys. “I went on scholarship.
His dad pulled some strings to get me in.”
“So you were friends as kids?”
“Best friends. For years. But time and temperament pulled us apart. Then this place
put a nail in the con,” he said, pointing to the condominium across the street. “His
father built Castille Development, and the Castilles built that monstrosity. I fought
against it. I lost. Don’t know why it had to be nine stories. Four, maybe ve, but they
built a fucking high-rise on Frenchmen. How can city council allow that but not allow
me to have a couple dozen people eating dinner and having drinks upstairs at Café
Rose?”
“Well, there is the matter of the aging beams. And also the sixty-year-old electrical
wiring.”
“I would fix those things, Cassie, I would,” he said, then took a sip of his coffee.
“With the money you were going to donate when you bid on me at the ball?” I said.
He winced at the memory, and I was sorry to have brought it up.
“I was momentarily swept up in the proceedings.” Then, quickly changing the subject,
he added, “I’d take out a loan to do the renos. I might even qualify for an improvement
grant. Or one of those hurricane funds, maybe. I need to gure out a way to earn more
money from this goddamn building.”
I glanced across the street at the nine-story, blond-brick building, thinking that every
time Will looked at it, he probably thought of Pierre.
“I’ll miss you, Cassie.”
I couldn’t believe I’d heard what I just heard. “It’s just four days.”
“I didn’t know you skied.”
“It’s been a while. Ten years,” I said, reminded that my old skiwear was probably
horribly out of date. “You ever ski?”
“Nope. Southern boy born and bred. I’m still amazed by snow, when we get it. Take
pictures, will you?” he asked. Then adopting the deepest of Southern accents, he added,
“ ’Cause I ain’t never seen no big mountains ’afore in my en-tire life!”
Staring up at Whistler Mountain three weeks later, centering it through a viewnder for
a photograph, I had to admit I’d never seen a mountain this big either. In Michigan we
skied on hills—high ones, steep ones, but hills nonetheless. They had names like Mount
Brighton and Mount Holly, but they weren’t full-on mountains. Not like this. Despite the
fact that it was a clear day, I couldn’t even see the top, and yet for January it wasn’t
nearly as cold here in British Columbia as Michigan winters could get. In fact, I began to