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

My heart beat faster as we made turn after turn. I tried to clear my mind as Matilda
had instructed. Try not to anticipate. Try to be in the moment.
The limo came to a stop in front of The Saint. My hand was so sweaty it slipped on the
door handle, but the driver was already on the job, getting out and coming around to
open the door and help me out of the back seat.
“Good luck, my dear,” he said.
I nodded my appreciation and then stood for a moment, watching the beautiful people
of the city stream in and out of the main doors—leggy, bold women, trailing perfume
and condence, the men, looking so proud to be seen with them. Then there was me. I
realized I’d forgotten to wear perfume. My hair, pulled straight an hour ago, was
starting to frizz up. The thought that this fantasy would play out in public made my
fearful heart drop. That’s where hearts should sit, I thought, deep in the gut, where there
is more insulation to hide their anxious beating. And yet, nervous as I was, I was
also … curious. I took a deep breath and headed inside and straight for the elevators.
A small man in a hotel uniform appeared on my left.
“Can I see your ticket?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, digging in my clutch. “Here.”
He eyed the ticket, then me, clearing his throat.
“Well, then,” he said, pressing the up button. “Welcome to The Saint. We hope you’ll
enjoy your stay.”
“Oh, I’m not staying here. I’m only meeting … well, seeing … hearing, just hearing the
music.”
“Of course. Have a lovely evening,” he said, bowing and then backing away from me.
The elevator swallowed me up, its ascent wreaking havoc with my already churning
stomach. I closed my eyes and leaned up against the cool mirrored wall, holding tight to
the rail. As the elevator car neared the penthouse club, I could hear mued music, many
voices. The doors opened to dozens of smartly dressed people clustered in the dim lobby,
more still in the dark bar beyond the glass doors. It took superhuman strength for me to
peel my ngers from the rail, leave the safe connes of the elevator and launch myself
into the crowd.
Each person was holding a glass of champagne and was engaged in what seemed to be
an interesting conversation. Some women glanced over their shoulders at me the way
you’d look at a potential opponent. Their male companions assessed me too. Were those
looks of … interest? No. Couldn’t be. No way. I moved slowly through the crowd,
keeping my eyes lowered, yet wondering what the hell I was doing in such a swishy
place. I saw some local luminaries, Kay Ladoucer from city council, who also chaired
several prominent charities. She was carrying on an animated conversation with Pierre
Castille, the handsome billionaire land developer known for being a reclusive bachelor.
He looked my way and I averted my eyes. Then I realized what he was actually looking
at. Beside me were gathered several young and coltish daughters of Southern gentry, the
kind of girls whose photographs you see in the Times-Picayune society pages.
The Smoking Time Jazz Club band was going to be playing tonight, but they hadn’t yet
taken the stage. I had heard them before at the Blue Nile. I loved the lead singer, a