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

on?
Claudette swung open a door and I was hit with the sound of music and the smell of
warm soup, seafood, tomatoes, maybe, and spices. I turned to ask her where I was going
and who I was going to meet, but she was gone, the door swinging quietly behind her. I
looked around the large kitchen, decorated like an old-fashioned scullery, the shiny
lacquer walls white to halfway up, then black. Dozens of stained copper pots were
strung high over the kitchen island. The appliances were as big as small cars, but they
were modern, only decked out to look old. The Sub-Zero fridge was like the one we had
at work, except much newer and spotless. The stove was black iron, with eight burners,
nothing like the one in the Café’s kitchen. This was the kind of kitchen you’d nd in a
castle.
Then he popped up, in front of the stove, his shirtless back facing me. He had been
bent over, adjusting a ame, and now he stirred something cooking in a big pot, all the
while talking loudly into a phone receiver cradled in his neck. His back had the muscles
of a natural athlete, not a bodybuilder; his brown skin was awless. His baggy jeans
were slung low but not too low, just enough to show o a ridiculously lean waist. He
was talking and stirring at the same time.
“Excuse me?” I said, over the loud music, but not loud enough for him to turn around.
“I’m not saying I don’t like the whole track,” he was saying, “just that bridge. Listen.”
He waited for a beat to hit and held the phone into the air. “Hear that? I don’t think it’s
the right sample. Did you ask him if I could hire Hep to pull it out for me? I know he’s
using him on his album, but this would be a personal favor.”
He turned to face me, jumping a little at the fact that I’d been standing there and he
hadn’t known. He looked me over from head to toe, placing his free hand on his hip. His
abs clenched. I tried not to stare, but it was dicult. This was perfection, this man. I
glanced over my shoulder at the double oak doors. Still listening to the conversation on
the phone, he gave me a smile that only people born with charisma to burn know how
to give. It literally changed the temperature in the room. Then he held up a nger to
signal one more minute. He looked familiar, that wide smile, those sleepy brown eyes.
“Tell him I’ll pay him double to cut the single with me,” he continued, the phone back
at his neck, but now his eyes were on me, making me self-conscious all over again.
Though not a big guy, he carried himself like he was a giant, almost as if he were
famous or something, which of course he couldn’t be. “We’ll put him up at the Ritz. Has
to be France. That’s where we’re cutting the album.”
He covered the receiver and whispered, “Sorry. One minute. Make yourself
comfortable, Cassie.”
He knew my name! Then he continued, “I don’t know. Maybe two days. I gotta see my
granny in N.O. Then we go to New York, then France. The tour is in eight weeks, but I
want to lay tracks for two singles. Release them while we’re still on tour. I don’t care.
Tell him there’s more where they came from. We’re still doing that album.”
Remembering to stir his pot again, he turned his back to me and tasted a little of the
simmering dish. He seemed completely comfortable here, knowing exactly what drawer
housed which utensil. With every pinch and stir, the muscles in his upper back and along