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

waved at me from the crowd forming near the booth. It was Amani, the tiny Indian
doctor who sat next to me my rst day at S.E.C.R.E.T. headquarters. She looked
magnicent in layered red and pink scarves enhancing a nearly sixty-year-old body, one
that still had formidable curves and definite presence. It was her eyes, though, that stood
out above all else—sparkling with mischief, black-lined, framed by a vivid red veil.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. It was odd to see a S.E.C.R.E.T. member out in the
community.
“Believe it or not, our little group gives very generously to this cause every year, but
not under our name. Here,” she said, thrusting an envelope at me. I thanked her for the
donation. “Matilda’s on her way too. You won’t miss her. She’s dressed as a fairy
godmother. Naturally.”
Before I could say anything, Kay was by my side, watching as guest after guest slipped
envelopes into the box on the table.
“Dr. Lakshmi,” Kay said, offering a hand. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you, Kay,” Amani said with a slight bow. “See you soon, Cassie, I hope.”
Kay didn’t ask how I had managed to be on a rst-name basis with an esteemed
member of the community.
“The auction hasn’t begun yet and it sure looks like we’re going to reach our quota!”
she said.
“Here’s hoping.”
Dinner was a six-course extravaganza of local specialties: lobster étouée and grits
with trues and brandy. Filet mignon with crab béarnaise. Dessert was a rich bread
pudding topped with crème fraîche and gold akes. Once the plates were cleared, it was
my cue to leave. But I was curious about the auction, curious to see who would win Will.
“Okay, it’s time to start the bidding!” Kay said, hurrying to the front of the room. “We
can’t keep waiting for him.” She meant Pierre Castille. Tracina wasn’t the only woman
hoping to spend some time with him.
I watched as the female bidders gathered closer to the stage where Kay had gathered
the men for auction. Besides Will, the bachelor auction included our very young state
senator, whom I would have cultivated a crush on had he been a Democrat. There was
an aging but still handsome municipal judge who had taken up marathon running after
his wife died, earning the sympathy and the eye of every single single woman over fty.
And an attractive African-American actor from a TV show that was shot in New Orleans.
You’d have thought the hot actor would garner the highest bid, but in fact, the esteemed
judge went for $12,500 to the president of the Garden District Historical Society. The
actor scored a distant second, bringing in $8,000.
Watching all the raucous fun and the bawdy energy of the auction from behind the
booth, I started to feel like a wallower again. Why did I always observe life in action
instead of being a full participant? When was I going to learn?
“And our nal bachelor,” Kay announced, “is Will Foret, the second-generation owner
of the esteemed Café Rose, one of the nest on Frenchmen. He’s thirty-seven years old,
ladies, and he’s single. Who will start the bidding?”
Will looked mortied, but still sexy in his Huck Finn costume, with the shing pole and