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“Are you serious?”
“Never more so,” he said, kissing me.
“I don’t … I can’t … no one has ever …”
“Cassie, just say thank you. And let’s get dressed and get this event over with.”
“I’m not going to say thank you now. I’m going to say thank you later, when I get you back here
alone.”
“So I take it we’re not staying late?”
“Hell no.”
We showered, one after the other as my tub was too small for two, and later as he zipped me
tenderly into my dress. I felt blessed, and, dare I say it … very loved. Had I known it would be the
last time we’d be together, I would never have left that bed or that apartment, and I certainly wouldn’t
have washed him off my body so quickly, before slipping back into that beautiful, cursed dress.
Latrobe’s was an intimate corner building, made of cream stucco, tucked in the heart of the French
Quarter. With its curved Moorish ceilings and dim interiors, it was the perfect place to hold a private
party or a small elegant wedding, something discreet and un-showy. So it was unusual to see a
boisterous crowd of reporters lining the entrance. But fifteen million dollars was going to be donated
to at least eight different local charities that worked to help women and children who were abused,
hungry, neglected or who were in any other way disadvantaged. It was the kind of money that could
change lives. So it was a big deal, deserving of big coverage.
Matilda was handling all the press, all the questions and all the follow-up. We were told to relax,
mingle and eat. A Committee meeting was struck for the following day. That’s when we’d find out
how much money was left in the S.E.C.R.E.T. coffers. That’s also when I planned to formally resign,
but not before profusely thanking each and every one them for my good fortune and my lovely life.
We ducked past a throng with clacking cameras and into the narrow foyer that led to the main
dining area. The room was filled with the highest echelons of New Orleans society, including, much
to our shock, a very solo and newly re-elected District Attorney Carruthers Johnstone, mopping his
brow and greeting guests in a too-snug tux, his PR person hovering close by, fielding questions.
“Are you going to be okay with him here?” I asked, pulling Will away from the greeting line,
avoiding Carruthers. It had been almost a month, and while I’d been several times to see the sweet
baby, and a very humbled Tracina, Will still felt like a chump. He still harbored some ill feelings I
hoped would fade soon so Tracina could freely bring the baby to the café she was named after.
Eyeing Carruthers, Will said, “It’s okay. Mostly I feel sorry for the poor bastard. He has to take on
all that crying and screaming … and a new baby on top of it all.”
News of Carruthers’ dalliance had come too late to affect his re-election, but its consequences
were trickling in. There were a lot of questions, of course, most of which he was avoiding while his
wife moved his things out of their mansion in the Garden District and into a lovely cottage on
Exposition Boulevard, facing Audubon, where he and Tracina could raise the baby in relative privacy
until the worst of the scandal blew over.
City councilwoman Kay Ladoucer was also there. She had chaired last year’s Revitalization Ball,
and tonight she was behaving like a queen bee, greeting guests and posing for pictures, even though
this was Matilda’s event. Will made a point of saying hello to her, knowing his final building
inspection was soon, after which, assuming he’d pass with flying colors, the only things stopping us
from opening Cassie’s (Cassie’s!) were securing the liquor license and cutting the ribbon. Kay had