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My bags disappeared through the gold doors and I quickly followed them. That regal feeling was
heightened when I took the elevator to my eighth-floor suite, where I kicked off my shoes. My sitting
room faced a street already choked with morning rush-hour traffic, but the triple-paned windows
meant it was as silent as a tomb. Good lord, this was a real suite, the kind where you ate in a room
separate from where you slept. I flung open the heavy, gold floor-to-ceiling curtains, my bare feet
caressing the deep pile of the Oriental rug. The porter left clutching his tip, and I stood for a moment
in the middle of the rooms, squeezing my fists. Then I let out a high-pitched cry of joy, ran to the bed
and flung myself onto it.
It was still a few days until the auction, the responsibility of which suddenly flooded my body. I
was on a kind of mission, like a woman of mystery and intrigue, I decided. If I were afraid of
anything, I would just pretend to be that woman, the fearless kind, the kind who took delicious
pleasure thirty thousand feet up and received a suite of rooms for her daring.
After a hot shower, I peeled back the downy layers of bedding and slid between the heavy covers.
Just a quick nap, I thought. I hadn’t slept well on the plane. I closed my eyes and woke three hours
later to a gentle knock on the door. I opened it to a bellhop, who rolled in a trolley. Perched between
a carafe of coffee and a tray of crustless sandwiches was a thick, square envelope, Dauphine spelled
out in that familiar S.E.C.R.E.T. scroll. It was odd, if not a little discombobulating, seeing something
familiar in a place so far from home. I plucked the card off the tray and sliced it open with a butter
knife. Step Four was traced out on one side of the heavy card stock, the word Generosity on the
other, and beneath it the line “We are with you every Step, Dauphine.”
It was happening! Another one.
Suspended on a hook above the trolley was a thick garment bag that felt hefty as I carried it to the
bed. I unzipped it, exposing a fanciful red dress, sequins on the bodice, cascading to a riot of feathers
around the hips and legs. It looked like a giant crimson swan. I held it up against my body in front of a
full-length mirror. An invitation to a midnight tango show came drifting out of its wings.
Dancing? No. Not dancing. I avoided it almost as much as I avoided flying. As much as I loved
music, I could never do more than nod to the beat in the dark corners of the clubs. Sometimes I danced
alone in my apartment. I danced for Luke once, until I undermined the seduction by hamming it up, too
self-conscious to pull off a real striptease. But the idea of dancing in front of strangers curdled my
stomach. I wasn’t lean or graceful, unlike my sister.
“If Bree only had Dauphine’s discipline, or Dauphine Bree’s thighs, we’d have had a ballerina in
this family,” my mother often said. I think she thought it was a compliment, but it gutted me.
I set aside my terror for a moment to marvel at the dress, the bodice’s expert construction, handstitched
and lined strategically to soften the boning that held it stiff. Its asymmetrical hem suggested
tango, for sure, and while red looked good on me, I can’t say that this dress was my style. No. Not at
all. A sweat broke across my brow. I could not, would not, dance in front of people. Not with my
body, in that dress. And S.E.C.R.E.T., as Cassie and Matilda kept reminding me, was about doing
everything you want, nothing you don’t.
It was hours before the tango show. I hit the streets wearing my trench coat and comfortable shoes.
Buenos Aires was cool, loud and busy, the mix of old and new clashing on every corner. And
porteños seemed to love their outdoors spaces as much as New Orleanians. Even on a crisp fall day,
the Plaza San Martín was full of strollers and cyclists, and dogs of various sizes were pulling on
dozens of leashes held by incredibly strong walkers. I felt a warmth overcome me. Were it not for