“Oh my goodness,” I said, reaching into my purse for my bracelet, which I kept in a velvet roll.
“You earned Confidence when you trusted your instincts about Pierre. I’m so glad he didn’t shake that from you. Seven’s for Curiosity,” Matilda reminded me, laying each charm out on the Formica. “That’s for asking Pierre all the right questions. Eight’s for Bravery, of course, and how you stood your ground with him. And Nine, that one’s Exuberance—and I do hope you still feel a measure of that, Dauphine, after all you’ve experienced with us.”
I secured them one by one to my bracelet, shaking it in front of my eyes. It was dazzling.
“This is so thoughtful, so generous,” I said. “I’ll treasure it, and my time in S.E.C.R.E.T. Always.”
“I have one more offer,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “Of course you can say no, but I urge you to consider it. We’d like you to experience a final fantasy, one we’re quite confident will be worth the leap of faith. We are all very upset about what happened to you in Buenos Aires. So we’d relish the opportunity to make amends. I can assure you we’d do this not only to restore your feelings of safety, but to solidify everything S.E.C.R.E.T. stands for. And I have it on good authority that this fantasy will exceed every one of the fantasies you’ve experienced before. In fact, we suspect this last one will blow your mind.”
Maybe it was her face, beseeching and earnest. And maybe I suddenly saw the folly in punishing myself and S.E.C.R.E.T. because of the deed of one bad man. I looked at my bracelet, eight charms dancing around my wrist. What do you say to an offer like that? You throw your arms around the person proposing it and you say, “Yes, fine. One more.”
I was surprisingly calm the day my final fantasy card arrived. It was Elizabeth who had a hard time containing herself after I asked her to dress me for a “casual but sexy” date at Tipitina’s.
“Seriously? A date? You’re going out? With a real live man? To a concert? All this change is too much for my little heart to bear.”
She was still absorbing my new mandate, the one I had carried home with me from Argentina along with all my beautiful finds.
When she asked me, as always, what was for sale and what was for keeps, I replied, “Sell everything, all of it. All the excess stock that I’m keeping for no good reason. Everything in the back. All the gold hoops and the silk pajamas and the leather gloves and the pillbox hats,” I said, adding, “and whatever we can’t sell, we’ll give away. I need more room to grow.”
Elizabeth looked overcome, teary, as she held a set of blue-tinted pince-nez between her fingers.
“Dauphine, do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say this?” she asked.
And today I was asking her to help me again, this time to see me through her eyes, so I could gain a new perspective on myself.
She was breathless. “Okay. There are a few looks I’ve had in mind for you for a long while. Will you let me give them a try?”
Elizabeth whirled around the store, plucking scarves and blouses, bracelets and T-shirts, dresses and jeans. This culminated in a stop in the office treasure trove, where she pulled bangles, cuffs, stilettos and a brand-new lavender camisole. Nothing Elizabeth chose for me was vintage; the pieces were all tight, edgy, the colors mostly blues and purples, which I rarely wore. But when she pulled out her hair straightener, I knew we were looking at a game-changer kind of evening. If I didn’t wear my unruly red hair piled on my head or tied back, I didn’t know what to do with it.
After an hour and a half of being dressed and undressed, while we ate takeout fries and smoothies, and waited on customers between modeling “looks,” I settled on black leather pants, a camisole under a white sheer blouse and a charcoal blazer, topped with a hail of thin gold chains, a gold cuff and black suede ankle boots with wedges. I looked bold. And, I had to admit, sexy.
“But see how that hint of lavender camisole gives the whole look a soft feminine appeal too,” Elizabeth said, thoughtfully examining me in the mirror like I was her creation.
“Why have I never let you do this before?”
“No clue. You look like a rock goddess,” she said.
I looked like me, just a more current, modern version. I felt potent, punchy and free.
“How does this look instead of the cuff,” I said, fetching my charm bracelet.
“Oh yeah. God that thing’s gorgeous. You have such a good eye, Dauphine. Such a good eye.”
“And you are getting a raise,” I said, grabbing Elizabeth by the cheeks and kissing her square on her Clara Bow lips.
The limo fetched me at home, at ten sharp, the cool night air hitting my face, signaling that fall was just around the corner. The last time I was at Tipitina’s, I had been with a very reluctant Luke during Jazz Fest, on one of our last outings as a couple. Music never was his “thing.” So far the ladies had me pegged. If this fantasy was just me listening to great music with a great guy who was into it too, that would be good enough for me.
“We’re here, Miss Mason,” said the driver, noting the line snaking around the building and up the block.
My heart skipped at the sight of THE CARELESS ONES, lit up on the marquee. Yes! Their music could not be a more perfect soundtrack for whatever this fantasy was going to be. So far, so right! Just breathe, I told myself.
The kind driver, sensing my nervousness, ushered me through the throng of fans, acting like we owned the place, like I was a VIP. Nearing the front of the stage, where the opening act was performing, I spotted two familiar-looking women holding out a chair for me.
“Dauphine! You’re here! You remember us? I’m Kit and this is Pauline,” Kit yelled over music. “We’re your dates until your date gets here. Have I mentioned just how much I love my job?”
“You look amazing!” Pauline enthused, sexy in her clear-skinned, short-haired way. She had on a black mini-dress downplayed with a denim jacket and banged-up black ankle boots. Kit was in cutoffs and a baggy white dress shirt, a dramatic grey streak highlighting her now-ebony hair.
“Thanks for being here,” I said. “It means a lot to me.” And it did. I wasn’t used to going out like this on my own, or going out at all, for that matter. “So … is he here?” I asked, sneaking a glance around the crowded room.
“He’s on his way,” Pauline said, exchanging looks with Kit.
“You’ll tell me when he gets here?” I asked, nervously patting down my straight hair. It felt like silk.
“You’ll know when he gets here,” Kit said. “Don’t worry.”
A glass of chilled Chablis appeared in front of me, my favorite, and after the opening band left the stage, the packed room went completely dark. Minutes later, when the Careless Ones fired up their instruments with a familiar riff, the hair stood up on my arms. It was him, Mark Drury, lit from behind at center stage. As Mark reached for the microphone and pulled it to his mouth, the floodlights hit his amazing face full force. For a few seconds the only sound in the cavernous room was his breath on the mesh of the mike. He had the body of a musician, all lank and sinew, bones seemingly hollowed out for music to move through them. Clothes hung on him perfectly, but they were incidental to his voice. Everything was. Why he didn’t do it for Cassie, I’ll never know, but a glance around the room at all the glassy-eyed women swaying in their seats confirmed he wouldn’t lack for attention for long.