Marie Adeline - Secret Shared

“I usually take care of my son on Saturdays,” he said. “But I think I can figure something out.”

Curiosity.

“Right. You have a son. How old is he now?”

“He’s six, actually. I have him every Wednesday, and every other Friday and Saturday until six. Then I drop him at his ma’s. His birthday was four days ago.”

Bravery.

“Aw. Sweet. Well, why don’t you come over after you drop him off next Saturday? I’ll make us something to eat. Bring a bottle of wine or whatever you want to drink.”

“I will do that, Miss Robichaud.”

Exuberance.

“Great! I’m looking forward to it. I’m in the green house on the corner of Chartres and Mandeville. Second floor. See you then.”

I must have leapt two feet in the air when I hung up. I had a date with a virtual stranger, a guy whose last name I did not know, a tattoo-covered single father whom I’d met during an amazing, anonymous sexual encounter because of our mutual membership in an underground group that orchestrated sex fantasies for affection-starved women. And I couldn’t have been more excited.

“I did it,” I said to Dixie, flat on her back, playing with the charms on my bracelet.

I SHOULD HAVE known something was off when a different driver, not Ernesto, arrived twenty minutes later than the appointed time. I sat in the lobby of the Palace Alvear Hotel, in my new side-buttoned, black brocade dress with three-quarter sleeves, the better to show off my bracelet. I had found the dress buried in a rack in a shop in San Telmo, a gorgeous, form-fitting cocktail confection that stopped just below the knee, a conservative length set off by the way it hugged my curves. Watching the way my new driver took me in while striding confidently towards me in the lobby of the hotel told me the dress was worth every penny. His own uniform, on the other hand, was a little too snug, the hat too large, the sleeves too short. He just didn’t have the physique of a man who sat behind the wheel of a limousine all day, which, in fact, was a high compliment.

“Lo siento, Señora Dauphine,” he said, apologizing for his lateness, his veined wrists peeking out from his cuffs when he extended an ungloved hand.

I felt a sizzle up my arm when I shook it. Where Ernesto had a boyish charm, this new driver was pure masculinity. But a second alarm bell went off after he settled me in the back seat.

“A donde vamos?” he asked. Where are we going?

If he had been sent by S.E.C.R.E.T., wouldn’t he know the address? Matilda had said the auction was top secret and only a few well-heeled invitees knew its location. That information had been delivered via phone call, not by invitation, in order to avoid attention from the press.

I met his smiling green eyes in the rearview mirror. He was the kind of man who knew he had a certain effect on women.

“Vamos al Teatro Colón, por supesto,” I said, directing him to the historical theatre downtown. I couldn’t help being charmed by his looks. So shallow, Dauphine, I scolded, resting back into my seat.

The next alarm when off on the slow drive to the theater, when, every block or so, he consulted a GPS, adjusting and readjusting his rearview mirror. And yet when we pulled up to the Teatro Colón, a block-long building that looked like a creamy marble wedding cake, my concerns about this man were immediately replaced by trepidations about the auction. A tuxedoed valet stood curbside to greet me. He ignored my driver as he opened the door and helped me out of the car.

“Wow,” I said, sounding like the gosh-gollyest American who ever was.

“Miss Mason, it is a privilege to meet you. And I am sorry if you had … trouble finding the Teatro Colón.” He eyed my driver. “Quíen es usted?”

“Dante,” my driver answered, as he grasped me by the upper arm.

My greeter exhaled dramatically and turned on his heel. Dante and I followed him through the throng of tourists snapping photos in front of the theater. We hurried past the marble statues in the gold foyer where other limo drivers gathered to wait, then passed the stained-glass ceiling and the signs that read, EVENTO PRIVADO. We pushed through the carved gilded doors into a darkened theater.

Teatro Colón was a mesmerizing spectacle of intricate balconies surrounding long sweeping arcs of plush red velvet seats. A dozen front rows were filled with restless bidders who’d been waiting for us. Thankfully, we weren’t the last to arrive. Just before taking my seat, a tall blonde in a tailored blue business suit scrambled down the stairs, taking the last seat at the remote agents’ table in front of a bank of telephones. Matilda had told me there’d be some buyers calling in from around the world, the phones manned by their local bankers.

Be cool, Dauphine. You’re just here to sign some papers. I nervously patted my chignon, relieved I’d chosen kitten heels with the snug dress. My designated seat on the aisle of the last row was the best vantage point from which to watch the bidding before me. I leaned back to take in the sepia-stained frescos that circled a chandelier as big as the sun.

I eyed the buyers, mostly women. Money from the sale of the painting would fund S.E.C.R.E.T.’s rather unorthodox pursuits, as Matilda had explained. She didn’t want it coming from people or groups that might pry too far into S.E.C.R.E.T.’s true mandate, or whose values didn’t dovetail with our own.

Dante stood vigil to my right, like a handsome guard dog.

“It’s … lindísima,” I said, regarding the venue.

“Yes. It’s spectacular,” he whispered, leaning towards me. “It’s been completely restored over the last few years. That dress is spectacular too, by the way.”

So he spoke English! And with an American accent—no—a Southern accent! That was the final alarm bell.

“Who are you? Where are you from?”

A sweet smile crossed his lips just as a hammer hit a gavel and a curtain rose on Red Rage, gorgeously lit and perched on a matte black stand, its modernist style in stark contrast to the lush concert hall. Oohs and ahhs filled the room, and vigorous applause seemed to be Dante’s cue to take a seat high in the empty part of the theater behind me.

The auctioneer took the stage and greeted the guests. After a brief preamble about the painting’s history, he called on the room to acknowledge a representative sent to authenticate the transfer of ownership.

“Please welcome Señorita Mason, who accompanied Red Rage all the way from New Orleans on behalf of its anonymous owner.”

I felt the blood drain out of my face. Without standing, I floated a hand in the air and quickly dropped it back down, sinking with it.

“We wish you great luck today, Señorita Mason. The auction will be in English. Headphones have been provided for translation. Let us begin.”

Whack. Bidding opened at 2.3 million dollars American. Matilda hoped to double that. The auctioneer began navigating a forest of arms from both sides of the aisle. He was responding so quickly, he looked like he was doing a breaststroke. Anonymous telephone bids were also flooding in, and the blonde who had arrived later than me sat at the end of a bank of phones, her leg bouncing nervously.

“Do I hear two point four million? Two point four? Now two point six it is. That’s two point six from the back. Three million over here. I hear three million up front …”

My head whipped back and forth to keep up with the fast climb.

“We have four million, four point two, we have four point two. Four point eight and now five, ladies and gentleman …”

At that price, a few of the bidders’ representatives hung up their phones. By six million, half the room had stilled as I sat upright, literally on the edge of my seat. At seven million, most everyone else in the theater dropped out. But two remained: a stout woman in thick glasses competing against a particularly enthusiastic phone bidder, represented by the blonde, whose arm remained in the air, her finger registering “yes” to every uptick in the price.

“Now at eight point five … eight point five, and we have nine. That is nine million over here on the phone! Nine million two …”

Holy hell! It’s going to ten million. That’ll finance a lot of fantasies. I craned my neck to look for my driver, who was no longer shadowing me. Maybe he had joined the other drivers in the lobby.

“Ten million dollars, we are at ten. Ten point four, that is ten million, four hundred thousand …”

Left, right, right, left, the two remaining bidders each spurned the other on, the blonde on the phone never losing her cool, the woman in glasses becoming increasingly agitated. My heart played along, spiking with every raised hand. This was way more exciting than sports!

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are at eleven million and one hundred thousand dollars. Do I hear eleven two? We have … eleven two,” said the auctioneer, pointing his hammer at the bespectacled woman whose arm was becoming heavier and heavier. The blonde’s remained steadily aloft.

“Eleven three? Yes, we have eleven three on the phone. Will we get eleven four?”

The pause weighed on the room. All heads now turned to face the woman in the thick black glasses. Maybe because she wasn’t some disembodied voice on the phone, I suddenly wanted her to win. But alas, the blonde’s arm spiked calmly at the last price.

“We have eleven point four from anonymous bidder number eight up front … eleven point four … do we have eleven five?”