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“I am just a waitress. I guess I’m a widow too. But mostly I am just a waitress.”
“A widow? I’m sorry to hear that. You’re not originally from New Orleans. I detect a slight Midwestern accent. Illinois?”
“Close. Michigan. We moved here about six years ago. My husband and I. Before he died. Obviously. Um, how do you know Will?”
“I knew his dad. He owned this place before—it’s twenty years ago now that he died, I think. Probably the last time I was a regular here. It hasn’t changed much,” she said, looking around.
“Will says he’s going to renovate. Expand upstairs. But it’s expensive. And right now it’s all any restaurant can do in this city to stay open.”
“That’s true.”
She glanced down at her hands and I got a better look at her bracelet, which seemed to have a lot more charms than Pauline’s. I was going to comment on its beauty, but Matilda spoke again.
“So, Cassie, I need to ask you something. That book that … Dell found. My friend is a little worried that someone might have read it. It’s a diary of sorts with lots of very personal stuff in it. Do you think Dell would have read it?”
“Oh God, no!” I said, with a little too much conviction. “Dell’s not the type.”
“The type? What do you mean by that?”
“Well, I mean, she’s not nosy. She’s not really interested in other people’s lives. Just this place, the Bible, maybe her grandkids.”
“Do you think it would be odd to ask Dell? To see if she read the book or showed it to anyone? It’s important that we know.”
Oh God! Why didn’t we get a story straight? How Dell found the booklet, and how she stored it in her work locker until its rightful owner was found? Because I never thought there’d be an interrogation, that’s why. Just a grateful owner making a beeline out of the restaurant, never to be seen again. Now this Matilda woman had my guts in a vise grip.
“She’s super busy right now, but why don’t I go back there and ask her?”
“Oh, I don’t mind asking her myself,” she said, rising from the table. “I’ll just go poke my head in the back—”
“Wait!”
Matilda slowly sat back down, her eyes homing in on me.
“I found the journal.”
Matilda’s face relaxed a little, but she made no reply. She just clasped her hands on the table and leaned in a little closer.
I looked around the empty Café and continued. “I’m sorry I lied. I just, I read a little bit of it—but only to find a name, some sort of contact information. But I swear, you can tell Pauline I stopped after a page … or two. And, well, I was … embarrassed, I guess. I didn’t want her to be any more uncomfortable than she already seemed. So I lied. I’m sorry. I feel like such an idiot.”
“Don’t feel bad. On Pauline’s behalf, I thank you for returning the book to her. Our only request is that you say nothing about what you read, to anyone. Absolutely nothing. Can I trust you to do that?”
“Of course. I would never. You have nothing to worry about.”
“Cassie, you don’t understand how important this is. You must keep this secret.” Matilda pulled a twenty from her wallet. “Here’s for lunch. Keep the change.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Then she proffered a card with her name on it. “If you have any questions about what you read in that book, I urge you to call me. I mean it. Otherwise I won’t be back here. Nor will Pauline. This is how to reach me. Day or night.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, holding the card cautiously as if it were radioactive. Matilda Greene, and her phone number. On the back was an acronym, S.E.C.R.E.T., and three sentences: No Judgments. No Limits. No Shame. “Are you, like, a therapist or something?”
“You could say that. I work with women who reach a crossroads in life. Usually midlife, but not always.”
“Like a life coach?”
“Kind of. More like a guide.”
“Do you work with Pauline?”
