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“I don’t talk about my clients.”
“I could probably use some guidance.” Had I said that out loud? “But I can’t afford it.” Yes, I had.
“Well, this might surprise you, but you can afford what I charge because I work for free. The catch is I get to choose my clients.”
“What do those letters stand for?”
“You mean S.E.C.R.E.T.? That, my dear, is a secret,” she said, a sly smile playing across her lips. “But if you meet with me again, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Okay.”
“You’re someone I’d like to hear from. And I mean that.”
I knew I was wearing my skeptical expression, the one that made me look a lot like my father, the man who had told me that nothing in life’s free, nor is it ever fair.
Matilda stood up from the table. When she put out her hand for me to shake, her bracelet glinted in the sun.
“Cassie, it was quite lovely to meet you. And now you have my card. Thank you for your honesty.”
“Thank you for … not thinking I’m a complete idiot.”
She let go of my hand and cupped my chin like a mother would. I could hear the charms tinkle against each other, they were so close to my ears.
“I hope we meet again.”
The door chime signaled her goodbye. I knew that if I didn’t call her, I’d never see her again, which made me feel unaccountably sad. I placed the card carefully in my front pouch.
“Making new friends, I see,” Will said from behind the bar. He was emptying a case of sparkling water into the refrigerator.
“What’s wrong with that? I could use a few friends.”
“That woman’s a little off. She?
??s like a Wiccan-hippy-vegan or something. My dad knew her back in the day.”
“Yeah, she told me.”
Will began a long diatribe about stocking more nonalcoholic beverages because people are drinking a lot less, but that we could charge more for sparkling water and those special sodas and ciders and probably still make good margins, but all I was thinking about was Pauline’s journal, and the two men, the one behind her and the one beneath her, and the way her sexy boyfriend traced his firm hands down her forearm and how he pulled her into his embrace on the street in front of everyone—
“Cassie!”
“What? What is it?” I said, shaking my head. “Jesus, you scared me.”
“Where did you go just now?”
“Nowhere, I’m here. I’ve been here all along,” I said.
“Well, go home, then. You look tired.”
“I’m not tired,” I said, and it was true. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been more awake.”
It took me a week to call Matilda. A week of the same old thing, of walking to work and of walking home, of not shaving my legs, of yanking my hair into a ponytail, of feeding Dixie, of watering the plants, of ordering takeout, of drying dishes, of sleeping, and then of waking and doing it all over again. It was a week of looking out over Marigny at dusk from my third-story window, realizing that loneliness had blotted out any other feeling. It had become to me like water to a fish.
If I had to describe what propelled me to call Matilda, I guess I could say it felt as if my body was having none of this anymore. Even as my mind was reeling with the idea of asking for help, my body forced me to pick up the kitchen phone at the Café and dial.
“Hello, Matilda? This is Cassie Robichaud, from Café Rose?”
Five Years pricked up its ears.
