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I watched her make her way around the long oak table to greet Bernice, Michelle and Brenda. Matilda was at the side table talking to Kit, both of them nibbling from the impressive array of food laid out—spring rolls, pakoras, wine and cheese. Amani was refreshing the shrimp platter. I began to wonder who else among the Committee had had sex with Jesse during some training session or another. At Tracina’s baby shower last year, I found out Pauline had “freshened up Jesse’s oral skills.” Even Matilda’s name had come up as a possible partner, though I found that hard to believe—not because she was almost twenty years older than him but because she was so particular, so elegant, so refined … and he was so … Jesse. I could imagine Michelle with her blond curls tumbling across his chest, or bisexual Kit, who could easily lure a third into their bed. Damn, I felt it, that old stream of jealousy coursing toxically through my blood. I had been warned about Jesse. It was never a secret. I knew what this thing was. I understood our limitations. Still, I was shaking as I took a seat between Matilda and Maria, doing my best to hide this sudden bout of insecurity. In two minutes, I’d gone from feeling grateful and hopeful to fraudulent and useless.
Shake it off, Cassie. This isn’t about you.
I nodded hellos to the assembled gals, including Pauline, whose presence could still make me blush a bit.
“Thank you all so much for coming,” Matilda began. “I know this is a last-minute gathering, but we have a couple of things on our agenda. As some of you are aware, Solange’s threesome fantasy did not, as we say, pan out.”
Damn. I had been meaning to ask, but I figured no news was good news.
Matilda turned to me, reading my mind. “Cassie, don’t blame yourself. She changed her mind. It happens.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” I said.
“Me too,” Pauline said, poutily.
“We all are. But remember that this is a process of discovery, and Solange learned something valuable by not following through. Don’t cry for Solange. She has a couple of heady adventures lined up for her. In Paris.”
“And I’m more than happy to help with any of them,” Angela said, raising her hand.
“I’m afraid this one’s Bernice’s,” Matilda said, signaling for Bernice to empty a manila envelope of photos onto the table. Oohs and ahhs for Paris became oohs and ahhs for the pictures, which showed what looked like the first-draft lineup for a team of the Best-Looking Black Men on the Planet.
“Ladies, before you scramble through that pile, take a look at this photo.”
Matilda pushed back a screen on the wall to display a blown-up shot of a handsome black man, older, hands on his hips, standing in what looked to be Jackson Square. He had a light salt-and-pepper goatee and was wearing sunglasses pushed up on his closely shaved head. He was smiling to someone off camera to his left, a dimple in his left cheek. The look on his face suggested he wasn’t aware that this photo was being taken.
“See this man?”
“Indeed we do,” someone muttered, causing a fit of giggles.
“This man is Julius Faraday, Solange’s ex-husband.”
&n
bsp; There were more oohs and ahhs and Did you say “ex”? and Go, Solange.
“All right, now listen,” Matilda said, trying to scold, but she, too, was having a hard time hiding her grin. “For reasons that might be obvious, we need to find among these headshots the man who best resembles Julius, but Julius as a younger man, the way Solange would have known him when they first met.”
I got up to join the cluster in front of the board and take a closer look at Julius. He was shockingly well assembled in his turtleneck and leather jacket. His front teeth had the barest hint of a gap. Were it not for his connection to Solange, I would have suggested him as a recruit. I also would have offered to train him. But he was her ex, and exes were off-limits. Or so I thought.
“Him,” Michelle said, pinning one of the headshots next to the photo of Julius.
“Nuh-uh,” said Angela. “This dude.”
The man in the photo she indicated had a smile similar to Julius’s, but his hair was longer. After some debate about a smile being more important than eyes, Angela’s pick won in a landslide vote, after which Bernice disappeared with the headshot to “make overseas calls.” The rest of us got up to leave because we thought we’d completed the task of the evening.
“Hold on, ladies. We have one more order of business,” Matilda said, reaching under the table for another manila envelope. “We’re selecting one more recruit this evening. And in an unusual twist, this recruit approached us. Well, he approached me.”
There was confusion around the table. Matilda rarely accepted applicants who approached S.E.C.R.E.T. because it was usually through an indiscreet recruit who’d broken the rules and told one of his friends. Too much eagerness was frowned upon and it threatened our anonymity.
Matilda placed the envelope in front of me.
“Cassie, would you please open it?”
Why me? Maybe this time I would be chief fantasy facilitator! Maybe I was going to Paris! I snatched the envelope off the table and impatiently ripped it open. Out slid a glossy black-and-white headshot of a handsome new recruit.
What followed happened in a few seconds, five tops, but time seemed to slow. I took in the recruit’s studied stance, and the way he leaned against the rough cement wall. I thought, Hmm, he’s very good-looking. But I know this guy from somewhere. Three seconds in, I realized this man was famous. But for what? Then, in the space of time it took for me to inhale and exhale, it dawned on me: this recruit wasn’t famous. It was just that his face was so deeply familiar, he felt famous.
I was looking at the face of Will, my Will, his brooding features in quiet repose, his dark blue eyes relaxed but serious, a kind smile playing across his lips. He was wearing that black shirt with the French cufflinks from the other day. He stood with his hands in the pockets of those flat-front slacks. He looked sexy. Very, very sexy.
