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1

Solange

I grew up in this house so I knew every plane and corner, every nook and cranny; the cracks in the tile roof from hurricanes that failed to do more than bruise the siding; the grouting that needed tending to on the only stone porch on State Street. These flaws always drew my eye when I pulled my Volkswagen into the cobblestone driveway. My dad had bought this Craftsman-style house from its original owners, and for a time we were the only black family for two blocks in Uptown. So I was still conscious of keeping it looking as pretty and pristine as he had. But lately I’d let things slip. What can I say? I’d been busy. And I’d never been the obedient type.

Still, when I pulled up that warm fall day, I knew something was not quite right. Or that something was very right, depending on how you looked at it. The broken roof tiles had been replaced, the newer ones now a little more vivid than the old ones surrounding them. And the grout was dark where it had been newly filled in around the porch stones. My ten-year-old son, Gus, was with my ex, Julius, or the weekend. These were jobs he had said he’d help me with. When he got around to it. I said, No. I’ll do it. I can take care of myself, thank you very much.

But between ten-hour shifts with grumpy news crews chasing breaking stories and weekends anchoring, I had no time to properly research the right maintenance company or to ask around at work if anyone could recommend a good contractor. They were so hard to find in New Orleans, so many were booked up on the Warehouse District condo boom or on big government reconstruction jobs. And Julius was never any good as a handyman. My ex-husband was an entrepreneur, a creative type, or at least that’s how he saw himself. So how the hell had these repairs come about? Surely if Julius had tackled them, or found someone who could, he’d have told me.

It was only when I threw my car into park that I noticed the white utility truck in front of my house, a long ladder jutting out. Someone was here. I quietly exited, not fully closing my car door. Just then I heard a metal on metal clanging sound coming from my backyard.

My journalist instincts were on high alert. Leave your purse in the car. Just take your keys. Be prepared to throw them. Don’t go into the house. Observe from the outside in. I was wearing heels so I padded on my toes, navigating the side drive, noticing as I did so that the leaky hose had been repaired. Wow. Nice. But still. How? And who?

I looked across the street. Dr. Franz in the brick Colonial was washing his car. Okay, good. There’d be a witness, someone to hear me scream in case whoever was in my backyard tinkering and hammering was actually breaking into it my house.

Ding, ding, plink, plink. The sounds continued. Feeling bolder, I made my way to the gate and raised my hand to unlock it, but the lock was completely gone, removed by the screws! My heart leapt. Should I stop here and call the cops? I padded around for my phone, but realized it was in my purse in the car. Damn it. I stepped onto the grass, my heels sinking into the moist lawn. Who watered it?

Carefully peeking around the corner, I saw him: a young man bent over a portable sawhorse, hammering away at something. It was 73 degrees, a hot day for November, so he was shirtless, an expanse of muscled back deeply browned by the sun. When the police asked for a description I’d say he was probably Italian, Greek or Hispanic, lithe, with more of a dancer’s body than a construction worker’s. No. I wouldn’t use the term dancer’s body with the police, would I? I was five-eight, shoes off, so I put him at five-eleven. Full head of curly black hair. Sinewy forearms. Not that I would describe them to the cops as sinewy; I wouldn’t say that. Thick, maybe. Ropy? No. Wait. Why would I even describe his forearms? Well, they were remarkable. He looked to be twenty-five, thirty tops. Faded khaki work pants, naked torso, a white T-shirt hanging out of his back pocket.

He continued hammering at something finicky resting on a platform strung between the sawhorses, his tool belt hanging crooked around his lean hips. More tools were neatly laid out on a portable worktable set up on the back patio. (Yes, Officer, that’s when I came upon a young, lithe Italian man with a dancer’s body, brown rippled skin, black curly hair, lean hips and incredibly sexy forearms—he was doing repairs on my place. Arrest him.)

The man looked relaxed. At home. At my home. Maybe police weren’t necessary.

“Ahem.” He didn’t hear me.

“Hello,” I said a little louder.

That sent his hammer flying out behind him, landing just a foot in front of me on the grass.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, turning around. “You scared me!”

“I scared you? This is my backyard you’re hammering away in.”

I finally took in his face, full on. He was seriously handsome but with gentle features: soft brown eyes, full lips. He gave me an easy smile and rested a hand on his hip, his other hand pulling the T-shirt out of his back pocket to wipe his brow.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

I realized I was holding my car keys so hard they’d pressed grooves into my skin.

“I just got home. How long have you been working here?”

“All day. I fixed the broken tiles on the roof, reset some of the stones on the porch, watered the lawn—”

“I know. I saw. Who hired you? I certainly didn’t.”

“—and I was just fixing the fence lock, but this here’s ust going to be a temporary fix. You’ll have to get a new lock. One with a dead bolt, I think. I mean, this is Uptown, it’s pretty safe, but you never know.”

He had a very slight accent, not from around here—maybe East Texas? For me as a journalist this instant awareness of details was an automatic skill, one I was known for. I took a step closer to him as he thoughtfully tilted his head; he was taking in my shoes, my legs, my waist, my breasts. I was wearing a blue silk blouse, a deep jewel tone, the same one I had worn to anchor the news that morning. I felt a current dance through my body, instantly warming me. Solange, this is a very young man. And you are a professional, a divorcée, with a young son and a high-profile job in the city. It would not be fitting to flirt. With this man. Who is trespassing on your property. Who is fixing your house. Who is younger than you.

“Who are you and who hired you?” I repeated, a hand moving to rub my neck. Nerves. “I’m thirsty. I’m wondering if I can get a glass of water maybe? Then I can tackle the leaky dishwasher—that is, if you’ll let me into the house.”

Sexy man, this one. He had swagger; he had a bit of game.

Sounding firm but not angry, I said, “You will remain thirsty until you tell me who sent you and what it is you’re doing on my property.”

“Well, I’ll tell you . . . if . . . you accept the Step.”

As he said it, literally as the words were coming out of his mouth, I knew. Finally, it was starting. The thing. The S.E.C.R.E.T. thing.

My guide, Matilda, had said it would begin within the month, that’d I’d be warned about some of my fantasies but that others would simply . . . unfold. God, how many times had I thought to pick up the phone and cancel all this sex-fantasy nonsense before it started. I didn’t have time for this. Sex used to be important. Certainly it was a big part of my life with Julius before things turned sad for us. But I was forty-one years old, for crying out loud. I had a kid. I had no business gallivanting around town, or even my own backyard, having sex with strange men, even if they did have a dimple in the left cheek and wore pants that kind of draped around their lean hips. Did I mention that?

He walked over to the garden hose. Actually, he sauntered. Damn.

“If you won’t quench my thirst, I’ll have to do it this way,” he said, raising a cool arc of water to his lips.

I held up my hand.

“Wait, you can come in.”