No More Lonely Nights (34 page)

Dominique heard the disappointment in Mark’s voice as he replied, “Oh… yes, I suppose so…”

It made her feel sorry, but she knew that she was doing the right thing. “I’ll just messenger this list to you,” Dominique continued. “Can you follow up this week?”

Mark forced himself to adopt a cheery air. “Anything for you! I’ll get back to you with the results by Thanksgiving.”

“That’s already next week, don’t forget.” Her voice sounded a note of anxiety.

Mark smiled. He knew she had the party under control. He had gained tremendous respect for her almost military efficiency—a result of her work with the RAF? She thought of every detail and followed up to make sure things were done correctly. Had he not felt about her as he did, he would have offered her a job. She was turning out to be even more than he had imagined on the day he had met her.

He should end the conversation, he told himself; they had no more business to discuss, but he didn’t want to let her go. So he asked, “Will you see your mother at Thanksgiving?” His eyes went automatically to the photograph of his own mother on his desk. He pulled the worn frame toward him and lovingly ran his thumb over the picture.

“No, just Clay’s family. Mother’s talking about coming down next year. What about you?”

“I’m going to the country.” Mark had a fantasy of Dominique sitting at the long table in Belle Terre’s dining room, one of his nieces or nephews on her lap. He knew she would fit in with his family, knew they would love her. “Everyone’ll be there,” he continued. “It always seems like about a hundred people!” He thought wistfully how much his mother’s presence would be missed. He remembered the last Thanksgiving she’d been alive, her bravery in maintaining a cheerful demeanor as she lay dying of cancer. She had hidden her pain for the sake of her family, had never complained. Only in the last week of her life had she allowed herself the oblivion of morphine. Before that, she had chosen to remain alert, her senses fully attuned to the world around her.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” she’d told the family. “I want to feel it. I want to see it. I have little enough time left and there’s so much I want to say to you all…”

In the last week, when the pain grew unbearable, Mark had cried, “Mama, please, I can’t stand to see you suffering like this. I can’t stand to see you in pain.”

She had looked up at him with her bright, strong eyes and said, “I thank God for the pain, Mark. If it weren’t for the pain, I wouldn’t be ready to die.” Then she had asked for the priest. And the morphine.

Now, as Mark listened to Dominique with half an ear, he wondered what his mother would have advised. And, with a sinking heart, he admitted the truth to himself. Marie-Ange Patout had instilled in her children a strong moral code. Adultery was wrong. Mark had never had an affair with a married woman and, though most men he knew cheated on their wives, he had always vowed that when he finally married, he would remain faithful. He had had many love affairs—the frivolous sort enjoyed by young, eligible bachelors. But he had never met anyone to whom he wished to remain faithful. Until Dominique.

With a pang, he imagined cuddling with her in front of a fire on Thanksgiving. “Are you cooking the turkey?” he joked, knowing that she hardly cooked at all.

Dominique threw back her head and laughed. “You know I’m not.”

Dominique wasn’t sure how it had happened, but during the course of their month long acquaintance, they had learned a great deal about each other, though they had never again met in person. Their phone conversations often lasted an hour and went off on obscure tangents. It was wonderful to feel so comfortable with a new friend. Dominique told herself that she would be happy when Mark finally found a woman to love. When that day came, they could allow their friendship to blossom uninhibited by his suppressed desire (she always thought of it as only his). Then she wouldn’t have to be afraid to see him.

Her laugh lifted Mark’s heart. “You’ll never be a real New Orleanian until you learn a little about cooking.”

“Well, as the fellow in the art gallery said, ‘I may not know much, but I know what I like.’”

I do, too, Mark thought sadly.

DOMINIQUE was happy at Orman’s. Though she had been on good terms with virtually every staff person in the New York store, the pace had been so frenetic that she had only had time to cultivate friendships with those in her department. Not so in New Orleans. Almost every day, groups of workers went to lunch together, and Dominique was always invited. The staff mixed freely, regardless of rank, because most of the people knew one another from childhood. The “salesgirls” were as likely as not to be related to the store manager through an intertwining, highly complex family tree. The switchboard operator was a debutante who had decided to work “just for fun,” as she said. “I wanted to take a year off before I started at Tulane,” she explained. “I’m tired of all those books!”

By the end of Dominique’s first week at Orman’s, she and Clay were receiving invitations to the homes of Dominique’s co-workers. “You’re Clay Parker’s new bride? Why, I’ve known Clay since our daddies took us hunting for the first time!” said the store’s operations manager. By the end of the first year, Dominique and Clay had been invited to the shoe department manager’s wedding, plus a christening and a housewarming. In return, the Parkers began to host dinner parties of their own, inviting friends from the store and from Clay’s circle.

But Thanksgiving in New Orleans was family time. Parker cousins from as far away as California came “home” for the gathering at Clay’s parents’. Dominique liked the hubbub of the reunions and enjoyed many of the cousins, nieces, and nephews. Clay’s parents, however, were a different story. Her in-laws welcomed her warmly enough, but she wasn’t sure she really liked them. Clay’s mother was a vague, rather silly woman, who appeared more suited to the century before. She deferred to her husband in all matters, professing ignorance of anything other than child rearing or home decorating. When the entire clan was present, she devoted most of her attention to her young grandnieces and nephews, leaving adult conversation to others. And when Clay’s father criticized Clay—as he inevitably did—Lenore Parker assumed a pained expression, but she never came to her son’s defense, never interfered. Dominique found it difficult to forgive her that.

She found it even more difficult to endure the tension between her father-in-law and Clay. Parker treated his son as though Clay were still a youth, incapable of mature reasoning. Though they rarely strayed from the topic of business, and Clay was well informed, his father reacted to most of his son’s ideas with disdain, even if he later implemented them. This Thanksgiving, it had been no different.

“Father, I’ve been thinking… maybe we should open an office in the Port of Philadelphia. Latin American exporters seem to be using it more and more. The access to market is almost as good as the Port of New York, but labor’s cheaper and the fees—”

“That’s ridiculous!” Clay Senior had barked. “New York will always be the preeminent port in the Northeast.”

Clay had flushed and looked down, fuming but silent.

“Don’t worry,” Dominique had murmured consolingly as they made their way to the dining room. “He’ll change his mind.” That was the pattern.

“Yeah, but he’ll never admit the idea was mine,” Clay had muttered with disgust.

And he was right. Parker seemed conditioned to respond negatively to Clay. Dominique believed it was his way of controlling him, keeping him off-balance and undermining his confidence. If she came to her husband’s defense, her father-in-law ignored her, as if she had not spoken. It was identical to the manner in which he treated Lenore; Dominique wondered if he was even aware of it.

But what disturbed Dominique most about these interactions was Clay’s uncharacteristic passivity. Away from his father, Clay projected confidence that bordered on arrogance, but with him, he was a defeated little boy.

Dominique was relieved to spend the Saturday after the holiday home alone with Clay. It was a luxuriously lazy day of reading by the fire and napping.

“We didn’t do one productive thing today,” Dominique teased as she slipped out of her dress and into her nightgown.

Clay pushed back the covers of the bed and got in. “That’s what holidays are supposed to be,” he said with a chuckle. “Now come to bed,” he added suggestively.

Dominique laughed. “Just a second,” she replied. Then she went into the bathroom to wash her face and put in her diaphragm. She was just opening the cabinet when Clay called to her.

“Dominique!” She could hear his raised voice in the bathroom.

Dominique poked her head around the corner.

“Come to bed, honey.” His voice was husky as he pulled back the covers and plumped her pillow.

Dominique smiled. “I will. I just have to put in my diaphragm.”

Clay stretched one hand toward her and smiled persuasively. “Come on! Forget it this time. You just finished your period. You won’t get pregnant. And besides, even if you do, so what?”

Dominique felt a mixture of amusement and irritation. This had become a regular game between them. Clay would try to stop her from interrupting their lovemaking to insert her diaphragm. And Dominique wasn’t always able to exercise the self-discipline necessary to fight him. But now she said patiently, “This will only take a minute.”

Clay got out of the bed and came toward Dominique. He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a long kiss. “Come to bed,” he whispered. He ran his hands over the thin silk of her nightgown and cupped her buttocks.

She felt his erection through the flimsy cloth. The warm pressure against her stomach aroused her. “Just a second,” she murmured as she tried halfheartedly to push him away.

Clay nudged down the straps of her nightgown and lowered his head to her neck. He softly nibbled a trail to her breasts, his hand following the same path. Dominique’s nipples rose with excitement. Clay eased his hand down and gathered her nightgown, slowly raising the hem. When the material was bunched at Dominique’s waist, Clay slid his fingers between her legs. He massaged her expertly until she felt her resistance slip away. Then he led her to the bed and eased her onto it. Before she could object, he slipped between her legs. Dominique wrapped herself around him and moved in the familiar rhythm of their coupling. As always, their lovemaking brought her a wonderful feeling of contentment. It was how married people ought to feel about each other, Dominique thought, comforting and pleasant. She closed her eyes and sighed.

Dominique’s stomach churned with anticipation as she slipped the midnight-blue velvet gown over her hips and pulled the strapless bodice into place. “Clay!” she called, “would you please fasten this for me?”

Clay emerged from the bathroom, splendid in his evening clothes. Dominique couldn’t help but smile. And, seeing the warmth on her face, Clay smiled, too.

“You’ll be the most gorgeous woman at your gala,” he said softly.

Clay was even more complimentary when they arrived at Orman’s. Valets in black-and-white harlequin costumes waited to open car doors. A similarly patterned carnival tent covered the walkway to the store entrance. Hundreds of tiny lights illuminated the black interior, creating an atmosphere of nocturnal promise.

Inside, Dominique had ordered midnight-blue draperies hung tent-like from the ceilings with silver stars and moons spotlighted from below. The store’s various departments had been transformed with theatrical facades into a fantasy world that evoked Venice’s mysterious streets. Terra-cotta pots filled with flowers were everywhere, just as in the streets of Venice. But the coup was the water-filled “canal” with its ersatz gondolas (papier mache extensions and hatches on canoes) and its very real miniature bridges obtained from a landscaping company. The canal had been rented from a firm that designed amusement park rides and was actually a waterproof shell filled with water. The canal wove through the first floor’s widely spaced display cases. The entire effect was decadent, but extravagantly festive, exactly like Venice.

Clay stood just inside the entrance and did a three-hundred-sixty degree turn, his lips parted in awe. “Unbelievable! You did all this?”

Dominique beamed under his approval. “You know I did!”

Clay once more surveyed the room.

Dominique was bursting with pride. “Go up to the mezzanine before everyone gets here. You can look down and see everything!”

Clay took her hand and grinned. “Let’s go!”

“I’d love to, but there are a million things I need to check,” Dominique said apologetically.

Clay looked up at the mezzanine. “Oh… sure.” His voice was subdued.

Feeling a little guilty, Dominique pecked him on the cheek and disappeared in the direction of the elevator. She wanted to find the store manager, and she suspected he would be on the top floor, overseeing the caterers.

When she emerged from the elevator, she looked around for the rotund figure of Turner Coltrane, smiling as she thought of the little man. His cherubic face and slow drawl hid an incisive business mind. With an air of jovial congeniality, he ran the three-year-old store so that it far outstripped more established competitors. He was always open to new ideas and had welcomed Dominique, immediately recognizing the advantages an event planner could bring to the store.

At the moment, however, Turner was nowhere in sight, so Dominique pressed the elevator button and asked the attendant to take her back to ground level.

An hour later, after a check of the entire store, and warm reassurances from Turner Coltrane, Dominique was back on the mezzanine. She found Clay leaning on the rail, a glass of champagne in his hand.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his face brightening at the sight of her.

“Fine,” she said with a sigh of relief. She looked anxiously at the bank of brass doors that marked the store’s main entrance. Guests would begin to arrive at any moment, and Dominique had carefully instructed the costumed hostesses on how to receive them. Coats were to be speedily checked, champagne and hors d’oeuvres immediately offered, and the crowd directed away from the entrance and into the store, where the orchestra had begun to warm up.