No More Lonely Nights (41 page)

Dominique touched her hand reassuringly. “You don’t need to hire me if you want me to organize those events. We can turn over my typing to another volunteer and I can start concentrating on events, but I’ll have to report to someone on the regular staff who will ultimately be responsible. Emergencies always come up before these things and I can’t always be there to deal with them.” Dominique pulled a pencil from behind her ear and picked up a notepad. “I’ll also need a couple of volunteers to help with some of the logistics. We need to get started right away.” Dominique began to make notes, her thought processes already moving in their familiar organizational patterns.

Sally, suddenly in the position of taking orders instead of giving them, waited quietly for Dominique to finish outlining the next steps she would take.

Dominique looked up at her and said crisply, “Don’t worry. I’ll have this organized in no time. I can make calls from home, too.” She watched the young woman’s expression change from anxiety to relief.

Clay would be proud of her, Dominique thought, as she mixed a pitcher of lemonade. Proud that Mark Patout held Dominique in such high regard that he was willing to entrust her with the organization of his campaign’s most important gatherings.

She glanced at her watch, impatient for her husband to come home so she could share her news. This was the kind of regard he had been seeking when he had asked her to volunteer for Mark’s campaign.

Dominique poured herself a glass of lemonade and settled on a lounge chair overlooking the lush back garden—a subtropical Eden created by New Orleans’ top landscape designer. She shaded her eyes with her hand and peered up at the second story of the house, wondering if Solange and Gabrielle were still napping. She knew she should wake Gabrielle or the little girl wouldn’t be sleepy at night, but she wanted some time alone with Clay.

She stared dreamily at the swaying banana trees until she heard Clay’s car pull into the driveway, then she put down her glass and went to the front door.

Dominique smiled as she watched Clay gather his briefcase and jacket from the back seat. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal his strong forearms and his hair was tousled from driving with the window open. He was still as handsome as a matinee idol, she thought. It had been some time since she had truly studied him as a woman meeting him for the first time might.

Dominique descended their front steps to greet him. “Hi, darling!” she said, her voice gay.

Clay’s face lit at the sight of her waiting for him. “Hi!” he said. He pulled her into his arms and gave her a long kiss.

He hadn’t done that in months, she realized. They were like an old married couple, taking each other for granted. She needed to focus more on him, she told herself as they walked arm in arm into the house. He traveled so much and it seemed something was always distracting her—either Gabrielle or Solange or her volunteer work. She was suddenly glad she had turned down the full-time job at the campaign.

She grinned up at Clay. “I have drinks ready on the terrace,” she murmured.

He smiled appreciatively as he slung his jacket over the banister and put down his briefcase. The maid appeared from the kitchen and greeted him, then took his jacket upstairs.

Hand in hand, Clay and Dominique went outside. She poured his martini, handed it to him, then refilled her lemonade glass.

He clinked his glass against hers. “Cheers,” he said, pulling off his tie with the other hand. He collapsed onto one of the lounge chairs with a grunt of satisfaction. “Where are the girls?” he asked.

Dominique settled into the chair next to his. “Napping,” she said, her voice tender. She turned and rested her weight on one hip so that she was facing him. “How was your day?”

Clay sighed and took a sip of his martini. “Tiring.”

“Well mine was exciting!” Dominique said, unable to suppress happy laughter.

Clay stopped the glass midway to his mouth and raised his eyebrows.

“Today the office manager invited me to join the paid staff,” Dominique announced, proudly lifting her chin.

Clay didn’t react immediately. He lowered his eyelids and nonchalantly took a sip of his drink. Finally, he murmured, “I guess they always need good secretaries.”

Dominique’s eyes twinkled. “They don’t want me as a secretary.” She waited for him to ask the implied question. To her disappointment, he said nothing. He was teasing her! Well, Dominique would play along—prolong the mystery. She got up to refill her lemonade glass. Patiently, she watched the pale yellow liquid tumble into her glass, then she turned to face Clay. Now she was enjoying herself. “Well!” she said in a voice of mock frustration, “don’t you want to know what they want me for?”

Clay gave her a superior look. “Since you’re dying to tell me…”

Dominique could tell he wanted to know, even if he wouldn’t admit it. She placed the glass on the bar cart and put her hands on her hips in a victorious pose. “They want me for event planning!”

Clay’s face was transformed. His brows came together, his expression severe. “What did you tell them?” His voice was sharp.

“Clay!” Dominique stamped her foot playfully, still smiling. “Aren’t you even impressed that Mark thinks so highly of me?”

Clay expelled a short, mirthless laugh. “Yeah, if I wanted to be married to a career girl, but I don’t! Besides,” he jerked his head at the second story. “Have you forgotten Gabrielle? You’ve always criticized your mother for letting your Nanny raise you. You’ve always said you weren’t going to be like that. If—”

“Just a minute!” Dominique interrupted indignantly. She marched toward Clay until she was standing directly in front of his chair. “You haven’t bothered to ask what I told them!” She had been floating on air all day; now Clay had completely deflated her. It was almost as though he was purposely trying to make her feel bad.

Clay took a deep breath, as if he were trying to control his temper. “I assume that you’ll put your family first,” he said. His voice was cold and cutting, each word crisply set apart from the next. He stood up so that he was towering over Dominique. He looked down at her, his expression self-righteous. “I assume that you told them no.”

Why should he take such a hateful tone? Dominique wondered resentfully. It was both patronizing and autocratic. Why should he take her happy news and turn it into a quarrel? She tightened her hands into fists until her nails cut into her palms. “If that’s what you
assume,”
Dominique hissed, “then why are you so angry?”

“WE WON’T be seeing much of Mark anymore,” Dominique whispered as she and Clay watched him on the podium. They sat at a round table for ten, two of many campaign workers, friends, and fellow politicians there to witness the next step of Mark’s political career.

As soon as Mark finished speaking, the crowded ballroom erupted in applause, confetti, and festive music. How different from the scene earlier in the day, when Mark had quietly thanked his office staff for their efforts. To each individual, Mark had personally presented an engraved silver pen. Dominique had thought it a handsome gesture, and so had the others.

Even tonight, Mark seemed the most subdued person in the exuberant crowd. Aside from Nina. Nina briefly rose to his side, issued a restrained smile and wave, then settled once more into her seat, her expression distant.

Clay stood up. “Let’s go congratulate him.”

Dominique kept a tight hold of Clay’s arm, lest she lose him in the throng. On the way to the podium, she introduced him to everyone she knew. And she was proud to see the women’s eyes flicker with surprise when they met him. People’s husbands didn’t usually look this good! she could see them thinking.

Dominique, too, was the subject of much appreciation, but of a different sort.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do without you!” was the constant refrain from her co-workers.

When Dominique introduced Sally Devereaux to Clay, the office manager told him, “Your wife was indispensable. I’ve never seen anyone accomplish so much so efficiently.”

After Sally moved on, Clay turned to Dominique and said, “They really counted on you around that place, didn’t they?”

Dominique’s answering smile was effervescent. “You sound surprised. I think you forgot how good I was at my job.”

Clay gave her a sheepish look. “I guess so.” He heaved a huge, comic sigh. “But all I can say is, I’ll be glad to get my wife back.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed Clay lightly on the mouth. “I’ll be glad to take a little rest,” she admitted. She grinned mischievously. “But, you know, they wanted me to stay on. Work in his office here.”

Clay hesitated a fraction of a second, then he laughed and slung his arm around Dominique’s shoulder. He pulled her close and said, “No more! I’m kidnapping you! It’s my only chance.” He paused. “In fact,” his expression grew playful, “as soon as we say hello to Mark, let’s get out of here. I’d like some time alone with you, for once!”

1971

“I’D LIKE some time alone with you this evening.” Clay was calling Dominique from the office, and his tone was serious. Then, more lightly, he said, “Let’s have dinner at Commander’s, just the two of us.”

“But your mother’s here and we have to pack for the trip. We won’t have time in the morning. The plane leaves at seven-fifty.”

Clay laughed easily, dismissing Dominique’s objections. “Have Lucy put together a nice dinner for the girls.” The “girls” meant Solange, Gabrielle, and Lenore, Clay’s mother. “They won’t even care that we’re gone.”

“Clay”—Dominique scolded him affectionately—“you shouldn’t call grown women ‘girls.’ It’s not very respectful.”

“You women’s libbers are so militant!” Clay teased.

Dominique was vaguely irritated, but let the comment slide. She was certainly no militant “women’s libber.” The phrase made her picture a bra-burning radical wearing granny glasses. Nevertheless, she had discovered feminist views with which she agreed, like equal pay for equal work. Clay either mocked her or grew annoyed when she voiced support for such issues. “Men should get paid more because they have families to support!” he’d once declared. Dominique had protested, “When I worked, I needed to!” Clay had smiled victoriously. “Only before we married. Afterward, you were just working because you felt like it. You can’t compare that to a man who’s supporting a wife and kids.” The debate had continued for some time, with neither side conceding. Since then, Dominique avoided the subject unless she felt energetic enough to argue.

Clay’s voice, distracted, broke into Dominique’s thoughts. “Look, babe, I have to go. Be out front at seven. I’ll drive by and get you.”

After Dominique hung up, she rejoined Solange and Lenore at the inlaid gaming table. She had never particularly liked cards, but canasta was more fun with three players, so, to be polite, she occasionally played with the older women.

No sooner had she taken her seat and told them of Clay’s plans for the evening than eleven-year-old Gabrielle dashed into the room.

“Bye, everyone!” she said breathlessly. She wore a pair of dungarees, a gingham shirt, and sneakers. Under her arm she carried a skateboard.

Dominique put down her cards and half stood. “Just a minute!” Her tone was commanding, but the love she felt for her daughter came through. When Dominique looked at Gabrielle, her face automatically softened.

The girl stopped and turned to her mother, her short curls bouncing with the sudden movement. Her face was alive with gamine charm, her up tilted eyes two blue-green sparkles of light.

“Where are you rushing off to?” Dominique asked with mock severity, sitting back down.

Gabrielle avoided her mother’s eyes. She glanced first at her grandmother Parker, then at Solange, both of whom sat at the card table with Dominique. “Susie’s house,” she answered guiltily.

“Have you cleaned up your room and laid out the clothes you want to take?” Dominique persisted.

Gabrielle widened her eyes. “Al-mo-ost.” In a singsong fashion, she made the word three syllables, inserting a pleading note into the last one.

Solange and Lenore exchanged glances. The two women got along well. Ever since the death of her husband, Lenore had become a frequent visitor to Clay and Dominique’s home. Solange understood most of what Lenore said to her and Lenore pretended to understand all of Solange’s broken English. Unlike her husband, Lenore had never learned French.

Both women adored Gabrielle, and they gave the exchange between her and Dominique all the attention of a championship tennis match.

Now Dominique looked at her wristwatch, then back up at her daughter. “You don’t have time to go to Susie’s today, but you’ll see her first thing in the morning. So go back upstairs and do what I said.”

Gabrielle cast down her eyes. “Oh-ka-ay,” she said with melodramatic resignation.

Dominique flashed her an amused look. “You’re a ham!” she said.

The girl’s woeful expression turned into a giggle as she turned and ran from the room.

Lenore raised her eyebrows. “Her room looks like a cyclone hit it,” she said primly. “Why doesn’t Myrna help her?”

Dominique fought the impatience that rose in her. Lenore behaved as though any flaw of Gabrielle’s was surely someone else’s fault. And she was the same about Clay.

“Because we want Gabrielle to learn responsibility. She’s discovered how much fun it is to have a social life and she’s a little distracted, but she should still pick up after herself.” Dominique’s tone was mild. She would have to spend the next week with her mother-in-law. Clay had arranged for the five of them—plus Gabrielle’s friend Susie—to pass the winter school break in St. John, one of the U.S. Virgin Islands. The holidays were difficult for Lenore since the death of Clay’s father. For the past decade, she had left on the day after Christmas to visit her widowed sister, Ellen, in Palm Springs. Now Ellen was dead, and Lenore seemed fractious and lost.

Dominique felt sorry for her. Trying to divert the conversation to a cheery subject, she asked, “Are you both finished packing?”