No More Lonely Nights (47 page)

“I’m sorry, I know. Look, hang up and I’ll call you back.”

“No!” Dominique said emphatically. “That wasn’t why I said that. I just mean—”

“All right, all right,” Danielle said soothingly. “So you’ll have your half of the proceeds from the sale of the house and furniture and things.”

“What little there’ll be…” Dominique felt hot and cold spasms of anxiety rise in her as she discussed her financial situation. It was worse, far worse, than she had ever imagined it would be.

“But a house that size surely is worth plenty!” Danielle said with conviction.

“It would be, except that Clay took out a second mortgage to put in the pool and the pool house. And you know you never get back what you put into a pool.”

“I don’t know…” Danielle said vaguely. “No one in my neighborhood has one.” Danielle lived in a solidly upper-middle-class suburb of New York. The kind of neighborhood in which the houses were mostly alike, the cars high-priced, the shrubbery well trimmed. However, its residents were not such spendthrifts as to indulge in their own swimming pools. They simply went to the nearby country club. “But with inflation like it is right now, surely the value of your property has gone up since you bought it?”

“Yes, but the interest rate on the second mortgage is astronomical! Besides, these old places in the Garden District are hard to sell. There aren’t many people who can afford them.” With a touch of dark humor, Dominique added, “Though I’ll bet Clay’s lawyer will make enough off this transaction to buy two mansions!”

Whereas the name Larry Beausoleil had meant nothing to Dominique the month before, she had quickly learned that he was the most feared divorce attorney in the state. His specialty was extracting wealthy men from their marriages with minimal damage to their bank accounts. His fees, of course, were hefty. Dominique had gone for aid to the attorney who had represented Clay and her in the settlement of their home. An old friend of Clay’s, he had refused to take the case. He had given her the name of an acquaintance who specialized in divorce.

As though reading her thoughts, Danielle asked, “Is your lawyer any good?”

Dominique sighed heavily. “I don’t know how to judge. Okay, I suppose.”

“Why don’t you find one of those killer types?”

Dominique shrugged, though her sister couldn’t see the gesture. “I don’t want to hurt Clay. I just want things to turn out fairly.”

Danielle made a sound of frustration.
“You don’t want to hurt Clay!
After what he’s done to you? If Ron ever tried anything like that, I’d crucify him.” Danielle uttered the phrase with zest, as though daring her husband to try it.

“Well, that’s not my style,” Dominique said defensively. “I don’t want us to be enemies. It wouldn’t be good for Gabrielle.”

“But Clay’s not showing the same consideration. You’re letting him take advantage of your concern for Gabrielle! Why are you letting him move this quickly? Why have you agreed to sell the house?”

“He says he can’t afford it!” Dominique said heatedly. “What am I supposed to do? Sit here and wait for the bank to kick me out?”

“What if you found a job?”

“Do you think I haven’t tried?” Dominique said with frustration. “I haven’t worked in years.”

“You have, too! Only you did it for charity. Those events you planned were wonderful. Why can’t you find a real job doing that?”

“I’m trying!” Dominique cried. “I’ve been to all the hotels I usually work with for the charities and none of them need someone like me. They don’t do enough big events to justify a planner—not when every big group in town has someone like me doing the job for free.” She took a deep breath, trying to stifle her tears. She hated this feeling of impotence! “Orman’s still has the woman who took my place and she’s doing a great job. The only other big department store in New Orleans is family-owned. They’re old-fashioned and stodgy and they don’t see the need for an event planner.” Dominique took a deep, shaky breath, then continued. “The fact is, I can’t afford to take the kind of entry-level position that’s available, and no one wants a middle-aged person for those anyway. They want a young girl with lots of energy and no children.”

“You’re still young! You’re only thirty-seven,” Danielle insisted. Then, without thinking, she blurted out, “If you just drop a few pounds and put on some makeup, you won’t
look
middle-aged.”

The criticism stung. “Has mother been talking to you about that?”

“She’s
worried.”

“Well, I am, too, and I don’t need her criticism or yours!” Dominique’s voice cracked on the last word. She felt as though
she
were cracking. Each day brought new misery, new struggle. She couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed or even genuinely smiled. She didn’t socialize anymore—couldn’t bear to face her friends. Even her own family was too much to cope with: their bewilderment, their subtle criticism, their false cheerfulness, and, worst of all, their hope that somehow things would come right. That Clay would change his mind. It was as though they expected her to
do
something about him, even though she knew there was nothing to be done. In any event, she had lost her capacity for action. She was overwhelmed with the difficulty of day-to-day living. The loneliness, the fear of the future, the need to keep up appearances for Gabrielle. The difficulty of fighting Clay even as she tried to ensure that his relations with Gabrielle remain unclouded by the dispute. It was all too much. Too much.

Dominique peeked out from behind the living room curtain as Clay struggled to cram Gabrielle’s luggage into his Alfa Romeo. The girl had announced a month before that Marie was treating them to a trip to Europe. Gabrielle’s camping trip with her friend Susie had been cast aside in favor of the glamour and excitement offered by the excursion with her new friend. And her new father.

For Clay was like a new man where Gabrielle was concerned. Gone was the perfectionist who had demanded straight A’s. This was a new, easygoing Clay. One who wanted to be a hero to his daughter. And he was rendered yet more glamorous by his beautiful young girlfriend and all the other sporty, young accouterments of his new life—the supposed difficulties of Parker Shipping notwithstanding.

“I know it seems like he’s living well, Dominique, but, believe me, we can’t touch any of it,” her lawyer assured her. “It all belongs to the corporation. Or to his girlfriend.”

Dominique bitterly gazed at the shiny car full of shopping bags and dry cleaning—the cargo of people preparing for a long trip. A festive spirit surrounded Clay and Gabrielle—a spirit from which Dominique was excluded.

She turned away from the window and winced as she surveyed the cardboard boxes that filled the living room. Unlike Gabrielle, Dominique was not setting out on a happy voyage. In two weeks, she was to move from the Garden District to a little house in a neighborhood that the rental ad had optimistically described as “transitional.”

For the hundredth time, Dominique wondered if she had too easily given in to Clay’s pressure to reach a quick financial settlement. They were to sign the papers when he returned from Europe. Her lawyer said she had no choice. She felt trapped, worried that she would do no better in court, worried that she would have to pay hefty legal fees. Now, as she mentally tallied her expenses for the next month, it seemed that the amount to which she had agreed was ridiculously low. She would, of course, receive a lump sum from the sale of the house, but it was not a large amount. She had resolved to set it aside for emergencies. She would try to live off Clay’s payments and her small salary as a part-time secretary at a bank until she found more lucrative work.

Dominique sighed heavily and moved into the kitchen. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about supporting Gabrielle and Solange for the next month, she told herself. A frown of concern crinkled Dominique’s brow as she thought of her mother. She hoped that Ronald wasn’t making her feel unwelcome in New York. Dominique shook her head. It didn’t do any good to worry about that. Danielle would look after Solange.

She squinted at the clock above the sink. Almost eight and she hadn’t had any dinner. Of course, with Lucy gone—she could no longer afford her or the Jeffersons—dinners were not a meal she looked forward to. Nonetheless, she knew she should prepare herself a balanced meal. Too often of late, she relied on frozen dinners.

Dominique opened the refrigerator door and scanned the shelves. A loaf of bread, orange juice, some cheeses and sandwich meats, seven eggs, and a leftover macaroni casserole. She opened the freezer. A blast of cold air struck her in the face. Dominique’s eyes immediately went to the Sara Lee pound cake. Then the half-gallon of coffee ice cream. There was also a hefty slice of cheesecake that a neighbor had given her. Beside the desserts was a stack of frozen TV dinners. Dominique wrinkled her nose as she viewed the labels: “Savory Salisbury Steak,” “Turkey Tetrazzini Delight,” “Crispy Fish ’n Chips.” She was sick of them all.

Leaving the freezer door ajar, Dominique dutifully lowered her head to the vegetable bin. The idea of going to the trouble to make a salad was defeating.

Dominique closed the refrigerator door and straightened. She might as well eat the cheesecake. Cheese was healthy, it had plenty of protein, and the cake was the only thing she really wanted. She put the entire slab on a plate, grabbed a fork, and went upstairs to her bedroom—her refuge from the echoing silence of the rest of the house.

Dominique ate until she felt ill. Then she ate some more. She ate until long after the waistband of her skirt had begun to pinch. She stood up, removed her skirt, then plopped back down on the bed and picked up the plate again. Only a few forkfuls left—a shame to waste it. Stuffed though she was, Dominique ate until not a crumb remained. When she finished, she got up to take the plate downstairs. No matter how depressed she was, how devoid of energy, Dominique couldn’t tolerate dirty dishes in her room. As she passed the full length mirror on the closet door, she caught a glimpse of herself and quickly looked away.

Downstairs, Dominique cleaned up and hurried back to her room. She settled in an armchair and tried to read, but as dusk turned to dark, she became increasingly aware of her isolation. The phone was silent. Gabrielle’s friends knew she was gone. Solange and Danielle had called the day before. The women always exchanged calls on Fridays. That meant Dominique had to wait almost a week until it was her turn to call. If she called before then, she would undoubtedly alarm her mother and sister. Dominique thought about calling a friend. But who? It was Saturday night. Her friends would all have social events planned. Social events from which she, as an extra woman, was now almost always excluded.

What Dominique really wanted was to speak to Gabrielle. But she hated to phone Clay’s house. Anyhow, Gabrielle had left only a little while ago. It would seem strange if Dominique called.

Longing for the sound of a human voice, Dominique sat on the bed and clicked on the television. She flipped the channels. Two situation comedies and two police shows. Without real interest, Dominique settled on a police show. She fluffed up the pillows behind her and tried to concentrate.

An advertisement interrupted the show and Dominique’s mind wandered. She thought again of her daughter. By this time tomorrow, Gabrielle would be in Paris—she had been bubbling over with excitement at the prospect. And, even in her bitterness, Dominique couldn’t help being happy for her, happy that her relationship with Clay seemed easier now.

She was startled from her reflections by the jingle of the evening news. The program had just ended. Dominique shifted uncomfortably in the bed. She had been sitting in the same position, lost in thought, for over an hour. It was ten-thirty and she was already sleepy. In the first weeks after Clay left, Dominique had been unable to sleep well. Now she slept profoundly and awoke reluctantly with a thick, hazy fog clouding her consciousness. Sleep was Dominique’s escape from her loneliness, her desolation, her fear. When she first awakened each day, she was unaware of her new circumstances, then she would turn and see the empty space beside her.

During the years of her marriage with Clay, she had been a happy person, grateful for her lot. She wasn’t happy anymore.

Dominique rose and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She carefully avoided her reflection in the mirror. It would be too disturbing. She would see the bags under her eyes, the jiggly flesh of her upper arms. Better not to look.

The next day, Sunday, Dominique hoped Gabrielle would call before her plane left. They hadn’t arranged for a call, but Dominique couldn’t help wishing her daughter would think of her anyhow. She knew they were scheduled to leave at five p.m., so she didn’t stir from the house all day for fear of missing the call. At six o’clock, Dominique had to admit to herself that the call wasn’t coming. The air of expectancy that had carried her through the day ebbed away. It was replaced by a dull ache in her heart. She felt as though her connections with the world were slipping away.

Who truly cared about her? Gabrielle didn’t seem to need her anymore. Solange had Danielle, whom she preferred anyhow. Since Clay had left, the relationship between Dominique and her mother, always difficult, had deteriorated. It was just as well Solange had gone to New York for the summer.

But now; alone in her big house with no obligations, Dominique didn’t know what to do next. For so many years, her activities had centered around her family. Suddenly, no one was making demands on her, but she didn’t feel liberated; she felt purposeless.

I should probably do some more packing, she thought. Dreary, dreary packing. On Wednesday, one of the local auction houses would come to give her an estimate of what she could get for her antiques—Clay’s antiques really. One of the few advantages she’d won in the settlement. Only there wasn’t room in the new house for most of them. That was all right—she could use the money.

Dominique told herself she should clean out the drawers. That would give her something to do. And she should study the Sunday classified ads. She had to be more aggressive about finding a full-time job. Yet, somehow, she couldn’t muster the energy to spend her free time going on job interviews. She wasn’t up to the task of selling herself to prospective employers.