No More Lonely Nights (27 page)

But of all the times they’d been together, he’d never proposed lunch until now. “You have to come,” he said. “I’m begging you. If you don’t say yes, I’ll go directly to Bruce Fisher. And you’re much too discreet to want me to do that. So say yes.”

Dominique was secretly delighted. Whereas she had resented Anton’s imperious tone from the first, she found Clay’s use of it endearing, since he tempered it with charming zeal. “Well… all right.” Dominique feigned reluctance, though she knew she wasn’t really fooling Clay.

At noon, when the limousine passed through the raffish neighborhood of Times Square and stopped in front of the Taft Hotel, Dominique thought it must be a mistake. The place was pleasant, but it didn’t strike her as the sort of exclusive spot that Clay normally frequented. But when they entered the Grill Room, she discovered the reason for his insistence.

Couples were whirling about a large, colorfully lit dance floor to the live music of the Victor Lopez Orchestra.

Dominique clapped her hands together in astonishment. “Dancing? At lunch?”

Clay gave her such a gleeful look that Dominique’s heart swelled with love. As the feeling hit her, she was momentarily hypnotized. Lost in a trance, she followed Clay through the restaurant to their table. How in the world had she allowed this to happen?

When they were seated, he leaned close to her and said, “Now then, isn’t this romantic? Aren’t you glad you came?”

Dominique looked at his beaming face. “Yes,” she admitted, her face lighting with a smile, “yes, I am!”

Clay gave her a look of comic smugness. “And isn’t it fun?” His delight was contagious.

“Very,” she said merrily.

“Well,” he said, taking her hand. “If you came to New Orleans with me, we’d have even more fun. Come on, Dominique.” He fixed her with an exaggeratedly pleading stare. “I want to show you off to my friends and I want to show off my home city to you.”

Dominique’s pulse raced. Under his comic pleading, Clay sounded serious. For the first time, it occurred to Dominique that his intentions might be more than simply hedonistic. He was the kind of man girls were warned about—who gave every appearance of being a playboy. The kind of man who could never be caught. He would show you the time of your life, then he would break your heart. But now, suddenly, Clay seemed sincere. How Dominique wanted it to be so! She had loved only one man in her life, a man she could never have. Here, though, was a man she
could have.
And everything she had seen so far made her want him.

Nevertheless, she had to be wary, she reminded herself. She had suffered two devastating experiences in the short space of a year. She had to keep a steady hold on her emotions. He mustn’t know his effect on her. How many other women had he captivated? And did they ultimately make him feel trapped? Bored?

Dominique looked at Clay thoughtfully. But if she went to New Orleans just for the day, what harm could it do? “How long would we be gone?” she asked.

Clay looked like he would jump for joy. “The plane’s fast, one of the new jets. If we leave early Saturday morning, I’ll have you back by Sunday morning. I don’t usually get you home until dawn anyhow.”

Dominique couldn’t help noticing his use of the word “usually.” It made her feel they were a couple. But an instinct of caution made her say, “Usually? We’ve only been out a handful of times.”

“Hmmm.” Clay pretended to reflect. “You’re right. Then let’s say I’d like it to
become
usual.”

Dominique’s heart did a cartwheel, but she smiled calmly. “I can’t go next Saturday, I’ve invited my family to dinner.”

“Why don’t you invite me, too, so I can meet them?” Clay asked breezily.

Dominique inwardly cringed. All it would take was one of Solange’s critical remarks to taint the rosy glow of Dominique’s relationship with Clay. “Not this time,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “But we can go the Saturday after next,” she said hastily.

Clay frowned. “That’s the week after July fourth. We always have a big family reunion then. And I’ll be expected to do my duty.” He didn’t sound too happy, but then his voice brightened. “What about the week after?”

“Wonderful,” Dominique said. She couldn’t wait!

“I have to find a project to keep me busy in New York until then… I can’t stay apart from you that long,” Clay said huskily.

Things were moving too fast, Dominique thought. He was saying all the right things and her resistance was slipping. He was handsome and eligible and probably had a hundred women after him. Maybe she was just one of many.

But Dominique’s logic didn’t stand a chance against Clay’s allure.

Sultry was the only word for New Orleans. One either fought the tropical atmosphere or surrendered to it. New Orleanians had long ago decided that surrender was sweeter. Lulled by the pervasive warmth, they moved slowly, strolled, lingered, lazed. Sweating was for outsiders.

Dominique emerged from the plane and was engulfed in a weighty cloak of humidity. She hadn’t experienced such implacable heat since she’d left Egypt, and she suddenly realized how much she’d missed it. She felt herself being seduced by it, and she, too, surrendered.

A white Lincoln convertible waited for them near the plane. The top was down and Dominique knew that riding in it would destroy her hairdo, but she didn’t care. The hard-driving tension of New York slipped away, to be replaced by southern laissez-faire.

Dominique and Clay walked slowly to the car and got in. They pulled away and the breeze, still hot, caressed her face. She closed her eyes, reveling in the feeling, then rested her right elbow on the door and gathered her hair at the base of her neck so it wouldn’t blow in her face. She was glad Clay had warned her to dress lightly. The simple pink sundress with matching jacket was perfect for this weather.

“Let’s get some lunch, then I’ll show you the town,” Clay said.

Dominique smiled and nodded in agreement, not bothering to open her eyes.

It took about twenty minutes to reach downtown.

“This is Canal Street,” Clay said. “One of the main arteries.”

Dominique opened her eyes and saw a wide avenue lined with palm trees, just like in Egypt. She sat up and looked around, recharged by excitement.

Clay made a left turn and they entered a narrow cobbled street flanked by townhouses. “The French Quarter,” he said, slowing the car to a crawl so that Dominique could look around. “It’s the oldest part of town. And”—he turned and gave her a wink—“most of the good restaurants are here!”

The buildings were the most romantic she had ever seen—of dusky, faded brick or deep, earthy stucco. They gracefully wore the patina of age, like proud grandes dames with intriguing histories. Many were adorned with exquisite iron balconies cast in intricate patterns of winding vines, more Spanish than French in style. And there was greenery everywhere. Plants cascaded over balconies, flowers tumbled out of urns and window boxes, potted trees furnished shade and privacy. There was an impression of overwhelming, almost suffocating, fecundity. Dominique could practically smell the plants growing, as if in a greenhouse.

In contrast, the street was hushed, almost lifeless. Long wooden shutters, crooked on their hinges, were pulled shut. Only a few people were on the street, and their footsteps echoed through the narrow passageways.

Most of the buildings, Dominique noticed, housed little shops on the ground floor—dark, secret-looking places, half hidden in the shade. Many had dusty front windows crammed full of exotic wares that Dominique couldn’t quite identify. Occasionally, a shop door would be propped open and Dominique would try to see inside. But she could spy only a vague glitter in the dim light and the shadow of ceiling fans moving in a languorous rhythm.

A sign affixed to one building caught Dominique’s eye. Gold lettering on black metal announced, “Voodoo, Charms, Black and White Magic.”

“What in the world?” Dominique asked.

Clay followed her gaze and laughed. “Shops like that are mostly for tourists now, but voodoo is still practiced here. It’s a religion. The New Orleans version is sort of a mixture of Catholicism and magic, but it originated in the Caribbean. They use all kinds of charms and dolls and symbols.”

Dominique shivered. There was something mysteriously fascinating about that. About the whole place.

Clay turned onto Bourbon Street and pulled the car into a spot along the curb. “You’re in for an authentic New Orleans experience,” he said. “Galatoire’s. It’s an institution.”

They got out and began to walk. As they rounded a corner, the quiet street sprang to life. A line of well-dressed people, perhaps thirty of them, stood laughing and talking outside the door of a restaurant. The women wore dramatic hats, white gloves, and pearls, and the men sported cream, tan, or seersucker business suits. None of them seemed bothered by the heat; they looked as though they were enjoying themselves.

“What are all these people doing?” Dominique asked.

“Waiting for a table,” Clay said casually.

Dominique expected him, as usual, to lead her past the queue into the building, but instead, he went to the end of the line.

Dominique’s eyes widened. “We don’t have reservations?”

Clay smiled down at her. “Galatoire’s doesn’t take them. Never has. And they don’t play favorites, even if you come here every day of your life. Most of these people are regulars. Sometimes they come for lunch and don’t leave until ten o’clock at night.”

Dominique was consumed with curiosity. What kind of place could possibly merit such loyalty? A half hour later, she found out.

They stepped into a long, mirrored room with the decibel level of Grand Central Station. Tables were crammed together, privacy out of the question. On the contrary, conversations spanned several tables as though everyone had been invited to one huge party. Businessmen traveled around the room, greeting their cronies. Waiters rushed to and fro, shouting to one another over the heads of diners. Women issued cries of delight and leapt to their feet to kiss the cheeks of new arrivals.

Dominique’s head was spinning. Clay had to stop every few feet to shake hands as they made their way to their table, a tiny space for two directly under the bank of mirrors.

As they sat down, he apologized for not introducing her. “It’s kind of noisy right now. We’ll wait until everyone’s eaten and the tourists have left. It’ll be a little quieter then. Meantime, how about a Ramos gin fizz?” Clay asked.

Dominique’s eyes sparkled. “It sounds good. I’ve never heard of it.”

Clay’s eyebrows shot up. “No? Well, this you’ve got to try.” He raised a hand and held up two fingers. A waiter with a handlebar mustache and a long white apron nodded as he sped by.

Dominique was anxious to wash her hands and refresh her makeup after the long wait outside, so she asked Clay where the rest room was.

“Through the kitchen and up the stairs,” he replied.

“The kitchen?” Had she heard right?

Clay pointed at the swinging doors in back of the room just as a waiter came barreling out. “Make sure no one’s coming before you try to go through,” he warned with a grin.

The Ramos gin fizzes were delicious, frothy concoctions of cream, gin, sugar, egg white, and a touch of orange flower water. “One of our official drinks,” Clay said. “It’s mandatory to have at least two before lunch,” he said with mock seriousness.

It was another hour before the waiter plopped down a plate overloaded with sticks of fried eggplant. With it was a saucer containing a powdery white substance. “What’s that?” Dominique asked.

“Powdered sugar,” Clay said, picking up a stick and dipping it in.

Dominique shrugged skeptically but did the same. “Delicious!” she exclaimed.

Clay laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

Dominique pretended to think about it. “No,” she finally admitted.

The lunch courses flowed at a leisurely pace. There was a spicy Creole bouillabaisse which they had with crisp white wine. Afterward, Clay suggested they “visit a little.” He took her hand and headed to a table of eight men at the back of the room. They were business associates, he explained, but also friends. Dominique wondered if he introduced all his girlfriends, or was it possible that she was special?

The men complimented Clay on his good taste and teasingly asked Dominique what she was doing with a rascal like him.

Dominique laughed. “He’s holding me hostage.”

The men guffawed appreciatively. One slapped Clay on the back and said, “Well, I guess you’re smarter than you look, boy.”

“Mr. Parker,” yelled a waiter from across the room, “your food’s waiting!” He stood holding steaming plates of crawfish sautéed with green onions.

Dominique turned, astonished but amused. She’d never seen such a place. It was raucous and brash and unpolished and clubby. She loved it.

They emerged from Galatoire’s at four o’clock, and this time Dominique said good-bye to as many people as Clay. She felt as though she’d made a roomful of friends.

As they stepped outside, she blinked at the bright sunlight, stunned once more by the blanketing humidity.

“C’mon,” said Clay, “let’s take a ride and cool off. I’ll show you where I want to live someday.” He removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder.

As they walked to the car, Dominique suddenly became aware of the change in the street’s atmosphere from earlier that day. People walked two by two and stopped to peer into shops. Music drifted from doorways: jazz, classical, show tunes. Shutters and windows were flung open, and transparent curtains wafted out on the evening breeze. People sat on their balconies. Passing beneath them, Dominique could hear the murmur of their conversations and the tinkle of ice in glasses. New Orleans had come alive. The mood was no longer haunting and nostalgic. Rather there was an air of celebratory expectation. Like Italy after siesta time. The feel of the city was so European that it made Dominique homesick.

I could live here, she thought.

Clay took a different route out of the French Quarter, passing by a row of prosperous-looking antique shops on the Rue Royale. He turned back onto Canal Street, then left. Soon they were keeping pace with a lime-colored streetcar as they made their way up a broad avenue divided by a wide strip of plantings.