No More Lonely Nights (36 page)

The day after the funeral, Clay returned late from “a meeting with the attorney,” as he casually labeled it to Dominique. When she met him in the foyer, she was distressed to see the gravity of his expression. Had he suffered yet another blow? She went toward him, prepared to offer sympathy.

She reached for his hat. “Here, let me take those for you.”

As Clay handed it to her, his eyes met Dominique’s for the first time.

For a moment she hesitated, struck by what she saw. There was a secret excitement in him, a flame of… something she couldn’t identify.

Clay abruptly averted his eyes.

Troubled, Dominique turned and put his hat in the closet. Clay was keeping something from her. She closed the door and turned back to him, a question in her eyes.

Clay rubbed his hands over his face in a gesture of weariness.

“Tired?” Dominique asked, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he sighed. He met her gaze again.

“You have news?” Dominique asked, once more troubled by the fire that seemed inconsistent with the fatigued droop of his mouth.

Clay took Dominique’s elbow. “Let’s go into the study. We need to talk.”

“All right,” Dominique said, apprehensive.

But they had taken only a few steps when Clay stopped short. He turned Dominique toward him and put his hands on her shoulders. “Babe…” he whispered as he shook his head in wonder, “the business is finally mine. We’re filthy rich now.” His gaze became dreamy and unfocused. “Everything’s going to be different.”

Clay was true to his word. Things began to change immediately. In typical patriarchal fashion, Clay’s father had left almost $2 million in stocks, cash, and bonds, as well as Parker Shipping, in Clay’s hands. Lenore Parker was provided with more than enough money to maintain her lifestyle, but the bank was assigned to execute the trust. Clay chafed at that—even from the grave, his father had found a way to strike a blow to his confidence. But the excitement of the inheritance soon overcame his hurt. Clay had an agenda he was eager to implement.

His first move was to put the house on the market and start looking for a new one on St. Charles. Dominique was stunned by the swiftness of his action, but she didn’t have the heart to discourage him in a project he had spoken of with longing since she’d known him. What was the point in delaying? She had always known this was his intention. Still, when the time came to move from their quaint little house to the kingly antebellum mansion on St. Charles, Dominique was struck with an attack of nostalgia. They had been so happy in their first home.

Clay, on the other hand, couldn’t stop marveling at the new place.

“Now
this
is an entrance!” he crowed as they drove up the bricked semicircle to the front steps. Dominique looked at the fountain in the middle of the broad green half-moon that comprised the front yard, at the six massive white pillars that guarded the portico, and she had to agree. It
was
impressive! The facade, with its expansive southern grandeur, was even more imposing than her childhood home. She couldn’t help but catch Clay’s excitement.

Inside, an echoing foyer of black-and-white marble reminded her of a European castle. A double staircase with bronze Art Nouveau banisters cascaded gracefully down either side of the broad room, continuing the semicircular theme. In the center hung a crystal chandelier—large but delicate.

“Baccarat,” Clay said, following Dominique’s gaze.

“So you’ve mentioned,” she said dryly. A hundred times, she thought with silent amusement. Aloud, she said, “This place is awfully big for just the two of us.”

Clay took her in his arms. “Then let’s have kids,” he said with a grin. He hugged her, and his expression grew earnest. “You don’t have to work—we can afford anything we want. We’ll hire a live-in couple to help Lucy. You won’t have to do a thing.”

“But I want to work! I’ve already told you I’ll resign when I get pregnant. But I’m only twenty-four. There’s still plenty of time for children,” she said casually.

Clay fixed her with a somber look. “We need to start thinking seriously about starting a family. I want a son to take over my business.”

Dominique laughed.
My
business. Since his father’s death, Clay was sometimes impossibly self-important. Well, it
was
his business now, and Dominique couldn’t blame him for caring about it. The self-importance would fade, she was certain. It probably came from trying to grapple with all the new responsibilities that had fallen to him. Responsibilities that he handled with remarkable competence, she reminded herself. Still, her natural reaction to pompousness—in anyone— was to laugh at it. “Clay, you’re only thirty-one and you’re already thinking about heirs!”

Clay abruptly released Dominique and looked away, his brows coming together in irritation. “I should think,” he said severely, “you’d understand my concern, considering how suddenly Father died.”

Dominique was taken aback. “Don’t speak to me as though I were an idiot,” she snapped. “I understand your concern. I just don’t think the situation as urgent as you do.”

They glared at each other in angry silence.

Finally Clay made a noise of exasperation and averted his eyes. “Look, I’ve been waiting a long time for this day.” He turned back to Dominique with a stony gaze. “Don’t ruin it for me.”

The death of Clay’s father was followed a few months later by an event almost as unexpected.

It was late September and Dominique could smell a hurricane coming. As she rode the streetcar home from work, she kept checking the sky with a worried expression. Dark, greenish clouds hung low over the trees. The air was thick, almost suffocating. Dominique was anxious to get home. Louisiana’s wild storms petrified her—she’d never seen anything like them, coming as she did from a desert climate. Even in a normal thunderstorm, the trees bent so threateningly low that it seemed they would surely crash down on her. And the wind howled—gratingly, continuously—causing all sorts of strange rattles and creaks, so that Dominique felt it was invading even the safety of the house’s interior.

She heaved a sigh of relief when she reached her front door just as the first fat drops of rain began to splatter down. At least she hadn’t gotten wet. She entered the house quickly and locked the door behind her.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Parker,” said the new live-in housekeeper. Clay had hired Myrna and Bill Jefferson, a middle-aged couple, shortly after the move. Bill saw to the grounds and Myrna cleaned house. Lucy had remained as cook.

“Awful day, isn’t it?” Dominique shuddered as she handed her raincoat to Myrna. Then she went to the mail waiting on the marble-topped table in the foyer. A letter from Danielle or Maude would be a welcome distraction. She picked up the mail and started to sift through it. Good! A letter from Solange. The electric bill, the phone bill. Then came a thick, creamy envelope, addressed in beautiful calligraphy. Her interest piqued, Dominique picked up the envelope and slid her index finger under the flap. The paper was so thick and stiff that it cut her.

“Ouch!” she cried, letting the envelope fall on the table. Reflexively, she brought her finger to her mouth, but the unpleasant taste of blood made her grimace. She dropped her hand and looked at her finger. A thin, red line bubbled from beneath the cut. Bringing the finger back to her mouth, she picked up the envelope. A spot of blood marred the pristine surface, and Dominique stared at it accusingly. Then, holding her cut finger away from the paper, she pulled out the contents.

Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Carlisle Rivers

request the honor of your presence

at the marriage of their daughter

Nina Merrill

to

The Honorable Mark Patout

on Saturday, the first of October Nineteen hundred and fifty-nine

at twelve o’clock noon

Willow Gardens Plantation

Destrehan, Louisiana

Dominique stared at the card in disbelief. Why, Mark and Nina had come to dinner just a month before, and there had been no sign that they were even in love, much less engaged. Dominique tried to picture the couple as she had last seen them. True, Nina possessively watched Mark’s every move. When Mark left the room, Nina’s eyes followed him. When he spoke, her eyes were trained on his face. All of which made Mark’s offhand manner toward the blond woman all the more noticeable. He was unfailingly polite, attentive even, but he didn’t look at her like a man in love. Dominique knew, because… a quick thought flashed through her consciousness—and was immediately suppressed. Guiltily, Dominique tried to fill her mind with chatter.

I’m pleased for Mark. It’s time he married. Nina’s the perfect wife for a politician. Beautiful, intelligent, photogenic, well connected. Just because she acts cold doesn’t mean that she really is. Probably she’s different when she’s alone with Mark. After all, I’m sure she loves him. She’ll try to make him happy.

And Dominique wanted Mark to be happy. She forced a smile. It was
wonderful
that Mark was getting married. Her smile faded, to be replaced by a look of concern. If her happiness for him was less than wholehearted, she told herself, it was only because she wasn’t overly fond of Nina. Of course, that was all.

“CLAY really is the perfect husband,” Solange told Dominique. It was the third time since Solange’s arrival the day before that Dominique had heard that.

“I’m glad you like him, Mother,” Dominique said patiently. She
was
glad that her mother liked her husband, but there was an unspoken implication in the lavish compliments that bothered Dominique. As though Solange couldn’t believe Dominique had captured such a man.

Or was she, Dominique, just being overly sensitive? She bit her tongue and reminded herself of her resolution to make this visit peaceful. After all, it had been over a year since she’d seen her mother, and then only for a day or two during the Christmas visit to New York.

Solange turned another page in the album. She stopped at a photo of Clay on the beach in Nice. “So handsome!” Solange said admiringly. She dropped her voice as though divulging a secret. “Much handsomer than your sister’s husband.”

“Mother, it isn’t a contest,” Dominique said mildly. She was careful to maintain a tone of affectionate amusement. She had taken a two-week vacation to spend time with her mother. It would be a long, tiresome visit if she reacted to every little irritation. Still, there was no denying that they got on each other’s nerves.

In contrast, Clay and Solange seemed to get along perfectly. From the moment the Parkers picked up Solange at the train station, Dominique had almost felt like a fifth wheel. Clay flattered Solange extravagantly, and she bloomed under his compliments.

But Clay wasn’t with the two women on this drizzly January morning.

“I didn’t say it was a contest!” Solange retorted, not bothering to temper her own voice. “Can’t I be happy that you’ve done so well for yourself?” She swept her arm through the air in a gesture that took in the room. Like the rest of the house, it was beautifully decorated with antiques and fine art. Warming the atmosphere were bouquets of fresh flowers and amusing knickknacks Dominique picked up in the dusty little shops of the French Quarter.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Dominique said. “I’m glad you’re pleased.” She felt ashamed. After all, Solange had
praised
Clay. It was just that Dominique had become peeved in advance of her mother’s visit by imagining the types of slights Solange would inflict—the backhanded compliments, the niggling criticisms, the constant comparisons to Danielle.

Solange turned the upper half of her body and studied her daughter. “Well, aren’t you pleased, too?”

“Of course I am!”

Solange sniffed and turned back to the album. “You should be. After all, you were a penniless divorcee when Clay met you. A lot of men of his background wouldn’t have married you. I’m sure he had many lovely young women to choose from.”

Dominique was stung. Her first impulse was to say something rude in return. But she knew she was jumpy, ready to react angrily to a wrong word from her mother. So she made an extra effort to control herself. Dominique wanted to show Solange that she was above losing her temper now. She was a married woman. An adult. She fixed her eyes on the pages of the album, determined not to betray her feelings.

When she received no response, Solange went on with her lecture. “You should remember how lucky you are. And you should stay home and take care of him instead of running to that store every day. It’s time you settled down and had children, anyhow.” She gave her daughter a head-to-toe perusal.

It was as though Solange had pushed a button that said “Blast off!” Dominique’s self-control was shattered as, with brutal accuracy, Solange hit on the only real trouble spot in the Parkers’ marriage.

Dominique sprang to her feet, causing the photo album to slam shut on Solange’s lap. She stood above her mother, hands on her hips, her face scarlet with anger. “You haven’t even been here a day and already you’re criticizing me!” she fumed.

Solange threw up her hands in exasperation. “Oh! You’re like a child! One can’t say anything to you! I’m simply trying to warn you that you have a very handsome husband and you should be careful.”

“Mother, do you think Clay is going to leave me because I work?” Dominique demanded. “Wasn’t I working when he fell in love with me?”

Solange drew herself up and crossed her arms over her chest. “That was different. You didn’t have a wealthy husband to support you,” she said coldly. “This… this
insistence
on working is certain to alienate him! No man wants a woman like that!”

The glacial quality of Solange’s tone fueled Dominique’s lifelong resentment. She felt like a pressure cooker about to burst. “Just because you’ve never found anything to love in me, don’t assume that others haven’t!” she hurled.

Solange looked stunned by Dominique’s vehemence. Her eyebrows shot up into two arcs, then dropped into the V of a scowl.