No More Lonely Nights (39 page)

Speaking of differences between women and men, I picked up that Betty Friedan book you told me about,
The Feminine Mystique.
Some of my friends here have heard of it, but they think women like her too extreme to take seriously. As for me, I agree that being a wife and mother may not provide total fulfillment for some women, but if I had a choice between my life or one of a single career woman, I’d choose the course I’ve taken. Maybe some women can do both well, but since none of my friends work, I can’t say I’ve seen proof. How about you?

By the way, you can stop nagging me about that bank account business. I finally asked Clay if he would mind my having my own savings account. He didn‘t even look up from the newspaper. Just reached into his pocket and pulled out his checkbook. All he said was “Suit yourself.” Of course, I feel ridiculous now for even bringing it up. It seems insulting to Clay and I don’t think I’m going to do it. I know you‘re just thinking of my good, and I appreciate it, but what’s right for you may not be right for me.

Well, that’s all for now. Kisses to everyone.

Love, Dominique

Dominique opened the French doors of her bedroom and stepped onto the balcony that overlooked St. Charles Avenue. It was just growing dark and the sky was a velvety blue, the moon already high and full—a Mardi Gras moon.

Dominique paced back and forth across the wooden floor, all the while looking down the boulevard for Clay’s black Cadillac. Her bead-encrusted sari—she was costumed as an Indian princess—jingled with each step. Impatiently, she leaned over the balcony railing and strained to see past the live oaks and magnolias that obscured her view of the street. No sign of Clay.

Exasperated, she went inside to her dressing area. Why did Clay insist on accepting dinner invitations if he was going to be late? Only that afternoon, he had returned from a trip to Houston, but instead of coming home, he had gone to the office. Tonight, of all nights—the Saturday before Mardi Gras.

A fever pitch of excitement was firing the city. The festivities had begun, and Clay and Dominique, like their friends, would spend the next four days at an unending string of parties. Even now, each time a streetcar rattled by, Dominique could see that it was packed with revelers. They hung out the open windows, letting loose rebel yells. Cars careened by, their occupants heedlessly tossing out empty liquor bottles—there were no prohibitions against drinking and driving in New Orleans. And in the French Quarter, a writhing mass of humanity made the narrow thoroughfares impassable. The weather was unseasonably hot; liquor and crowds made it hotter. Men stripped off their shirts and threw them into the air with abandon. And, occasionally, women did the same.

The parties Dominique and Clay would attend were more rarefied. There would be lavish costumes adorned with heirloom jewels, bacchanalian feasts in the most splendid of private homes and the most exclusive of hotel ballrooms. There would be very little sleep, plenty of champagne, and so much dancing that Dominique knew she would be sore for days afterward.

Tonight, she and Clay had been invited to a sit-down dinner for twenty-four at the home of a neighbor. Afterward, the guests would join a much larger gathering at the Pontchartrain Hotel. Elite though the party was, the guests had paid to attend—all for charity, of course. Dominique, working with two other prominent New Orleans women, had helped organize the event. Such was Dominique’s reputation that she had been responsible for the sale of at least fifty tickets.

Dominique no longer felt nervous before her events—they had become second nature. Now the excitement came at the beginning, as she tried to devise a party theme, then turn the vision into reality. Once the planning was done, Dominique knew things would run smoothly.

Still, she wished Clay would hurry. He had known about the Houston trip
before
they had received the dinner invitation. Why hadn’t he just let her send their regrets? They could have gone to the party afterward with time to spare. But, of course, she knew the answer. Clay thought every social contact might turn into a business opportunity. He had doubled Parker Shipping’s revenues, but he didn’t seem satisfied. Dominique thought he behaved as though his dead father were looking over his shoulder, as though Clay still had something to prove.

She sighed and leaned close to the mirror to check her makeup. Then she saw headlights. Dominique abandoned her reflection and hurried downstairs, primed to scold Clay. But as soon as she saw her husband, Dominique’s annoyance disappeared. He emerged from the car holding a huge stuffed giraffe with a green bow around its neck.

On cue, Gabrielle came clattering down the stairs. “Daddy!” she cried.

Clay never came home from a trip empty-handed, and the little girl each time drove herself into a fever of excitement as she anticipated her surprise. But most of all, it seemed to Dominique, Gabrielle was glad to see her father. She leapt into his arms, planting a dozen noisy kisses on his cheeks before she turned her attention to the giraffe.

Dominique smiled and went to them. She reached up and pecked Clay on the lips. “Good trip?” she asked, wrapping one arm around her husband, one around her daughter.

“Fine,” Clay answered, gently disentangling himself from Gabrielle and setting her on the floor. “Do you remember giraffes from the zoo?” he asked the little girl.

She was four years old, precocious, and always eager to demonstrate her knowledge. “Of course!” she said, in a good imitation of a slightly miffed adult.

Clay laughed at her tone.

Then she became a little girl again and hugged the giraffe’s neck. “I’m going to name him…” Gabrielle reflected for a moment. “Peanuts, ’cause his spots look like that!”

“Good name, sweetheart!” Dominique said. “We’ll have to play with Peanuts tomorrow. But right now, Daddy has to get ready to go out. Why don’t you go back to Grandmere’s room and show her your new friend?”

Fifteen minutes later, Clay and Dominique were speeding toward the dinner party. Dominique’s resentment was forgotten as she saw that they would arrive only a few minutes after the appointed time.

Clay, too, seemed in an exuberant mood. “Dominique, something’s come up that I think you should get involved in,” he said in a cheerful tone.

Dominique kept the smile fixed on her face, but inwardly she groaned. How much more could she possibly handle? She was the program chairwoman for the cancer ball, director of volunteers for the cerebral palsy foundation, a member of the French club—and full-time mother to Gabrielle. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to dampen the festive mood, so she invited Clay to continue.

“You remember that Mark Patout’s running for the Senate, don’t you?”

Dominique’s stiff smile relaxed into one of genuine feeling as she thought of Mark. Over the years, she had invited him and Nina to dinner several times at Clay’s urging. They accepted almost always, but it was clear that Clay would never attain his goal of becoming a close friend of Mark’s. Even Clay admitted it, though neither husband nor wife delved into the reasons why. What’s more, Nina had only once returned the invitations. Even on that lone occasion, the Parkers had not been invited to the Patout home, but to a large dinner Nina and Mark were hosting in a restaurant. Despite that, Clay considered the couple a stellar addition to any dinner party—especially since Mark had been elected to Congress. Clay encouraged Dominique to invite them again and again. Recently, though, Mark had been occupied with his bid for the U.S. Senate, a perfect excuse for Dominique to stop issuing invitations.

“Of course I remember that Mark’s running for the Senate,” she answered Clay in a tone of amusement. News about the political race was splashed across the front page of the
Times-Picayune
every day.

“Well, it looks like he’ll win. Now’s the time to volunteer for the campaign,” Clay remarked with gusto, as though hoping to transmit his enthusiasm to Dominique.

Dominique tightened her grip on her purse and stared at her husband in astonishment. “I don’t know anything about campaigns!”

Clay laughed and dismissively waved his hand. “You don’t need to know anything. All you do is go there and do what they tell you.”

Dominique cocked her head. “What do you mean?” she asked doubtfully.

Clay shrugged. “Stuff envelopes, make phone calls, clerical stuff.” He kept his eyes fixed on the road, “It’s important for us to participate in this,” he said. He turned and gave Dominique a pointed look. “It would seem strange if we didn’t.”

Dominique nodded. She followed Clay’s logic and she thought Mark would make a wonderful senator, but she didn’t relish the idea of doing dull, repetitive clerical work or, worse yet, making phone calls to strangers to try to drum up support. Her volunteer work was always of a supervisory nature, never a clerical one. Why, then, was Clay assuming that they’d only want her for secretarial work?

“What if…” Dominique began haltingly. She was like a bather dipping a toe in the sea, not sure of the water temperature. “What if they found something more interesting for me to do? They must need events organized or—”

Clay interrupted. “They’d never turn that over to you,” he said with a regretful shake of his head. “Let me explain how these things work. Housewives like you volunteer all the time for campaigns, and the campaign staff tells you what to do.” He paused. “They’ve got political professionals for the glamour jobs. The people who organize these events know who the important players are, not just here in New Orleans, but all over the state, and even the country. They don’t try to make these things flashy or interesting in and of themselves. The purpose is to showcase the candidate.”

“It sounds a bit different than what I do with the charities,” Dominique admitted.

Clay patted her knee. “You’re the best at that, I know. But you’re right about this being different. I’m afraid you’ll be at the bottom of the totem pole at the campaign, but it’ll be worthwhile for us. And I know you support Mark.”

Dominique looked out the window and considered saying no. The work sounded dreary and she was so busy! Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Clay, his gaze trained on her. She turned and gave him a look of appeal. “Clay, I’m not sure I have time—”

Clay’s lips tightened. “This is more important than those charities,” he said harshly.

“But, Clay, I have obligations. I can’t just—”

He didn’t let her finish her sentence. “They’re not paying you, are they?”

Dominique looked at him in astonishment. Clay had always praised her charity work, avowing that the prominence and respect she earned reflected well on him. How could he suddenly brush it off? Stung, Dominique said, “That doesn’t mean I should leave in the middle of a project!”

Clay regarded her in sulky silence. Then, all at once, his expression grew appealing. His voice became low and persuasive. “I’m sorry, babe. I know your work is important. But couldn’t you get one of the other women to help? I mean, you don’t have to step down entirely. All I’m asking is that you give Patout maybe three days a week.”

Clay’s eyes, as much as his words, softened Dominique.

As though sensing her weakness, Clay pressed on. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but…”

But, Dominique concluded silently, he really didn’t ask her for much. All at once, she was ashamed that she had hesitated to grant his simple request. After all, it would only be for a few months.

Nevertheless, something stopped her from immediately agreeing. Mark had once been extremely attracted to her, she remembered. Would her constant presence now be a strain? She smiled as she realized the absurdity of the notion. Impossible! He was married to a stunning woman. He had probably gotten over Dominique long ago.

Mark almost didn’t realize that it was Dominique—
Dominique
—typing at one of the crowded office’s twelve desks. She was obscured by the clutter of cardboard boxes, posters, and desks piled high with paper. Then he stopped in his tracks and did a double take, not quite believing his eyes. That thick, wavy, auburn hair couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else.

“That’s our new volunteer,” his office manager, Sally Devereaux, whispered to him. “Dominique Parker.”

Mark stared at the familiar figure. She was wearing a yellow blouse, just as at their first meeting. It was a color he associated with only her, for every other woman he knew claimed to look terrible in it. But Dominique looked splendid.

“I know…” he murmured to Sally. Then, aware of the curious gaze of the office manager, he continued more energetically, “I haven’t seen her in months, but I actually know her quite well. Her husband mentioned that she might sign up. I’ll go say hello.”

Sally looked down at a clipboard she was carrying. “Don’t forget, you have an appointment uptown in twenty minutes.”

Mark nodded and held up his hand, signaling his assistant to be patient. Then he strode over to Dominique.

She looked up and saw Mark coming toward her, a generous smile on his face. He looked wonderful—more weathered, more becomingly gray; more…
adult.
For a moment she reeled at the sheer charisma that flowed from him. She had forgotten the impact of his presence. Now it hit her full force and she gave him a responding smile.

He watched her face undergo a transformation. Her eyes went from serious to sparkling. Her full lips parted in a brilliant smile. Her body straightened and her skin—her marvelous golden skin—came alive with a pink blush.

Without fully realizing what was happening, Mark felt the old emotions stir. Dominique’s effect on him was beyond his control. His hand was extended, ready for a handshake, but he instead found himself wrapping her in his arms. He felt the warmth of her body against his. He smelled her light perfume with its hint of gardenia. And everything was as it had been before. He couldn’t escape it.

Reluctantly, he withdrew his arms and released her. She was commenting on something in her captivating accent, but it was difficult for him to focus. A hot flush rose in him. He stared at her and tried to regain control of his emotions. He took a step back. He didn’t want to feel the heat from her body anymore, nor to smell her perfume. Deliberately, he thought of Nina. Nina, whose icy demeanor was in such contrast to Dominique’s radiant warmth. Whose admiration for Mark’s position had turned to resentment of the time it required. And here was Dominique, ready to support him.