No More Lonely Nights (16 page)

Eager to see the inside of her new home, Dominique turned and watched Anton pay the driver. She shivered as the wind whipped through the fine wool of her dress. If this was what San Francisco was like in May, she would need to buy heavier clothes.

Anton came to Dominique’s side and took her arm. “The driver will get the bags.”

Dominique noticed that he didn’t ask her how she liked the house. In fact, he continued to avoid her eyes. She followed him through a hip-high picket fence, then up a stone walk. There was a small porch in front, but it was devoid of furniture or flower urns. Dominique would have festooned it with wisteria or jasmine or whatever grew in San Francisco’s chilly climate. Yet this place was oddly sterile.

As though reading her thoughts, Anton said, “This is just a temporary rental. We had a house on Nob Hill before, but things took a downturn.” His tone was not apologetic; rather, it warned Dominique to accept the situation without comment.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked as she mounted the steps.

Anton shrugged and mumbled something unintelligible. He searched in his pockets for his keys, but before he could find them, the door was thrown open.

Anton’s mother stepped onto the porch and flung her arms around her son. Anton hugged her back, holding her close for a few seconds, then kissing her with genuine feeling. Dominique was surprised at the emotion he displayed. Pleased. Perhaps there was more to Anton than she thought. The affectionate exchange between mother and son gave Dominique the chance to study Madame Renard. She was a short, wiry woman with dark hair almost entirely devoid of gray. She might have looked almost as young as Anton were she not wearing the sort of shapeless black dress common to older women in Mediterranean countries.

After a few moments, Anton gently disengaged himself from his mother’s grasp. The woman released her son with obvious reluctance, but she allowed him to turn her toward Dominique. She continued to smile as she regarded her daughter-in-law, but the glow disappeared.

“Mother, this is my wife, Dominique Avallon.”

Dominique extended her hand.
“Enchantée, Madame Renard,”
she said warmly.

The older woman’s eyes showed no responding warmth, though she kept her smile in place. Her gaze dropped to Dominique’s handmade shoes, then rose to take in her ivory wool dress, her windblown curls and fashionable hat. When her eyes met Dominique’s, their expression was calculating. Her fixed smile widened slightly. She stretched her hand out to meet Dominique’s and squeezed it in a grip of surprising strength. “How do you do?” Though uttered in French, her words had none of the welcoming lilt of that language.

An awkward silence fell over the trio as they waited for the taxi driver to struggle to the porch with the last of the bags. Dominique searched her mind for a topic. “Anton tells me you prefer to speak French. That will be good,” she said in a gracious tone. “I don’t want to forget my own language now that I’m in America.”

“I don’t speak English,” Madame Renard said. She turned to lead the way into the foyer.

On the left was a straight wooden staircase, on the right, a living room decorated with old-fashioned fussiness. Dominique stopped under the arch that marked the entrance to the living room and waited for the other two, now occupied with hanging Anton’s raincoat in the hall closet.

She couldn’t imagine that the living room reflected her husband’s taste. A pair of beige drapes trimmed with small brown pom-poms blocked most of the sun from the wide window that overlooked the front yard. Perpendicular to the window was a frilly-skirted sofa covered in brown, pumpkin, and gold flowered chintz. Opposite the sofa, two dark brown Victorian armchairs with antimacassars draped over their backs. They flanked a fireplace that appeared never to have been used. Dominique’s eyes traveled upward. In a place of honor over the mantle was a still life of poor quality.

Dominique tried to stifle the depression that threatened her. After all, the house was clean. The hardwood floor gleamed and there wasn’t any dust. With the drapes thrown open, a few nice paintings, and some bright pillows, the house could be inviting.

“My room’s this way.” Anton picked up two bags and indicated the direction with a jerk of his head. Dominique started to follow her husband up the stairs, as his mother silently watched the pair.

Anton stopped, one foot on the step above. “Will you bring up one of the bags?” he said over his shoulder to Dominique.

They had no household help? It was a concept totally foreign to her. In Egypt, all but the poorest had servants. But perhaps the same wasn’t so in America. Dominique’s only reference point, once again, was the movies. In most of the films she’d seen, a uniformed woman with a white pinafore hovered in the background. Dominique tried to recall if Danielle had ever referred to domestics in her letters. She couldn’t remember.

With each moment that passed, Dominique felt more out of place, but she didn’t want to show it. She turned and looked at the bags lining the foyer. Mechanically, she went and picked one up.

At the top of the stairs, she and Anton turned into a narrow, dim hallway. They passed a large bedroom with several windows. Dominique glanced inside, noting a white chenille bedspread and a run-of-the-mill bedroom set—headboard, bureau, and end tables in matching wood. Then they entered a smaller room.

Dominique stopped in the threshold and gasped. It was a world unto itself, a cavern of treasures. A canopied double bed draped with extravagant maroon brocade dominated the space. It was beautifully complemented by end tables of rosewood and walnut marquetry upon which rested silk-shaded chinoiserie lamps. Opposite the bed, a burled walnut chest of drawers—obviously a valuable antique—was decorated with items that revealed its occupant’s sybaritic bent: a sterling silver brush, comb, and hand mirror; a brass-trimmed mahogany case containing three Baccarat decanters labeled “port,” “whiskey,” and “sherry”; a mirrored tray of men’s colognes; and a tooled leather box for cuff links and studs.

Anton watched his wife with a smug expression. She could see that he enjoyed her astonishment. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve given Maman the bigger room.”

“No…” Dominique said vaguely, still trying to take in her surroundings. She did a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn, noting the gilded wall sconces and fine paintings. When she stopped, she was looking into the hall. The door opposite must be the bathroom, she thought. She crossed to it and looked inside. Black and white tile dating from the 1930s; old, worn-looking fixtures. The space was only slightly larger than her shower at home, and a rack of drying nylons told her that they would share it with Anton’s mother. But, Dominique tried to rationalize, it was clean and contained all the necessities. She’d have to get used to it, she told herself firmly.

She crossed back to the astounding bedroom. “Anton”—she hesitated— “are these all things you brought with you from your other house?”

Anton emptied the contents of his valise on the bed and looked up with a puzzled expression. There was a second of silence. Then he said, “Oh, yes, yes.” He straightened and brushed past Dominique. “Put those things away. I’ll get the trunks.”

She stared at Anton’s departing back, still a little bewildered. Why was his room the only one containing items of value? Didn’t he care about the rest of his house? And wasn’t a man accustomed to such resplendent surroundings also used to having servants? Before Anton reached the staircase, Dominique ventured a question. “Anton…” He turned, his expression one of elaborate patience. Dominique continued, “Don’t you have help?” The change on his face stopped her cold.

His brows drew together and his complexion darkened. He came back to where she was standing and gripped her upper arm, leading her back into his room. “Things are expensive in America!” he said in a low, fervent voice. “I told you I had a downturn! As soon as we get the first payment from your mother’s cotton, we’ll be able to do more.”

Dominique tilted her head and gave him a look of bewilderment. “But Anton, when you proposed, I never thought we’d have to depend on Avallon Cotton stock!”

He pointed an accusing finger at her. “You’ve had it easy all your life. You’ve been spoiled,” he declared, his voice rising. “And I don’t intend to coddle you. You can ask your mother to send you more money, but don’t complain to me!”

Dominique recoiled. He couldn’t have surprised her more if he’d punched her. In a split second, he’d changed from welcoming to antagonistic. Until now, Dominique had supposed that he was at least attracted to her, a much younger woman. Did he find nothing admirable, alluring, or even likable about her? Was it only Solange’s money?

She faced him squarely, her hands on her hips, her eyes snapping with indignation. “I am
not
complaining, I am merely asking a question, which you’ve now answered! And I am
not
going to ask my mother for more money!”

Anton looked taken aback by the strength of her tone. With an air of wounded dignity, he said, “I would have hoped for my wife to be supportive. My business has succumbed to… difficulties. You’re well off…” His sentence tapered off. He was silent for a moment. He tugged at the knot of his tie as though it were too tight. Then he resumed. “After all, it isn’t unusual for a wife to help her husband when there’s trouble.”

Dominique studied her husband. “What trouble?” she asked suspiciously.

Anton’s eyes shifted away from hers. “Well, the business has been difficult to reestablish. You see, I—”

“What!” Dominique had no patience for a long, oblique explanation. She looked around at the exquisite bedroom, at her husband’s suit. Everything was of the best quality. “How do you pay for…” She swept her hand downward in a gesture that clearly indicated his clothes. Then she threw her arms wide to indicate their surroundings.

Dominique saw the same sly look on Anton’s face that she had seen earlier on his mother’s. “I have savings… investments,” he said cryptically.

Dominique regarded him steadily. In Egypt, it was not uncommon for well-off men to live on their investments and never work. Like European aristocracy, they spent their days playing polo, golf, or cards. But now that she’d seen Anton’s home, she could hardly believe he was wealthy enough for such a life.

As though reading her thoughts, he said defensively, “I want to work, you know. I just need some money to get my business back on its feet.”

Dominique’s eyes narrowed. “And you thought I would provide it?”

Anton shifted his feet. At first his expression was sheepish, but Dominique could see that whatever shame he felt he quickly suppressed. The cold mask fell back into place. “We are married. What’s yours is mine now.”

Dominique raised her eyebrows sardonically. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but unless you want some of my dresses, you’ve already taken all my assets.” She was now thankful that she’d been too frightened by the customs house incident to risk bringing any important jewelry from Egypt.

“Well…” Anton hesitated. “Then we’ll just have to wait for the cotton money. It’s only a few more months.”

But Dominique had already decided she wasn’t going to wait for anyone to give her money. “In the meantime,” she announced, “I’m going to find a job.” She prepared herself for an onslaught of protest. She remembered Anton’s shock and disapproval of her job with the RAF.

But, surprisingly, Anton protested not at all. He shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.” Then, as an afterthought, “But remember, I handle the money.”

Dominique turned her face toward the feeble light and opened her eyes. Everything was smoky. With a gasp of surprise, she jerked to a sitting position. Her eyes were wide open now, but she had no idea where she was. She looked around. The sheets beside her were rumpled and there were oily stains on the pillow. Suddenly, she remembered. Anton’s hair pomade. She shuddered and averted her eyes until she was once more gazing out the window. The fog, it was so thick! Dominique had never seen any like it. Fascinated, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to the window. The grayish white cloud obscured everything. It seemed hard to believe that the day before had been bright and sunny.

She turned to the gold Florentine clock on Anton’s nightstand. It was already past nine! With sudden vigor, Dominique moved to the closet. She selected the first casual dress she came to, a pale yellow cotton shift, then hurried downstairs, eager to search the newspaper’s Help Wanted section.

When she reached the living room, she found Madame Renard in one of the brown armchairs. The older woman had a pair of glasses perched on her nose and she was mending a shirt of Anton’s.

“Bonjour”
Dominique said.

The old woman raised her head and returned the greeting with a lukewarm smile. Once again, Dominique was acutely conscious of the woman’s scrutiny.

Dominique tried for a friendly tone. “Have you had breakfast?” she asked.

“I don’t eat breakfast. Anton already had his. He’s gone out. There’s some coffee left, I think. And there’s some bread if you want to make toast.”

Dominique smelled bacon and noted that she was offered none. But she didn’t care, she was used to the French-style breakfast of bread, jam, and café au lait. “Thank you,” Dominique said. She passed through the living room, then the small dining room behind it, and leaned into the swinging kitchen door.

Madame Renard’s voice stopped her. “By the way…” Dominique stepped back into the dining area and looked attentively at the older woman. “I made Anton’s breakfast this morning. But in the future, I’m sure you’ll want to get up and make it for him.”

Dominique raised her eyebrows. What was she supposed to say to that? She decided on the truth, though she knew Madame Renard would disapprove. “I’m afraid he wouldn’t like that. You see, I have no idea how to cook.”

Madame Renard put down the shirt she was mending and removed her glasses. She gave Dominique a penetrating look. “Anton told me of your background. I’m afraid it hasn’t prepared you for life in America. I warned my son—” She stopped. After an awkward pause, she said with a trace of sympathy, “Anton tells me that your father died when you were a child.”