No More Lonely Nights (2 page)

As the two women passed under a stone arch marked by a lacy iron gate, they left Europe behind and entered a tiled inner courtyard that was unmistakably Arabian. An oasis of tropical plants and cool fountains, it was perfumed by a jasmine vine that spanned the second story colonnade. Exotic flowers like oleander and hibiscus flourished, thanks to regular watering by two gardeners.

Solange placed her basket on a wrought iron table and, with a curt motion of her hand, assigned Dominique one of the matching chairs. Dominique complied as Solange, too, sat down and rang for the butler. Seconds later, a broad, white-robed man appeared, almost blocking from view the veiled woman shadowing him. They approached the table with noiseless, gliding steps.

Solange looked up and handed the man her basket of flowers. The man took the basket and, in turn, handed it to the black-robed woman, who bowed and backed out of the garden.

“Lemonade, please,” Solange said in Arabic.

“Aywalla,
Madame Solange,” he replied in a mix of Arabic and French. He too, then backed silently from the courtyard.

Solange brushed her hands together as though she had accomplished a challenging task, then fixed Dominique with a baleful look. “Now, about this ludicrous notion…”

The scorn in Solange’s voice made Dominique’s jaw clench—and it made her all the more resolute. Nevertheless, she wanted to avoid another of the arguments that regularly punctuated their stormy relationship. Fighting to maintain her composure, she said, “Mother, this is 1955. A lot of women work. I
want
to keep busy.”

Solange’s eyebrows came together in an angry V.

Dominique hurried on, before her mother could argue. “I want to practice my English and my typing.” She spread her hands palm up in front of her. “Why did I learn them if I’m not going to use them?” Her sentence ended on an upraised note of exasperation.

Solange stiffened. “Keep your voice down,” she hissed, as the butler returned with a tray bearing a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. The women remained silent until he poured the drinks and retreated into the house.

As soon as he was out of sight, Dominique impatiently leaned forward and picked up where she had left off. “Why did you force me to have the English tutor all those years when you don’t even speak the language? Why did you send me to the American College? I’ll forget it all if I don’t use it!”

Solange opened her mouth as if to fling back a retort, then paused with a look of uncertainty. She averted her head and reached for her lemonade.

Dominique knew she had hit her mark. Solange, who spoke French, Italian, and Arabic, insisted that English was the language of the future. The British had been the military power in Egypt for as many years as Solange had been alive. More important, America had emerged from World War II as a superpower. So although Italians, French, and Greeks dominated Egypt’s commerce and fashion, Solange was convinced both her girls should speak flawless English.

Dominique watched her mother carefully, guessing her thoughts.

Solange—moving so slowly that Dominique knew she was playing for time—took a sip of her lemonade, then another. Finally, she replaced her glass on the table. A shrewd gleam came into her eyes. She crossed her arms over her ample bosom and tilted her chin up victoriously. “We go to Alexandria every summer and France every spring. So you won’t have time to work”—she paused and gave Dominique a knowing look—“unless you intend to give up those vacations.”

Dominique made a sound of impatience. “We just came back from Alexandria and we’re not going to France until next spring. I can quit then. I just want to see what it’s like to work.”

Solange’s eyes flared. She had clearly run out of patience. “I forbid it!” she cried.

Dominique’s chair scraped angrily on the tiles as she shoved it backward and sprang to her feet. “I’m twenty-one now. You can’t stop me!”

Solange’s palm slammed down on the table, rattling the glasses. “Then I wash my hands of you! Don’t come to me for money, because you won’t get any!”

“I don’t want it! I intend to pay my own way!” Dominique cried.

That didn’t end the dispute, though. Another heated exchange came a few days later, when Solange learned that her daughter would be working not in Cairo but a hundred kilometers away, in Ismailia.

“Why can’t you stay here in Cairo? You can take classes at the American University. It’s simply unbelievable that you have a home like this,” said Solange, with a sweep of her hand, “and you want to go and live in a flat with two other girls.”

Dominique looked around the formal sitting room. Solange seemed in her element among the ornate Louis XV furniture, the Persian rugs, and the heavy draperies. But Dominique found them oppressive. She found living with Solange oppressive. “It’s not just two other girls, Mother. It’s Paulette and Jean.”

“Jean!” Solange said scornfully. “That British girl. British girls are like prostitutes. They’re almost as bad as Americans! She’ll have men running in and out every hour of the day. She’ll ruin your reputation!”

Dominique gave her mother a sardonic look. “I’ll take that chance.”

“You’ll take
any
chance! That’s your trouble!”

One week later, Dominique threw open the glass doors of her new apartment in Ismailia and stepped onto the balcony. She took a long, satisfied breath, then moved to the banister, shivering deliciously as the breeze from Lake Timsah ruffled her linen dress.

Looking down at the tree-shaded street below, she decided that Ismailia deserved its reputation as the prettiest—and cleanest—city in Egypt. It was not a resort on a scale with Alexandria or the French Riviera, but its charming little hotels and picturesque avenues were more approachable.

Dominique leaned on the railing between two vivid flower boxes and dreamily gazed at “her” street. Tiny boutiques, their doors thrown open to the sunshine, beckoned passersby with local crafts and baked goods. Outdoor cafés decorated the street corners.

Dominique turned her head at the sound of a horse’s hooves. Jingling down the road was a quaint, brass-trimmed open carriage, a line of cars patiently crawling behind it. Dominique grinned at the sight. In Cairo or Alexandria, there would have been shouts, curses, a ceaseless wail of horns. The carriage halted in front of the red striped awning of the café opposite. A man and woman in British military uniforms hopped out to cries of welcome from a group at a sidewalk table. It was just past teatime and the café’s little white tables were filled to capacity. There were groups of women and groups of men and many couples, all in Western dress. Their conversation mixed with the lively clatter of dishes as waiters bustled through the crowd. The scene was so inviting that Dominique had an urge to hurry downstairs and join in. She could leave a note telling her roommates to meet her there when they came home from work. Then they’d go out to dinner to celebrate their first evening together. And stay out as late as they liked! Dominique was struck by the heady realization that she no longer had to account to her mother, nor even to poor Nanny, who worried so much. Her life was beginning!

“You’re very fast,” said the British sergeant who had given Dominique the typing examination. “They could use you in the typing pool, but…” He narrowed his eyes and studied her. Normally, he’d try to make time with a girl this attractive, but this one was too rich for his blood—didn’t take a genius to see that. Look at that dress: one of those plain navy numbers that screamed money. Kind of hinted at the hourglass shape underneath, but didn’t cling enough to let you know for sure. He’d like to see her without it. She’d be a handful, even though she was just a tiny thing.

The sergeant shifted his attention to her face. Oh, yeah, she was a firecracker, all right! Lips a little too full, nose a little too long—but the combination
was pow!
And then there were her eyes. Reached out and grabbed you, those eyes did. Told you there was spice behind that rich-girl finish. Smarts, too. What color were they, anyway? The same as that stone in his mother’s good ring. Topaz, that was it. Dominique Avallon’s eyes were like topaz. And they tilted up at the corners in a way that made her look exotic. Or mysterious. Or something else that got him going. Stood out against that auburn hair like flames. Of course, he didn’t go for redheads as a rule. They usually had freckles—not his cup of tea. But this one had skin like golden honey.

Girl’s too special for the typing pool, the sergeant decided. She’s the kind the top brass like.

“Group Captain Hampton’s secretary just got married,” he told Dominique. A group captain was the equivalent of a full colonel in the U.S. military—an exceedingly high rank. “He needs a new girl. I’ll send you over to him.” He sighed inwardly. Hated to see her go. A looker like this broke up the monotony of his day.

Fifteen minutes later, Dominique paused in front of the open door of Group Captain Stephen Hampton’s office. She peeked inside as she tapped the glass panel that comprised the upper half of his door.

Hampton was bent over his desk, sun-streaked hair the only visible feature. At the sound of knocking, his head shot up, revealing an aristocratic face deeply tanned from years in the tropics. Serious gray eyes brightened as they landed on Dominique.

“Good morning, sir. I’m Dominique Avallon. I believe Sergeant Williams phoned?”

Hampton’s features at once settled into an expression of businesslike civility. He stood up and came from behind the massive oak desk to hold out a chair for Dominique. “Ah, yes, Miss Avallon,” he greeted her in his upper-class British accent, “I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding me.”

Dominique sat down as she murmured, “None, thank you.”

He was so unexpectedly young! He couldn’t possibly be more than thirty-five. Dominique watched him return to his place and sit down. Despite his youth, he had a commanding presence. Dominique had the impression that he was one of those rare individuals who never raised their voices nor addressed others impolitely. Probably he never had to. His orders would be followed, whether or not he was in uniform.

Dominique continued to study Hampton as he read her paperwork, his brow furrowed in concentration. She was usually outgoing and would have tried to engage the officer in small talk, but there was about him a cool reserve that held her at arm’s length. It was hard to imagine Group Captain Hampton ever being flirtatious, despite the split second of interest she had detected in his first glance.

“Your scores for typing and grammar are excellent,” he said, not taking his eyes from the paper.

“Thank you,” Dominique replied. She watched his face as he scanned the rest of her application. She could discern nothing from his expression.

Finally, he raised his eyes. Dominique saw them linger on the gold watch dangling from her wrist, then travel to the saucy Paris creation she wore on her head. He looked back down at her file.

“It says here that you speak Italian, French, English, and Arabic. I assume you read and write English fluently, since you graduated from the American College. Do you read and write Arabic and Italian as well?”

She shook her head. “Italian, yes, but only a little Arabic.” Europeans living in Egypt were rarely fluent in Arabic. They attended mostly French schools, learned English or Italian as a second language, and used Arabic mainly with the household help.

“Hmmm.” Hampton’s reaction was noncommittal. With Hampton’s eyes focused on the papers on his desk, Dominique was free to look around his office. It was large, of course, as befitted a group captain. On a credenza behind him were perhaps a dozen photographs. There was one of Hampton standing in front of an airplane.

He must be a war hero, Dominique speculated. That was why he had attained high rank at such a young age. She looked at the left pocket of his uniform. It bore many decorations, but she didn’t know the meaning of most of them. Still, an unfamiliar feeling of awe crept over her.

She turned her attention back to the photographs. There was one of a woman and two children. The woman was young—a classic English beauty. Dominique looked at Hampton’s ring finger. He wore no wedding band. But there were many married men who chose not to. Dominique went back to studying the photos. The largest was of Winston Churchill and it bore an inscription, but Dominique was too far away to read it. The rest of the photographs appeared to have been taken in England, perhaps at Hampton’s home. It was a large Tudor-style estate in the country—smaller than the manor of the Avallons’ cotton plantation outside Cairo, but impressive nonetheless. In one of the photographs, Hampton held the bridle of a horse. The two children from the first picture sat on the horse’s back. There was a pond surrounded by irises in the background. In another photograph, a middle-aged couple sat on the terrace of the house.

Hampton looked up, then at the picture. “My parents,” he said somberly. “They were killed in the war. Their home in London was destroyed by a German bomb.” Despite his economy of speech, Dominique could sense in Hampton a profound sadness at their loss.

Her heart warmed with real sympathy. “I’m so sorry. It must have been a terrible blow to lose them both at once.” She thought of her own father, dead when she was only nine. Dominique still missed him.

She blinked and shifted her gaze to another family photo. “Your wife and children?” she asked in a subdued voice. “They’re lovely.”

Hampton turned to face the credenza. He picked up the photo of the two children on horseback. “Lily and James,” he said fondly, “eight and ten.”

“You must miss them terribly.”

He sighed. “I do. But they’re away at school now. I usually manage to get leave when they’re on holiday.”

Dominique thought they seemed young to be at boarding school, but the English insisted on sending their children away at early ages. On the other hand, she wondered if her own childhood had been any better. True, she had remained at home with Solange, but Nanny had actually raised her. Solange had seemingly had a thousand more interesting things to do with her time. Dominique wondered if Hampton’s wife was the same way. He hadn’t mentioned her even once.