No More Lonely Nights (32 page)

Clay took a sip of his drink and gave Dominique a brief smile. “Sounds good, hon.”

Dominique was about to remark that Clay didn’t seem very impressed, when his face underwent a transformation. He turned to Dominique and narrowed his eyes. “You know”—he paused, looking contemplative—“Patout could do us a lot of good in the legislature. There’s a tax matter…” Clay’s eyes glazed over as he became lost in thought.

“Clay!” Dominique was half amused, half annoyed. “I’m trying to involve him in our charity, not a tax matter for Parker Shipping!”

Clay’s eyes snapped back to Dominique. “Hey, what’s good for the company is good for you and me, too.”

“I know,” Dominique admitted grudgingly, “but this is my first big gala for the store and I want Patout to concentrate on
it
.…” She paused. “You can understand that, can’t you?” she asked in a reasonable tone.

For a moment, Clay seemed about to argue, then he picked up his drink and finished it in one swallow.

Dominique followed his movements warily. She began to feel resentful, but before she could voice her sentiments, Clay abruptly backed down.

“Look, I don’t want to horn in on your project. I know that’s the most important thing. I’m just saying that it would be good to cultivate a friendship with Patout. Like that article said, he’s going places.”

Dominique smiled. “I thought you already knew everyone in New Orleans.”

“Know
of
,” Clay corrected her. “I’ve met Patout just a few times. He’s not in New Orleans all that much. He has an apartment in Baton Rouge near the capitol, but his real home is a plantation about twenty-five miles out into the country. Whole family lives there—old-style, close-knit bunch.”

Dominique raised her eyebrows. “I’m beginning to see I was very lucky to get him for my event.”

Clay gave her a significant look. “Can you also see why I don’t want this opportunity to slip away? If you could befriend him, and we could have dinner with him a few times… develop some social ties… that would be more valuable to me than a hundred meetings in his office. And it would give me a real edge at work. You understand?”

Dominique nodded. She couldn’t fail to be sympathetic with Clay’s ambition to prove himself at Parker Shipping. And, of course, she wanted to help her husband. His point was really quite reasonable. “But, Clay, I think you’re getting a little ahead of events. I’ll probably be dealing with his wife—”

“He’s not married,” Clay interrupted, clearly eager to dispense with one of her objections.

Dominique gave him a tolerant look. “His secretary then. I don’t know how personally involved he wants to get. Besides”—she smiled mischievously—“he may not like me at all!”

Over the next week, Dominique was in daily communication with Patout’s secretary and, through her, secured his approval for the party theme: “Carnevale in Venice,” a masked ball.

“Everyone loves Mardi Gras,” the woman commented, “and this gives them a chance to celebrate it twice in one year!”

And to Dominique’s amazed delight, Patout had agreed to meet personally with her about the guest list.

“He’ll do anything he can to help,” said his secretary.

But before the meeting, Dominique wanted to know as much as possible about Mark Patout. With that in mind, she had brought home a manila folder of articles about him. Clay was in Houston on a business trip, so she could take a tray to the study and curl up for the evening.

When she arrived home, Dominique was pleased to see that Lucy had lit a fire in the study. It was only October, and not cold enough to warrant one, but Dominique enjoyed them and Lucy knew it. Dominique settled cozily on the down-filled couch that faced the fireplace and opened the folder on Mark Patout. The first item was his official biography, which his secretary had sent. But it was brief, not nearly as interesting as the newspaper clippings her department’s secretary had found.

The more Dominique read, the more she became fascinated with the history of the Patout family. The first Patout in Louisiana had been a former officer in the French army by the name of Alexandre Patout. In the 1700s, he had bought a twenty-thousand-acre tract of land along the Mississippi River from the Houmas Indians. There he had built a home and established a sugarcane plantation. Dominique flipped through the file until she found a photograph of Belle Terre. It was a two-story Greek Revival mansion wrapped on all four sides by a columned porch and balcony overhead. She saw from the article that the original farmhouse had been torn down by Alexandre’s son, Alphonse, and the present structure built in 1840. Dominique was simultaneously amused and shocked to read that in 1845, Alphonse had lost ten thousand acres in a poker game. It was in 1856 that the first Patout entered politics. Every succeeding generation of the family seemed to have had at least one member serving in the state legislature or the U.S. Congress.

Dominique noted with interest that Mark Patout was the youngest man elected to the Louisiana House of Representatives in the twentieth century. He had won his seat at age twenty-five and was now only twenty-nine. She searched through the file for photographs of him and found three old ones. There was a sprawling family portrait taken when he was only fifteen. Dominique counted the number of children in the photograph. Seven! Patout’s head was partially concealed by that of his mother, standing in front of him. She was a delicate-looking woman with soulful eyes and softly waving hair.

The next article in the file was an announcement of Marie-Ange Patout’s death in 1955. It was on the front page of the
Times-Picayune,
as befitted a member of one of Louisiana’s first families. The caption under the photo said, “Mourners at the funeral of Marie-Ange Patout. From left: Christine, Blake, and Mark Patout accept the condolences of family friend Wilson Beaubien.” Patout faced the camera, but was largely obscured by the comforting arm of his friend.

The last few clippings discussed Mark’s political career. One of the articles noted that he had attended a northern law school, Yale. That was unusual for Louisiana men, Dominique knew. Students who wanted the cachet of an out-of-state degree usually chose a southern university—Vanderbilt or Rice.

Dominique came to the announcement of Mark’s election to the legislature four years earlier. It contained a profile shot of him shaking the hand of the Speaker of the Louisiana House. The photograph was so grainy that it was hard to distinguish Patout’s features. The next article came not from the
New Orleans Times-Picayune,
but from the
Washington Post.
As in the
Life
article Dominique had found, Patout was named as one of the up-and-coming young politicians around the nation. He was noted, the article said, for accepting no political contributions whatever. There was a rather cynical quote from a fellow legislator: “It’s easy to make honorable gestures when you’ve got enough money. Most of us, though, haven’t got a rich daddy to pay for our campaigns.”

Dominique closed the folder and stared into the fire. She wondered if Mark Patout were indeed nothing more than a spoiled young man. Would he be impossible to work with? Demanding? Dominique sighed. It really didn’t matter. A man of his prominence would serve as a major draw.

Dominique liked the quiet of her office when everyone was at lunch. It was a good time to think over her plans for the gala and weigh decisions. After checking to ensure that there was no one around, she leaned back in her chair and propped her feet on the extra chair opposite. Then she slipped her heels out of her black suede pumps. The sun shone through the window behind her, making her feel warm and just a little lazy. She bent forward to remove her jacket. Rolled up the cuffs of her shirt. That was better. With a sigh, she closed her eyes.

Dominique had already made rapid progress on the gala since Patout had approved the theme two weeks before. She’d contacted caterers and printers, costume companies and decorators, and had a fairly good conception of how the event would operate. But there were still some major items to consider. Which caterer to use? Orman’s had always gone with old-line Champs Élysées Catering, but Dominique had received a bid from a creative new firm. It was significantly cheaper than Champs Élysées and, equally important, their proposed menu had more interesting selections. But what if something went wrong? The rest of the staff at Orman’s was comfortable with the old firm. Perhaps she should stick with it and concentrate on other facets of the gala.

The sound of someone clearing his throat startled Dominique. She instantly dropped her feet to the floor and swiveled toward the door. A pair of jolly green eyes framed by windblown salt-and-pepper hair connected with hers. A split-second impression flashed through her mind: boundless charm. The man gave Dominique a delighted, lopsided grin, like a young boy who has just discovered a shiny, red bicycle on Christmas morning.

Flustered, Dominique asked haltingly, “May I… help you?” He had probably thought she was napping!

“I believe,” the man replied, “that we have an appointment.”

Dominique felt a sick thud in her stomach. She had forgotten an appointment? Though the man looked young—no more than his mid-thirties—he was clearly someone important, someone she ought to have remembered. His clothes, from the fine leather of his shoes to the expert tailoring of his navy blazer, told her that. And yet, despite his rich clothes, Dominique had the impression he didn’t take himself too seriously. His blazer was unbuttoned, his burgundy silk tie was askew, and his wavy hair, prematurely touched with gray, curled just slightly at his collar. If she had forgotten an appointment, she had a feeling this man would forgive her.

Faced with his smile, she couldn’t help but smile back—it was irresistible! She knew she should be serious and apologetic, but the man evoked a lighthearted response in her.

“I’m terribly sorry! I’m glad I didn’t go to lunch or I wouldn’t have even been here!” Dominique stood up and shuffled the papers on her desk until she located her appointment book. She leaned over her calendar and studied the little white square for October 12. Blank. She looked up at the man—and caught him studying her figure. When he realized that she had caught him, he gave her a grin that seemed to say, “You can’t possibly blame me!”

She laughed, absolutely positive that the grin managed to get him out of most scrapes. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing herself fully upright. “I’ve been doubly neglectful. I don’t have anyone marked down for an appointment. Um… you are… ?”

He walked toward her, hand outstretched. “Mark Patout.”

Dominique stiffened with tension. Mark Patout! She stared at the outstretched hand. Then, realizing that she was being rude, she abruptly leaned across her desk and shook it. “I’m so sorry, sir. This is unforgivable.… I know your time is valuable and I—” Dominique stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly remembering something. She looked back down at her calendar. “Oh, no!” she moaned. “I’m afraid I made a terrible mistake. I had you down for
next
Tuesday.”

Patout laughed easily. “You did?” He pulled out a small leather appointment book from his jacket and studied it. “You’re absolutely right!” His tone was so pleased that Dominique couldn’t suppress a smile. “I must have turned to the wrong page. My fault.” He casually let the book fall shut and put it back in his pocket. “Oh well, can I buy you lunch? I haven’t had any and I’m starving.”

Dominique had had only an apple at her desk. Besides, she couldn’t very well refuse the host of Orman’s gala. “That… that would be nice,” she said tentatively. She reminded herself that she had no reason to feel uncomfortable now that they’d discovered that the mistake had been his. She took her pocketbook out of her desk drawer and slung her jacket over her arm. “I’m ready,” she said.

“How about Café Tartuffe?” Mark asked. With a gesture of his hand, he indicated she should precede him out the door.

Dominique’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember if she’d been there. “I don’t think I know it,” she said as she pressed the elevator button.

“No!” he said with mock incredulity. “Then you haven’t really eaten in New Orleans!”

When they emerged from Orman’s, Dominique found she didn’t need her jacket after all, for the day had turned warm.

“Would you like me to hold that for you?” Patout asked.

“Oh… thank you, that’s all right.” Dominique was a little surprised at the small gallantry. It seemed somehow… personal.

They strolled a few blocks to a little restaurant holding no more than a dozen tables. Each one was whimsically covered in a tablecloth bearing a different flower-print pattern. Dominique had never before seen anything like it, and she smiled in delight.

When they were seated, Mark said, “Would you like a drink?”

Dominique held up her hands in a sign of refusal. “I can’t possibly or I’ll fall asleep after lunch.”

“Me, too.” He smiled broadly as though it were a miraculous coincidence.

He made her feel so at ease! It was as though they had known each other before. As he looked at the menu, Dominique furtively studied him. He was really one of the most charismatic men she’d ever met. Not because of his looks—his features were pleasant rather than sensational. His eyes were spring green and surrounded by tiny laugh lines. His lean, narrow face bore the tan of a sportsman and his nose, typically Gallic, had a rough bump near the bridge that indicated a schoolyard injury. But Dominique’s eyes kept coming back to his mouth. The perpetual laughter she saw there was the source of his appeal. In repose, his lips curved up, as though anticipating a joke. And when he actually smiled, a long dimple formed on the right side of his face. Dominique couldn’t imagine that mouth ever turned down in anger. She wondered what had given Patout such a sunny outlook. He seemed totally at ease with himself and the world. She thought of the old French expression
“bien dans sa peau”
—comfortable in his own skin.

“Have you decided what you want?” Patout asked, looking up from his menu.

Dominique flushed. She hadn’t even looked at the menu. “Um… whatever you’re having,” she said feebly. Then, trying to justify herself, she added, “I’ve never been here before, so I don’t know what’s good.”