No More Lonely Nights (60 page)

Dominique looked at her mother with astonishment. Solange’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered.

“But… what if I don’t make a go of the business? What if we sell them for nothing?”

Solange’s lips tightened into a decisive line. “That won’t happen. Look at all you’ve done so far.” She spread her hands expansively. “Your life fell apart not once, but twice, and both times you recovered and went on to new success.”

“But, Mother,” Dominique said with a grave expression, “I didn’t have a choice then.” She paused. “I don’t feel comfortable taking the security you—”

Solange’s palm slammed down on the tabletop. “Well then consider how
I
feel! You think I enjoy being indebted to my own daughter? All these years, I’ve depended on you and Danielle—mostly
you!
I never thought anything like this could happen to me. We had so much!” she cried, as though she still couldn’t fathom the loss. She bit the inside of her mouth and turned her head away.

Dominique stared at her mother in disbelief. All these years, Solange had accepted their help as though it were expected, voicing gratitude only rarely. And, indeed, neither Dominique nor Danielle had expected gratitude. This was the culture in which they had been raised. One helped family. Suddenly, though, Dominique realized that Solange’s insouciance was an act—an act designed to preserve her dignity. It was not in Solange’s nature to cast herself in the role of poor relation, particularly when it would serve no purpose. Now, though, it
would
serve a purpose, and she was for the first time willing to admit what had gone unspoken for years.

In a bitter voice, Solange said, “I’ve just been a burden to you! Who in Egypt would have imagined things could change so?”

Dominique was immeasurably moved. She shoved her chair back and went to her mother’s side. Then she knelt and enclosed Solange in her arms. “You don’t owe me anything,” she whispered. “You’re my mother!”

Solange gently disengaged herself from her daughter. She splayed her hands on the tabletop and looked down at them. For several seconds she sat that way, her shoulders slumped, her eyes fixed. Then she straightened her back and, ever so slowly, took off her rings, all save her gold wedding band. She raised her chin and met Dominique’s eyes with a look of dignified resolve. “You’d be doing me a favor to take them.” She gently reached for Dominique’s hand and opened it, then dropped the rings into her palm. Finally, Solange folded Dominique’s fingers over the jewels and pressed her own hands on either side of Dominique’s, almost as though in prayer.

Dominique’s throat tightened. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She put her head against her mother’s chest and hugged her close. The older woman’s arms closed around her, strong and warm.

DOMINIQUE opened the manila folder on her desk, then pressed the intercom to her assistant. “Did you send the seating arrangement for the Capitol Hill luncheon to the Comtesse de la Croix?”

In the outer office, the secretarial chair squeaked. An instant later, a statuesque redhead rolled into the doorway. “She says it’s fine. I’ve already sent a copy to the Secret Service.”

Dominique gave Carter James a smile of approval. Thanks to Carter, the details of the French president’s visit were largely under control. Dominique could count on her. “Make sure that Congressman Rosen’s office gets a copy, too. And let’s pray he doesn’t have any changes.”

Carter grinned. “Done.” She used her hands to push her chair away from the threshold and was gone in a leggy blur.

Dominique had met the American University graduate student at a dinner party given by Felice. The two younger women took a class together in business administration.

“Pretty gutsy of Dominique to start her own business, don’t you think?” Felice had proudly asked the group gathered around the dinner table. “I would’ve gone with her if she could afford me.”

They’d all laughed, but later, Carter had expressed an interest in coming to work for Dominique. “I won’t be as expensive as Felice,” she’d said with a reassuring smile. “I just want experience in event planning. Felice has made it sound so interesting.” At the time, Carter was supporting her night school classes by modeling in department stores.

“I’m sick and tired of threatening to spray innocent shoppers with perfume!” she had explained with a chuckle.

Dominique had studied the glamorous young woman dubiously. “This job would involve a lot of menial tasks.”

Carter had nodded firmly and said, “I’m not afraid of that. It’s the only way to learn the business.”

Dominique had remained unconvinced. “How can you work full time if you’re still in school?”

“I worked full time while I was earning my undergraduate degree, and I have to work full time while I earn my MBA,” Carter said in a no-nonsense fashion.

That impressed Dominique and she had agreed to a one-month trial period. Now, almost three months later, Carter was virtually indispensable. Not only did she help with events, she ordered office supplies, paid bills, kept the books, and generally freed Dominique to pursue new clients and manage events.

Things had been very slow the first month, and Dominique had begun to worry that her funds would run out even sooner than she had projected. Then, one day, her name had appeared coupled with Mark Patout’s in a Washington column.

No one created a greater stir at the glittering Italian embassy soirée last night than the very eligible, very attractive Senator Mark Patout. On his arm was a diminutive titian-haired mystery woman with a
très piquant
French accent. I don’t need to tell you, Dear Reader, that all the bachelorettes were hoping she had just flown in from the Continent for a short visit. No such luck, girls (sigh). Turns out she’s a former resident of the Senator’s home state (giving a whole new meaning to the term constituent services). That’s right, she’s from that party capital, New Orleans, and she’s moved to Washington to show us how to throw great galas. Until recently, she was at savvy Grace Filmore’s Capital Events and now she’s opened a shop of her own in Georgetown, Affairs to Remember. Could it be she’s trying to tell us something?

Dominique was annoyed at the piece, until the calls started coming in. Mark Patout was a powerful senator and there wasn’t a lobbyist in Washington who couldn’t immediately envision the benefits of hiring his “friend.” Before the day was out, Dominique had firm commitments for two Capitol Hill receptions and one sit-down dinner in the Chevy Chase mansion of a prominent lawyer campaigning for appointment to the Supreme Court. These sorts of events didn’t bring in a tremendous amount of money—not like huge galas held on behalf of charities or museums. Such established institutions didn’t need to seek out Mark Patout’s favor, so they were not the ones to respond to the column. But the smaller events were a start, and they paid the rent.

Mark, too, had referred several of his fellow legislators to Dominique, but from those she had secured contracts for only two campaign fund-raisers to be held in Washington. The other legislators had wanted events in their home states, and Dominique wasn’t equipped for such work. How could she possibly travel to California, for example, when she barely had time to finish her work in Washington?

It had already become clear to her that she needed more help, but she didn’t have the revenue to support it yet. As a result, she worked harder and longer than ever before in her life. Sometimes she felt a strange sort of panic, as though if she didn’t finish everything she had to do each day, she would sink into a quagmire of overdue work from which she would never emerge.

Now, Dominique sorted through the message slips on her blotter trying to decide whom to call back first. Probably the manager of the Hay-Adams, the hotel that would host seventeen members of the French president’s entourage. The most important, of course, would stay at Blair House, the U.S.-owned residence across from the White House, specially reserved for visiting dignitaries. Others would stay at the French embassy. Dominique wanted to ensure that those staying at the hotel felt in no way slighted. She had persuaded the manager to provide, gratis, several pampering touches.

As she thought of this, she smiled. She really
was
good at her job and, despite the problems, she loved being in business for herself. Mark, after all, had been right. She had to remember to tell him so when she saw him that evening.

Dominique picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Hay-Adams, then sat back and hummed a little melody as she waited for an answer.

The delicious scent of roast meat wafted through the front door of Dominique’s house. She looked at her watch and saw that it was only quarter to seven. Mark must have arrived early.

Her heart racing with anticipation, she unlocked the door. Laughter floated out from the kitchen. It was punctuated by the cozy sound of clanking pots and pans. Gabrielle was chattering rapidly in French, telling a story, while Mark and Solange interjected comments of their own.

Dominique paused, savoring the homey clatter. Someone turned on the tap in the kitchen sink. Solange asked Mark if she had sliced enough mushrooms. Gabrielle squealed as the oil on the stove started to sizzle and she was hit with a stray droplet.

Dominique closed the front door and moved through the living room, invisible to the others.

The three in the kitchen burst into laughter as Gabrielle reached the punch line of her story. Dominique tried to recall a moment in recent years when Gabrielle had shown such ease and happiness with Clay, but she couldn’t. With Clay, there had always been pressure, anxiety to please. Mark didn’t try to correct or improve—he relished people for who they were.

Dominique hugged herself and inhaled deeply, then, with a light step, hurried to join the others. As she opened the kitchen door, she was greeted with cries of pleasure. Such intense joy overwhelmed Dominique that she felt her heart would burst.

Gabrielle said, “Hi, Mom!” and threw an arm around her as Dominique wrapped her own arm around her daughter’s waist. Gabrielle breathlessly launched into a repetition of the story Dominique had just overheard.

Solange kissed her on both cheeks, then resumed her mushroom slicing. She had about her the air of a woman with an important mission.

Dominique turned to Mark as she listened to Gabrielle’s story with half an ear. His teeth flashed as he welcomed her from his position in front of the skillet. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal the salt and pepper hair on his forearms. His tie, loose around the collar, was thrown comically over his shoulder to keep it out of the way. His wavy hair looked rumpled, as though he had bent down and risen a number of times.

Dominique let her eyes rove over him. She drank in the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, his crooked nose, his broad shoulders, and the ever-so-slight love handles that were a testament to his enjoyment of life. Everything about him was comfortable and inviting. The lines on his face were the lines of a kind man, a funny man, a loving man. His looks would never inspire the awe that Clay’s did, but they were far more appealing.

Dominique longed to put her arms around him, to nuzzle her face in his shoulder. But it was not their habit to touch in front of Gabrielle and Solange, so she contented herself with smiling at him.

For Mark, the noises around him receded to a distant hum. Gabrielle’s chatter, the sound of Solange’s knife against the cutting board, the sizzling oil—all of it became background noise. He looked into Dominique’s eyes and saw the emotion he had awaited for years. He froze, spatula in hand, unable to move or breathe.

Dominique saw the response in Mark’s face. It was like a miracle, the power she had to make him happy. And suddenly, making this gentle man happy was of paramount importance to her. She wanted to show him how much she cared. She wanted to allow him to enter the hidden recesses of her soul, wanted to share her thoughts and dreams with him. She wanted to forget about caution and courtship. She wanted only to acknowledge the love that burst forth from her like the crescendo of a symphony.

She took a step toward him. Their eyes met. It was as though they were speaking aloud, so clearly did they read each other’s thoughts. Silently, Dominique confessed to Mark: I love you, too.

Dominique listened for the sound of Gabrielle’s breathing, regular and deep, then she closed the door of her daughter’s bedroom. She turned and faced Mark where he stood at the end of the hallway.

“It’s okay,” she mouthed.

He came toward her and entered her bedroom.

It was something Dominique had never thought she would do. She didn’t like the idea of making love with a man not her husband in the house where Gabrielle and Solange slept. Yet, tonight, Mark felt more like her husband than Clay ever had. Tonight it was inevitable.

Dominique shivered with anticipation—and apprehension—as she locked the door behind her. She was acutely aware of her lack of experience in comparison to Mark. What if she appeared clumsy, lacking in finesse? What if Mark was disappointed?

Mark studied Dominique’s pale face and smiled reassuringly. He pulled her to the armchair in the corner of the room. “Let’s talk for a minute,” he said quietly.

Dominique let out a long exhalation of relief. She hadn’t known what to do next.

Mark sat on the chair and pulled her onto his lap. Dominique snuggled against him and shyly rested her head on his shoulder.

A lone lamp burned on the night table, leaving their corner of the room in shadows.

“I love you, Dominique,” Mark murmured. He nuzzled the hair near her temple.

Dominique raised her face to his. She saw the tenderness and desire in his eyes—and the love. Mark made her feel like the most beloved woman on earth. How could she doubt him? A blissfully liberating sense of trust chased away her apprehension.

Mark saw the change in her, and his face brightened. He brought his hands to Dominique’s face and cradled it between his palms. The emotion that shined from his face was so intense that Dominique lowered her eyes. With a whispery rustle, Mark brushed the tips of her eyelashes with his lips. Dominique laughed at the fluttery sensation, then opened her eyes and gave Mark a grateful look. He knew just what to do to ease her anxiety. It made her heart ache with love for him.