No More Lonely Nights (62 page)

Dominique’s face grew closed. She bent over the hood of the car and spoke into it. “Mark, we’ve been over this so many times! I just don’t want to go back. I know Belle Terre is miles from New Orleans, but Louisiana is such a small place and everyone knows you. We’d run into someone and—”

“So what?” Mark interrupted, his voice more imploring than angry. He stopped scrubbing and looked at Dominique. She raised her eyes to his. “So what if Clay finds out we’ve been seeing each other? That bast—” He stopped short and took a deep, calming breath, then he continued in an even voice. “Clay doesn’t deserve your consideration.”

Dominique shook her head. “You know it’s not because of me. I just don’t want him questioning Gabrielle. He might make her feel odd about us.”

Mark held Dominique’s gaze. “It wouldn’t be a problem if you married me,” he said quietly.

Dominique stood motionless. She didn’t want anything between them to change! It was perfect as it was. “Mark, I… I don’t know what to say,” she stammered in confusion. Panic rose in her as she remembered the devastation of her previous two marriages. She wasn’t ready to try again! Not yet. She shook her head. “It’s too soon,” she said emphatically.

“Soon!” Mark looked up at the sky, his expression exasperated.

“We’ve been seeing each other for six months!” He threw his sponge in the bucket and came to Dominique’s side. He grasped her free hand in his. “Why are you acting so surprised?”

Dominique had no answer. She knew Mark loved her. For that reason, perhaps, she didn’t question the direction of their relationship. It seemed solid and secure.

As though reading her mind, Mark said, his voice downcast, “Do you realize that you’ve never told me that you love me?”

Dominique gave him a startled look. It had been on the tip of her tongue so many times. But she had always stopped at the crucial moment. She was afraid to say it, though she couldn’t articulate to herself why. “You know how I feel,” she said in a low voice.

Mark gave her a hurt look. Then he leaned back against the car and crossed his arms. Dominique would have to make the next move.

She looked up at him. “You
know
how I feel,” she repeated softly. She stared down at the yellow sponge in her hand, dripping onto her sandaled feet. Why couldn’t she say the words?

Mark pushed away from the car and took a step toward Dominique. With one hand, he reached forward and touched a strand of her hair. Then he dropped his arm to his side. “I still remember the first time I saw you.”

Dominique gazed silently at him. A few beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. She wanted to wipe them away, to offer him comfort.

He continued in a soft, hypnotic voice. “I’ve loved you for such a long time. All these years. All the time you were married to Clay.” He shook his head. “I would see you sometimes over the years…. You… Clay—” He halted abruptly and turned his head away. Then he looked back at Dominique. “I didn’t want to be attracted to you, you understand.”

Dominique nodded, infinitely moved. Of course he didn’t want to be. Mark wouldn’t pursue another man’s wife. She felt admiration well up in her. She loved his sense of right and wrong. There were never shades of gray with Mark. Never the easy rationalizations with which Clay so adeptly justified his actions.

“And when I heard you’d divorced,… I thought… another chance.” Mark stopped and clamped his lips together, too overcome to continue.

Dominique wanted to wrap him in her arms. He was always so cheerful that she sometimes forgot the depth of feeling of which he was capable. Now he was confessing something he had carried in his heart for years. It was an offering to be cherished.

Mark saw the emotion written on Dominique’s face, but saw the hesitancy also. “Dominique, I didn’t intend to ask you today—this way—” He pointed at the soapy car. “I wanted to plan something wonderful.” He made a weary gesture of dismissal, then fixed her with an expression of entreaty. “But it kills me that you don’t trust me enough to believe we can make this work—” His brows drew together. “And that you can’t even say how you feel,” he concluded bitterly.

Dominique reached forward and placed her hand on Mark’s. She thought of all he added to her life. The prospect of living without him seemed unutterably bleak. Yet she wasn’t ready to remarry. She was still convalescing from her divorce. Its repercussions had changed every part of her life. She had just begun to feel stable again. That was due, in part, to Mark. He gave her a sense of belonging. She once again fit into a society that seemed to congregate in groupings of two, and his love was like a soothing poultice to her bruised self-esteem. He offered refuge and comfort when she was overwhelmed with the difficulties of her new life. And, most of all, Mark accepted Dominique’s love—though she could not speak of it—with infinite delight and gratitude, as though it was a priceless treasure.

But Clay’s abandonment had been a rude shock, and a strong motivator. Dominique never wanted to depend on anyone again! And she was building a business that, one day, she hoped would provide her with that freedom. Now it required all her effort, all her concentration. She knew that the urgency would be gone if she married Mark. On the horizon, she saw the person she was striving to be—the life she was striving to make for herself. She wasn’t there yet, though, and she wasn’t ready to subordinate her efforts to marriage. She was afraid she would lose herself.

Dominique wrung her hands tightly and lifted her eyes to Mark’s. “Mark, I can’t say yes now. I’m scared. There are things I need to work out. Please, please understand,” she implored, “that I’m not saying no for all time. I just can’t rely on anyone else right now.”

“But why not?” Mark persisted, his tone one of frustration. “I want to be part of your life. Why won’t you let me?”

Dominique leaned forward and grasped his arm. “I want you in my life, but there are things I have to do for myself.” Her voice was filled with emotion. Her eyes gazed into his, begging for his understanding. “If you can just wait a little longer…”

Mark looked at her with despair. “Dominique”—his voice was intense, rasping— “say it. Please.”

But she did love him! Her heart burst with it. Why was it so hard to put into words? Mark wasn’t like the others. She could trust him. So with the plummeting feeling of a parachute jump, Dominique closed her eyes and whispered, “I love you, Mark.”

WASHINGTON sprang to life after Labor Day. Congress returned from summer recess and the town buzzed with renewed excitement about Watergate. There were resignations, convictions, talk of President Nixon’s impeachment. And there were parties, charity balls, fund-raisers.

As Dominique had predicted, her handling of the French president’s visit in July had launched her reputation. Unfortunately, Washington was a ghost town in August, so she hadn’t been able to capitalize on her success. However, now that fall was here, the phone at Affairs to Remember was beginning to ring again.

On this September morning, though, the first call for Dominique was from her friend Felice.

“Welcome back! How was the beach?” Dominique asked.

“Can’t
wait
to tell you,” Felice purred.

“It sounds like you have a secret,” Dominique said, intrigued.

“You won’t believe it!” Felice’s voice was buoyant.

Dominique leaned forward in her chair and rested her elbows on her desk. “You met someone!” she breathed.

“Remember that guy my mother tried to fix me up with last Christmas? Charles Jackson?”

“And you refused!” Dominique crowed, guessing the rest.

“Let me tell you. He’s gorgeous. Looks kind of like Billy Dee Williams. Columbia graduate. Radiologist. And the most wonderful beach house you’ve ever seen.
Plus
a brownstone in Manhattan.”

“Good heavens! How old is he?”

“Thirty-nine,” Felice said victoriously. “Just perfect.”

“Is there anything wrong with this paragon?” Dominique joked.

“He hasn’t asked me to marry him,” Felice said wryly. “Yet.”

Dominique leaned back in her chair and laughed. “And you have a solution?”

“Yes,” Felice said with determination. “He’s too much of a catch. He must have to beat the women off with a stick. And”—she dropped her voice—“I don’t think I’m the only one he’s dating. So-o-o… I’m going to play it cool. He’s asked me to visit him in New York this weekend. I accepted, but I’m going to cancel a couple of days before.”

Dominique clicked her tongue in mock disapproval. “You’re terrible!”

“I’m smart,” Felice said with conviction. “He needs to miss me.” She paused. “And I’m not going to answer my phone this week.” She giggled. “He’ll think I’m busy every night!”

Dominique let out an incredulous gasp. “What if you scare him away?”

“I won’t,” Felice said smugly. “This’ll work. You’ll see.”

“I don’t know…” Dominique said skeptically.

“Look, you might be older than me, but I have more experience with men,” Felice said knowingly.

Dominique laughed. “I suppose. Well, as long as you’re ‘going out’ every night this week, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow?”

“I’d love to! It’s been ages since I saw Gabrielle and Solange.” She chuckled. “I’ll bet your mom agrees with my strategy on Charles.”

“I’m sure,” Dominique said wryly. “I’ll see you at seven.”

As soon as Dominique concluded her call, Carter appeared at the door, her face glowing. She pirouetted to Dominique’s desk and dropped a pink message slip in front of her boss. “The Corcoran Gallery of Art called while you were on the phone! They’re planning a big kickoff for a new photography exhibition in March.” Carter dropped her voice confidentially. “They said the Comtesse de la Croix recommended you.”

Dominique eagerly seized the message slip bearing the name and number of the Corcoran representative, Cecilia Bernhardt. The Corcoran Gallery of Art took in an entire city block opposite the White House. The magnificent Beaux Arts structure housed world famous works of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. On occasion, it also held photography exhibitions. Dominique pictured its endless concourses of marble and pillars, its graceful winding staircase. What a place for an event! And what a coup to be able to claim the institution as a client. This could be the break that would transform her business from an uncertain proposition into an unqualified success.

Two days later, Dominique stood in the grand foyer of the Corcoran, marveling at the towering space as she waited to meet Cecilia Bernhardt. She turned at the tap of high heels on the marble floor. A stately woman with pure white hair approached with an energetic stride. As she drew closer, Dominique saw that her face was barely lined—she could have been any age from forty to sixty. Dominique extended her hand and encountered the firm grip of Cecilia Bernhardt. In a glance, she took in the Italian silk scarf, the tailored gray suit, and the Bruno Magli shoes. As the woman released her hand, Dominique noticed that her unvarnished nails were clipped to a short, practical length, but beautifully maintained.

“Mrs. Parker?” Bernhardt spoke in the cultured tones of the East Coast elite. “I’ve heard marvelous things about you. You have a strong advocate in Michelle de la Croix.”

Dominique’s pulse raced. She wanted this job! “I can’t imagine a more impressive setting for an event. I’m eager to hear about it.” The words echoed in the vast chamber.

Mrs. Bernhardt smiled. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll show you what the planning committee has in mind.”

Dominique followed her to a bronze staircase made for grand entrances. Up they went, past dreamy Gainsborough portraits and romantic Turner seascapes.

“The photo exhibit is in black-and-white,” the older woman explained.

Dominique immediately thought of the black-and-white balls made famous by Paris’ Ecole des Beaux Arts. The Corcoran was a setting of similar grandeur and the theme would work there. Her mind began expanding on the plan even as she listened to Mrs. Bernhardt.

The other woman slowed at the entrance of a large exhibition space. It contained paintings dating from the 1950s to the current year. “The exhibit will be here. Usually, we set up the food downstairs or in the main concourse of this floor.” Bernhardt turned and waved in the direction of the long hall. “But what often happens is that people spread out too much and the party ends up with a rather empty feel.”

Dominique did a three-hundred-sixty-degree turn. “I can see how that would be.” She faced Mrs. Bernhardt squarely. “I’ll come up with a solution,” she assured her.

Mrs. Bernhardt looked pleased. Then her expression grew more serious. “I think it only fair to tell you that we’ve invited two other firms to bid.” She looked Dominique directly in the eye. “One is the public relations firm we already use. They’ve just formed an event planning department.”

Dominique’s heart sank. If the firm was already connected with the Corcoran, then they surely would be given special consideration. On the other hand, if they were only starting out in the event planning field, she would have the advantage of experience.

“The other is Elite Catering. We’ve used them before and been very pleased, but we aren’t quite certain they can handle the whole job.”

Dominique didn’t see how they could. There were many facets to an event, food being just one. She
knew
her firm was more qualified. “I’m sure my proposal will be competitive,” she said in a confident voice.

Mrs. Bernhardt nodded. “Let’s discuss this more in my office. I’ll give you a list of specifications.” The woman lightly touched Dominique’s arm to indicate the way.

Dominique spent an hour and a half with Mrs. Bernhardt, and by the time she left, they were on first name terms. Dominique liked Cecilia’s style—businesslike, but not cold. As they parted, the older woman said, “I look forward to working with you.” And she smiled as though she truly meant it.

A driving November storm slammed sheets of water against the closed window of Dominique’s office. It was near midnight and Dominique was dropping with fatigue, but she kept her focus on the work spread across her desk, trying to ignore the storm’s furor.