“White wine, I suppose.” Solange pulled out one of the ladder-back chairs and sat down in it gingerly, as though afraid it would dirty her dress. After a few moments, she asked, “What’s that smell?”
“Spaghetti sauce, Mother. One of the few dishes I’ve mastered.”
“Hmmm.”
Dominique was saved from trying to interpret the sound by the arrival of the Marks family.
Dominique went to Danielle and hugged her, then Lana and Monique. She wasn’t sure how to welcome Ron, so she settled for taking his coat with a smile and a greeting.
“I’m glad you could come.” She diplomatically directed her remark to him. “I poured your scotch. It’s on the counter.”
Ron looked pleased at the attention. “Thanks,” he said with a smile. Maybe, Dominique speculated, he had gotten over his annoyance at having Solange with them.
“Mother”—Dominique turned to Solange—“have you learned any English?” She felt bad that she and Danielle would be forced to exclude either Ron or Solange from the conversation, depending on the language they spoke.
“Yes,” Solange answered in English. “My name eez Solange Avallon,” she said haltingly. “I leev wiz my daughter.”
“That’s good!” Dominique laughed as she poured the drinks.
Solange struggled on. “I don’t speak English.”
Danielle put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “She’s doing well. She knows even more words than that.”
“Do you ever speak in English at home?” Dominique asked, leading the group over to the couch. She didn’t sit, but instead went back to the kitchen to make the salad dressing. Lana, now five, followed her, while three year-old Monique played on the floor with a rubber ball.
“They never speak English!” Ron complained. But he said it with humor.
“Poor you!” Dominique smiled at her brother-in-law. He smiled back and, for a moment, his eyes held the sparkle of the young soldier Dominique had met a decade ago. With a start, she realized that he was only thirty. Only thirty and yet so changed from the youth she had known! Only thirty and, in the space of a few months, he had had to cope with the loss of his job and the burden of two in-laws.
He waved his hand dismissively. “I’ve given up trying to figure out anything they say.” He shook his head ruefully.
Dominique saw Solange give her son-in-law a baleful look. Solange might not have understood the words, but she clearly understood that reference to her was being made.
Dominique wondered how much longer their uneasy arrangement could endure.
CHAPTER 8
DOMINIQUE was crimson with rage and shame. In Lucinda’s absence, she had been put in charge of several tasks for the gala and already a mistake—a glaring one—had occurred.
“The centerpieces are all wrong!” Dominique cried. “We told the florist not to use any carnations or mums, and no asparagus fern!”
Bruce Fisher’s face was calm, but Dominique knew that he couldn’t possibly find the centerpieces acceptable. They were downright ordinary!
Maude looked ready to go to war over the mistake. “We’ve worked with them a hundred times before! What are they trying to pull?”
The gala was that very evening and it was almost noon. How could Dominique possibly solve the problem in so short a time? It didn’t matter how, she told herself grimly, so long as it was done.
She looked up at Bruce Fisher, angry determination written on her features. “I’ll take care of this,” she said between clenched teeth.
Her first move was to call the florist. “Lucinda told you what kind of flowers were unacceptable.” Dominique tried to keep her voice calm. “Why are all two hundred centerpieces wrong?”
The florist was a New York debutante turned businesswoman. Kiki Van Alt’s tone was supercilious. “We’ve done all of Orman’s events for the past two years. They’ve always been satisfied. Where’s Lucinda?”
“Lucinda,” Dominique said icily, “is otherwise occupied. What happened?”
“Our supplier ran out of white roses. I could have given you half the centerpieces one way and half the other, but I thought it would be better if they were all the same.”
“Why didn’t you tell us there was a problem? We might have chosen another kind of flower. But never carnations!”
“I should think that Orman’s would prefer to rely on the judgment of a professional rather than someone who—”
“Let me stop you right now.” Dominique’s tone was threatening, and the woman on the other end of the line was silent. “We’re wasting time. You have six hours in which to correct the mistake. Do you want to do it or shall I hire someone else?”
Kiki Van Alt indulged herself with airy, mocking laughter. “You can’t be serious! Where else do you think you’re going to get two hundred centerpieces in six hours?”
“That’s not your problem,” Dominique shot back. “Your problem is to decide whether you can do the work. Or would you like to come and pick up these centerpieces and absorb their cost yourself?”
Kiki lost her cool. “I’ll do no such thing! Where is Lucinda?”
Dominique ignored the question. “I need your decision right now. Otherwise, you’ll never do another Orman’s event. I’ve already spoken to Mr. Fisher and he’s in complete agreement,” Dominique concluded bluntly.
“Where am I supposed to find—”
Dominique interrupted. “That’s your problem. Go down to the wholesale flower district. Other florists. I don’t care. We need the centerpieces by six tonight.”
“But if I have to buy exotics, it could be more expensive. I can’t absorb—”
Dominique interrupted her again. “Consider the alternative, Miss Van Alt. There are many florists in New York who would kill for the Orman’s account. Absorbing the cost of the extra trouble you’ve caused us might be a worthwhile investment.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Dominique didn’t try to break it. The next move was Kiki Van Alt’s.
Finally, the woman said, “I’ll be there in an hour.”
Dominique hung up the phone, a victorious smile on her face.
“You did good work, ladies.” Bruce Fisher surveyed the wreckage of Orman’s most successful Christmas gala ever. Tables were covered in dirty linen and wine bottles, the floor was strewn with feathers and glitter and white flowers, but Maude, Dominique, Hank Benson, and Bruce beamed happily at one another.
All the press had been there, even those representing out-of-town media. The room had been packed with society luminaries and celebrities. Almost one million dollars had been raised for charity.
“The centerpieces were perfect, Dominique,” Maude commented.
Bruce regarded Dominique with a twinkle in his eye. “I guess you put the fear of God in Kiki Van Alt. Good work!”
Dominique beamed at the compliment. “Did she try to get you to overrule me? She threatened to, you know.”
Bruce gave her a sly smile. “Let’s just say that I made it clear that you were in charge where that was concerned.”
Dominique smiled gratefully at him.
“We also got a lot of compliments on these dresses, Bruce,” Maude commented. “I think we should use Susan Swope again.”
“She’s an up-and-coming designer,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking of buying more of her line.” Bruce tilted his head and studied Maude. “The dress looks great on you.”
Dominique noticed with amusement that Maude blushed at the compliment. Was there something going on between them? Indeed, Maude, usually so businesslike, radiated feminine allure in her white dress. The top layer of her long dark hair was swept back into a pearl clip at the back of her head, while the rest tumbled to her shoulders in thick, glossy waves. Her makeup was skillfully applied to highlight the deep blue of her eyes and the delicate ivory of her skin.
Hank, oblivious to the romantic undercurrents, said, “That was an incredible dinner. Maude, how much did that set us
back?”
“You’ll be surprised when you hear,” Bruce chuckled. “She’s a top-notch negotiator.”
Maude turned admiring eyes on Bruce. “You’re the one who negotiated the final price,” she protested modestly.
Bruce beamed at her. “Let’s just say it was a great team effort.” He looked around the table expansively. “All of you.”
There were murmured thanks, a few more comments, then Bruce stood up. “Well,” he said, looking at Maude. “I can’t let you ladies take the subway alone this time of night.”
“Oh, but you both live uptown,” Dominique protested. “I live in the Village like Hank.” She turned to the amiable press secretary. “Can you drop me?”
“Glad to,” Hank said easily.
Bruce turned to Maude, “Well, I guess it’s just you and me.”
Maude looked directly at him and smiled.
Oh, yes, Dominique thought smugly. There was definitely something going on.
As January passed into February, the weather in New York grew colder. Dominique couldn’t believe how cold—she’d never before experienced such weather. But her job enabled her to buy a heavy coat and she consoled herself with the fact that spring was only a month away.
On Valentine’s Day, Lucinda tried to persuade Dominique to go on a blind date.
“He’s a classmate of my brother’s at Harvard and very cute. Why won’t you give it a try?”
None of your business, Dominique wanted to cry. She would wait for her divorce to become final before she began dating. She wasn’t ready to get involved with anyone yet. It wasn’t that she didn’t meet men—there were plenty at work who were interested. But, in her mind, she compared each one to Stephen, and none tempted her. Aloud, she said, “I want to concentrate on my job.”
Lucinda shoved the file cabinet shut in mock anger. “Ooh, you’re frustrating. Let your hair down and have some fun! If you won’t go out with Porter, then what about the men’s department manager? He’s always hanging around you.”
Dominique gave Lucinda a look of gentle warning. “No. And don’t press me any more,” she said, not unkindly. “I have work to do.” She picked up the phone—an unmistakable signal that the discussion was closed.
“Naturally,” Lucinda said flippantly.
But Lucinda’s absorption with Dominique was diverted when, a few moments later, Bruce and Maude arrived together.
Fisher had a gleeful twinkle in his eye. “We have an announcement to make.” He went to the door of Hank’s office. “Hank, could you come out here, please?” The lanky man appeared in the doorway as Bruce returned to his place beside Maude. With an air of occasion, he cleared his throat and said, “Maude and I would like to invite you all to dinner this Saturday evening. It’s a very special celebration.” Bruce and Maude beamed at each other. “We were married this weekend.” He took Maude’s arm and drew her to his side. She blushed and grinned at her friends.
“Maude!” Lucinda gasped. “How wonderful! What a surprise! We had no idea, did we?” She turned to Dominique—and caught her exchanging a conspiratorial look with Maude. “You knew!” she laughed. “You’re awful! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dominique smiled and shook her head. “I didn’t know, but I suspected,” she said mischievously.
“And you didn’t tell me?”
Bruce nodded approvingly. “Thank you for your discretion.” He laughed and gestured toward Lucinda. “Especially with this one around.” His tone was affectionate.
“I can keep a secret!” Lucinda pretended to be angry, but she was laughing.
The others hooted at this.
“I can!” Lucinda pushed out her lower lip in a sulk, but she could only hold the position for a second before she started laughing again.
“You can’t!” The others cried in unison.
After a few moments, Bruce held up his hand to quiet them. “Anyhow, on to more serious matters. Maude has officially submitted her two weeks’ notice.”
Everyone groaned in unison.
“Listen, kiddies,” Maude said, “I’m tired of commuting every day and Bruce is tired of coming home to an empty house. I want to stay home and take care of my husband.” She laced her arms through Bruce’s and looked up at him lovingly.
“Besides,” Bruce added, “Orman’s doesn’t allow nepotism.” He paused. “So there are going to be a few changes in our procedures.”
Everyone immediately quieted. Bruce smiled at their grave expressions. “I think you’ll be pleased. It’s meant as a reward for all your hard work and successes these last few months.” He gave them an appreciative nod before continuing.
“We don’t really generate much secretarial work. Dominique and Lucinda spend most of their time on event planning, with secretarial duties only secondary. So I’ve decided to organize your duties so that the two of you are less involved in paper pushing. We’ll hire a top-notch executive secretary to take care of the correspondence that Hank and I generate, as well as the repetitive work associated with our events. Hank will continue to handle press. You’ll each continue to handle your own correspondence.
“But rather than divide duties for each event, I’ll assign either Dominique or Lucinda to oversee it start to finish. From now on, ladies, your events will be just that. Yours. You will be held responsible for their success or failure. You may call on your colleague for assistance, but you will direct her efforts when the event is yours. And, of course, I will continue to give final approval for all ideas and expenditures.
“Lucinda, I want you to be in charge of the Spring Into Summer event. You helped think of the theme and you’ve already done the preliminary work. Dominique, you’ll have to dream up a way to launch the new French line we’ll be introducing in June. It should be right up your alley. Now, these events are only a month apart, so each will have to be distinctive. Dominique, your event is only four months away and we haven’t even begun to brainstorm on ideas. You’ll have to start planning immediately.
“Any questions?” Bruce concluded.
Dominique was thrilled. Her own event! She would make it the most spectacular party Orman’s had ever hosted! She would do something… wonderful. She didn’t know what yet, but she was determined to justify Bruce’s faith in her.
Dominique sat in the smoky café near her house and stared out the bay window at the magical winter landscape. A snowstorm the night before had encased the trees in ice crystals that glittered in the sun like thousands of tiny fairy lights. In the park across the street, children romped, ecstatic with the glory of the morning. Dominique watched with amusement as a little boy and girl debated whether their snowman should wear a smile or a frown. They arranged the pebbles one way, then backed up to study the effect, like artists. The girl shook her head and moved forward to try it the other way. After more discussion, they repeated the entire process. Finally, their mother broke the tie and the snowman remained smiling.
Dominique, too, was enthralled with the snow; she had previously seen it only in pictures. She loved the pure fluffy whiteness, and that morning had rushed outside to sweep the powder off her front steps, just for the sheer joy of it. Afterward, she had gathered up her Sunday Times and walked to the café, looking forward to the stuffy, comforting warmth of the place.
“More coffee, Dominique?”
Dominique smiled up at the black-clad woman. Nan Patrick was the proprietor of Café Espresso, an artists’ gathering place at the end of Dominique’s block. “As always.” Dominique laughed. Nan served the best espresso in New York, and it pervaded the air with a tempting aroma.
Dominique had become a regular at the café, usually spending an hour or more there with the New York Times on Saturday and Sunday mornings. She felt perfectly comfortable sitting alone at her tiny wooden table. Many of the people who wandered in, books or newspapers under their arms, greeted Dominique by name. Often a fellow patron would join her for a few moments, then wander to a table for one, respecting the atmosphere of leisurely pri
vacy that made the café such a comfortable place to while away the morning.
Dominique took a sip of the strong, warming brew, then turned back to the crossword puzzle. She found it sharpened her English skills, though she rarely had the patience to complete it. Today, in particular, she was distracted. She was thrilled with the reorganization that Bruce had announced earlier in the week, but she felt pressured to prove she could handle her own event. So it was frustrating that all the ideas that came to her seemed commonplace.
Dominique put down the paper and stared out the window. What was so unique about the new French line? Well, it was three types of products at once: cosmetics, sportswear, and evening wear. That hadn’t been done before. So what? Why did three make it more interesting than one? Dominique thought about it and decided that wasn’t the angle to pursue. Instead, she focused on the designer himself. Jean-Claude Berri was a rugged looking thirty-two-year-old whose top model was his twenty-one-year-old wife. Berri had created a sensation in the design world when he had left the house of Christian Dior to launch his own line of young, innovative clothes. His announced goal was to capture the eighteen-to-forty-year-old market by designing bold ready-to-wear and selling it for thirty percent less than his competition. Couture, he said brashly, was for the over-fifty crowd. The fashion press pounced on the story, devoting many pages to photographs of the glamorous couple. Sketches from Berri’s spring line, exhibited in Paris the previous fall, filled the trade press.
It had been a coup for Orman’s to obtain the exclusive right to market Berri’s products in the United States. The June event would introduce the American public to the designer’s fall/winter line. Dominique’s goal was to create an event that reached a wide public as well as the popular press. She had to make Jean-Claude Berri a household name in the cities where Orman’s had branch stores: San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, and New Orleans.
What could she do? Dominique looked around the little café as though she would find a clue there. The brick walls were hung mostly with the original art of patrons, but six framed travel posters behind the bar added to the international flavor of the place.
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