He took a long swallow of his drink. “Well, Miss Avallon,” he drawled, “this is all rather sudden, isn’t it?” He smiled once more, as though to say, Don’t take this personally.
Dominique nodded in acknowledgment. “Very.”
Parker flicked some imaginary lint from his navy pin-striped slacks. He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Young love,” he said in a falsely indulgent tone.
“Yes,” Dominique said. Impossible to keep the warmth from her voice when she thought of Clay. “We are very much in love.”
Parker smiled and fixed Dominique with a shrewd gaze. “Any particular reason for haste here?”
Well, at least he didn’t look at my stomach, Dominique thought wryly. “Just as you said, Mr. Parker, ‘young love.’” Her voice was equable. She didn’t want to lose control by responding to his implication with defensiveness.
Parker shifted in his chair and gave her a skeptical look.
Dominique raised one eyebrow. “Of course, you’ll have to wait nine months to discover if I’m telling the truth.”
Parker gave a bark of surprised laughter. “Not afraid of anything, are you, Miss Avallon?”
“It’s Mrs. Parker now,” Dominique said firmly. “But you may call me Dominique.”
Parker rubbed his hand over his chin in a gesture Dominique had seen Clay make when he was pondering something.
Dominique sat perfectly still, hands crossed on her lap. She was determined not to fidget, but it was an effort to look serenely back at Parker and wait for him to speak.
Finally he said in a gruff voice, “You’re not what I expected. Clay told me you came from a fine family, but, frankly, I didn’t quite believe him.”
“You expected a chorus girl?” Dominique quipped, amused by Parker’s admission.
This time, his laugh was genuinely sunny. “Maybe!”
Dominique laughed with him. She began to relax a little. She had a feeling that she had scored a point. Not a complete victory—that would take more time—but at least a partial one. Then she turned serious. “I don’t think you give Clay enough credit. He’s intelligent, hard-working… you should be very proud of him. Why don’t you trust his judgment?”
Parker’s brow darkened. “I don’t believe in speaking ill of a man to his wife, and this man happens to be my son. But I’ll tell you this and that’ll be all: he may be almost thirty, but he still has some growing up to do.”
Dominique didn’t want to argue with him, but she inwardly shrugged off his observation. That’s what every parent says, she thought.
She was about to invite him to stay for dinner when the doorbell rang.
“That’s my mother and sister,” Dominique said, getting up. “I’ve invited them to dinner to introduce them to Clay. I hope you’ll stay, too.”
Parker stood up and smoothed his tie. “I’d be delighted,” he said with a smile.
Dominique hurried into the foyer and threw open the door. “Maman! Danielle!” She kissed them and ushered them in. She whispered in French, throwing a significant look in the direction of the living room, “Clay’s father is here.”
“You didn’t expect him?” Danielle asked with a look of commiseration.
Dominique shook her head. “But it’s all right,” she murmured.
Solange gave her a disdainful look. “All right?” she said. “Of course it is! What did you expect?” She paused in front of the mirror and smoothed her dress—plain black silk, but adorned with a scarf of leopard-printed chiffon that streamed behind her when she moved. Anchoring the scarf was a stunning Cartier brooch, one of the pieces smuggled out of Egypt. It was shaped like a leopard with spots of diamond and sapphire. Solange looked stylish and… formidable.
Dominique felt a thrill of pride as she thought of the impact Solange would make on Clay’s father. “Shall we?” she asked, gesturing toward the other room. She laced one arm through Solange’s, the other through Danielle’s. For a moment, she studied the three of them in the mirror. She registered Solange’s aristocratic handsomeness and Danielle’s dark, classic beauty. And she recognized the intensity of her own allure. They made an impressive trio, she decided happily. She turned away and led her mother and sister into the living room.
With her instinctive flair for drama, Solange paused when she spotted Clay’s father. She released Dominique’s arm and took one step forward. Then she lifted her hand in front of her like a queen waiting for homage. “Ah…” she purred. Her eyes were directly on Parker, though she addressed Dominique in French. “If my son-in-law is only half as handsome as his father, then you’re a very lucky girl!”
Parker’s eyes gleamed appreciatively. He gave a courtly bow and said in perfect French of his own, “Merci bien, Madame! I was just thinking that my son is the lucky one. But it seems that I’ve out-maneuvered him. Since he doesn’t speak French and I do, I’ll have you to myself this evening.”
The flight to Switzerland was blessed escape to Dominique. Though the marriage seemed to have won the approval of the in-laws, she was relieved to find herself alone with Clay, away from parental scrutiny.
They flew first to Geneva, but instead of staying in the cosmopolitan city, they rented a car and made the scenic ninety-minute drive to the medieval village of Morat. Half-timbered houses, gardens spilling over with vivid flowers, idyllic lakes—that was Morat. The gingerbread inn where they stayed was the image of whimsical charm. The bedroom was a quaint octagonal shape, its walls draped with cheerfully sprigged material. The balcony overlooked a scene from an Impressionist painting: weeping willows, swans, and a flower-bordered lawn sloping to the edge of tranquil, blue water.
Clay leaned on the rail and turned Dominique toward him. “Happy?” he asked softly.
Dominique looked up at her husband. The blue of the sky was reflected in his eyes, the wind ruffled his hair. And he belonged to her! They belonged to each other. She put her arms around him and pulled him close.
Clay lowered his mouth to hers, then lifted her into his arms.
Dominique shrieked with surprised laughter. “What are you doing?”
“What every groom is supposed to do. Carrying you over the threshold.” He grinned. “In case you haven’t noticed, I like doing that.” Clay carried her inside and playfully threw her on the bed. Dominique giggled as she sank into the feather mattress. Then Clay slid onto the cover beside her and, with a lazy, sensuous smile, unbuttoned her shirt. Dominique shivered with pleasure as she anticipated the warmth of his touch. It was lovely to be stroked and admired—so different from Anton. She put her arms around Clay and ran her fingernails over his back. She knew he loved that. Immediately, Clay hardened and, urgent now, he slid her panties down until he was kneeling at her feet. Too impatient to undress fully, Clay slid on top of her and Dominique, as hungry as he, wound her legs around Clay and drew him into her. Together, they began to move in a driving rhythm.
“I love you, Dominique,” Clay said breathlessly.
Dominique closed her eyes and abandoned herself to the warmth and security of his love.
Their week in Morat was idyllic. They rowed on the lake and visited tiny, walled villages, hiked in the mountains, and ate fondue in outdoor cafés. Often, they had to stop their car to let a herd of plump cows pass in front of them. The farmers hailed the strangers with a friendly wave.
The temperature never rose above eighty degrees and the nights were cool enough to justify lighting the fire in their suite. Dominique never wanted to leave.
But when Dominique saw their next destination, it took her breath away. Clay drove her through the French countryside to the bucolic region that bordered the Dordogne River. It was a land of rolling meadows and sharp, craggy cliffs. And around each bend of the road was a castle loftily perched at the crest of a hill. Many had been transformed into small hotels, and it was in these that Clay chose to stay. And so they meandered through the region of prosperous farms, fields of golden sunflowers, and romantic water mills. Particularly fascina
ting to Dominique were the ancient villages built into the sides of mountains so that the houses became part of the sheer rock face.
It was as they were exploring one of these, Rocamadour, that Clay and Dominique had their first lovers’ quarrel. Rocamadour was built on a vertical plane, with a church of pilgrimage at the top of a cliff, the residential area a few hundred feet below. Probably—Dominique realized later—they wouldn’t have argued at all if they hadn’t been hot, tired, and hungry from a day spent traversing the stairs that acted as the town’s main thoroughfare.
By the time they had finished sightseeing, it was three o’clock, well past time for lunch. They agreed to skip the meal and dine a bit earlier than usual. Before they left Rocamadour, however, they went back to the main street to pick up some souvenirs they’d admired. Dominique and Clay had already discussed what they wanted, so when they entered the first shop, she rapidly asked the salesperson in French for the hand-painted cream and sugar set displayed in the window.
Dominique didn’t notice Clay’s silence until they paid for their purchase and exited the store. She was chattering about the beauty of the pottery when she noticed that Clay was not responding.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Clay looked away. Dominique put her hand on his arm. “What is it?”
Clay fixed her with an angry glare. “You don’t have to rattle off your French every time we want something. Some of these people just might speak English. You should give me a chance to try.”
Dominique knitted her brow. “I don’t understand. Why?”
Clay tightened his lips angrily and again looked away. That annoyed Dominique and she decided not to probe further. If he wanted to sulk over an imagined slight, she wasn’t going to wheedle him back into good humor.
Clearly outraged by her silence, Clay swung his head aggressively back to her. “It makes me look stupid to have my wife do all the talking!” he burst out.
Dominique made a sound of exasperation. “It’s obvious we’re tourists and that you don’t speak the language. I’m sure they realize that it’s easier to let me talk.”
“Well, it may be easier but I don’t like it,” Clay said emphatically.
Dominique stopped and folded her arms across her chest. “Then what do you propose?” she asked sarcastically. “That I stand by like an idiot while you struggle to make yourself understood? Is that what last night was about? You didn’t want to ask me to translate the menu, so you ordered something without knowing what it was?” Dominique thought about the incident, and a bubble of amusement broke through her irritation. She started to smile as she remembered the disgust on Clay’s face when the waiter planted a slab of tripe in front of him.
Dominique looked up at Clay with affection. “You know,” she began indulgently, “your face last night was so fun—”
In the middle of her sentence, Clay turned his back and walked away.
Dominique stood motionless, dumbfounded. She couldn’t believe that Clay was reacting so disproportionately to a humorous mishap. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to cater to him! She would stay where she was until he returned to look for her.
She coolly watched his back disappear through the crowd on the street. Then she wandered over to a nearby shop window and stared blankly at the objects within. She wasn’t really seeing them; she was thinking about Clay’s extraordinary reaction. He had never behaved so rudely.
A voice directly behind her startled her. “I’m leaving now. Are you coming?” Clay asked frostily.
Dominique wheeled about to face him. His words were ungracious, but at least he’d returned quickly. She would meet him halfway. “Thank you for coming back,” she said softly. She reached for his arm, but he jerked away from her touch.
“Let’s go,” he said in a monotone. Again, he turned away and began to walk.
It crossed Dominique’s mind to once more remain where she was. But the stupid fight had gone on long enough! Angry at Clay for prolonging it, but anxious for peace, she stalked after him.
When they reached the car, he strode ahead and opened Dominique’s side, but instead of waiting for her to get in, he left the door ajar and went to his own side.
Surely he’ll say something when we’re inside, Dominique thought. If he doesn’t, I will.
When they had driven for five minutes in silence, Dominique ventured, “Fascinating town, wasn’t it?”
Clay didn’t answer. Instead, he turned on the radio. Fast French chatter. News—incomprehensible to Clay.
Dominique forged ahead with determination. “They say in the guidebook that penitents used to climb up the stairs to the church on their knees. Can you imagine that?”
Clay turned up the volume of the radio until it was blaring.
Dominique whipped her head around to face him. “Stop it!” she cried. She leaned over and snapped off the radio. “I can’t believe you’re behaving this way over something so trivial!”
Clay said nothing. He stared fixedly ahead. They drove all the way to the hotel in hostile silence.
This is such a shame, Dominique thought as they entered the gravel drive that led to the enchanting little castle. She wanted to exclaim at the scene, to share her pleasure with Clay, for it was almost painfully beautiful: in the foreground, a garden of pink, yellow, and red flowers were set in geometric beds; behind the hotel, the silky Dordogne River wended its way through overhanging trees.
Clay brought the car to an abrupt halt and got out. He walked into the hotel without a glance at Dominique.
Was he going to spend the rest of the day in silence? Dominique couldn’t bear the thought. The disagreement had ruined the entire afternoon! On the other hand, Clay was the one behaving like a boor. Dominique wasn’t going to apologize. She had tried to talk to him, but he was determined to be angry.
When Dominique reached the room—where Clay was lying on the bed apparently absorbed in a book—she went directly into the bathroom, took a shower, and dressed for dinner. She emerged forty minutes later to find Clay still on the bed.
Dominique put a hand on her hip. “Do you intend to have dinner?”
Clay slowly put his book face down on his chest. He turned his head to Dominique. “Yes,” he said sharply.
“Well,” she answered in the same tone, “you don’t need to worry. I won’t translate for you. In fact, I won’t say a word. I’ll just point to what I want.”
“I understand that there are times when you need to translate,” Clay said testily. “But some of the people speak English; that’s the point I was trying to make.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up quickly, as though to forestall further discussion. “I’m going to take a shower. I’ll be ready in a few minutes.” His tone was almost normal now.
Dominique, eager to resume good relations, decided not to argue his point. She gave him a look of appeal. “The menu looks awfully good,” she said tentatively.
Clay nodded—cool, but no longer adversarial. “I’m looking forward to it,” he conceded.
By the time they went to dinner, the argument was behind them.
The remaining weeks of their honeymoon passed too quickly for Dominique. From the Dordogne region they drove to the French Riviera, staying in the posh yachting haven of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat. Their room overlooked the lively harbor and, beyond it, the royal blue Mediterranean.
Each morning, Clay and Dominique drove a few miles to the bustling farm market in the pedestrian area of Nice. There they bought the ingredients for a picnic lunch. One stall sold nothing but goat cheese, another a cornucopia of tropical fruit. But the one Dominique and Clay found most tantalizing specialized in olives—dozens of varieties, colors, sizes, and preparations.
Clay had to stifle laughter when the saleswoman asked them, in passable English, the purpose of their olive purchase. “Salad, aperitif, sauce, or tapenade?”
“Oh, just a picnic,” they responded, far more casually than the saleswoman would have wished.
; “And what wine with your picnic?”
Dominique and Clay looked blankly at each other. “White, I suppose,” Dominique finally said.
The woman sniffed at Dominique’s lack of specificity. “White” told her almost nothing, but she saw it was futile to pursue that particular line of questioning. “What will you have for lunch? Possibly a baguette with prosciutto and cheese?”
Dominique seized on that. “Exactly!” she lied. They hadn’t yet bought their sandwich ingredients.
“Ah, then…” The woman reached for a little white box and filled it half full with green olives bathed in fresh oregano and vinaigrette. From another section of her stall, she selected some wrinkled black olives in a red sauce.
“Thank you, Madame,” Dominique said sheepishly.
She and Clay scurried away, giggling like truants who had just escaped an adult.
The couple’s first days back in New Orleans were almost as enchanted. Though it was September, the only sign of waning summer was the early twilight. And it was in this fragrant, still twilight that they loved to wander and search for just the perfect house in which to begin their life together.
Dominique was in no hurry. She was perfectly content with Clay’s uptown apartment, but he was eager to move to the Garden District. So each day they went with a real estate agent to examine properties. Most were too expensive for them; the ones they could afford were at the edges of the Garden District, and thus unsatisfactory to Clay.
“It’s a great home for a couple just starting out,” the agent would insist. She was a motherly sort of woman, who freely offered advice to counter Clay’s objections. But Clay wouldn’t listen.
Often, they would pass the type of house Clay had in mind and he would order the agent to stop.
“You’d probably need a little help from your father on that one,” she’d say. She knew of Clay’s family, of course.
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