No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  Clay would shake his head. “Let’s keep looking.” They had arranged an extra week of vacation before resuming work so Clay could devote himself full time to the search.

  At the end of the day, they’d dismiss the agent and, at a quiet, easy pace, explore the Garden District on their own. They would drive in Clay’s convertible along St. Charles Avenue—already darker and cooler than the side streets, thanks to the overhanging canopy of live oaks—then park and walk for hours. They loved to look into the floor-to-ceiling windows of the grand houses, lit from within to reveal intriguing glimpses of their occupants’ lives.

  “That’s the kind of library to have!” Dominique exclaimed on one of their forays. “Nothing on the walls except books.”

  Clay agreed. “My Father has one like that. There’s a ladder attached to the shelves and it slides around the room so you can reach everything.” He looked down at her and squeezed her hand. “But you’ll see for yourself this weekend.”

  Dominique was looking forward to their dinner at his parents’ home just a few blocks away. She was very curious about her mother-in-law, whom she’d yet to meet. In addition, the rest of the family would be there and Dominique hoped she’d make friends with some of them. Clay said he had several cousins their age.

  Dominique had already made a few friends in New Orleans simply by walking through the Garden District with Clay. Almost every night, the couple would encounter people enjoying the breeze on their wide, galleried porches. And since Clay had grown up in the neighborhood, he knew a number of them.

  “C’mon up and have a drink—give us a chance to meet your bride,” they’d say, and Clay never refused. They would open creaking gates and mount the wooden stairs. They would be offered mint juleps or gin fizzes as they settled into a porch swing or glider. The fans overhead would thump softly, keeping the mosquitoes at bay. And the voices would float lazily through the thick, balmy air. Even the silences were pleasant—they’d just sit and listen to the hypnotic music of the crickets. Crickets, tinkling ice, languorous voices. That was the southern way. Always time to stop and chat with neighbors, to sit and enjoy company.

  To Dominique, all this seemed natural. The fast, impersonal pace of New York and San Francisco, the long work days and early-to-bed mentality, had been new to her. She fit in with Clay’s friends as she had nowhere else in America. Many of them spoke French, thanks to their antecedents. And, as Clay had predicted, her nationality was regarded as a charming attribute. No one had trouble understanding her; no one even questioned her foreignness.

  By the end of her first month there, Dominique already considered New Orleans home.

  CHAPTER 11

  DOMINIQUE fairly leapt off the St. Charles streetcar, in a hurry to get home. She hoped Clay was there—she couldn’t wait to tell him her news. Only one year at Orman’s New Orleans branch and she was already winning accolades for pulling off the biggest coup in its short history. Clay would be so proud of her!

  She crossed St. Charles and entered the quiet side street that led home, four blocks away. The first few houses she passed were grand mansions set well back from the road. As she progressed, though, the neighborhood changed. Mansions gave way to smaller, albeit charming, houses. No more antebellum pillars or Italianate villas, no Tudor fantasies or Georgian palaces. The houses were pure New Orleans, with deep porches, two-story galleries, and long windows with real shutters that were pulled closed during storms. Unlike the pristine, formal landscapes of St. Charles Avenue, the lawns here were often punctuated by tricycles, scooters, or roller skates.

  After only ten months in the new house, Clay was eager to move out—or move “up,” as he and the realtor termed it—but Dominique loved the down-to-earth character of her block. She often mused that she and Clay had had almost opposite reactions to their privileged childhoods. Dominique enjoyed luxury, but in ways that made a difference to her personal comfort: fine wine, good food, linen sheets, or well-made shoes. She liked pretty things, but they didn’t have to be grand. Clay, on the other hand, would not consider himself a success until he lived on the same scale as his parents.

  Now that Dominique had seen the home of the elder Parkers, she couldn’t agree. It was exquisite, but almost like a museum in its perfection. She was determined that if she and Clay moved to St. Charles Avenue, their house would have a more human decor.

  As always, her heart lifted at the sight of her own welcoming front porch twined with wisteria. Dominique and Clay had repainted the house pure white with glossy black shutters. And at either side of the front door was a waist-high planter of ivy and fragrant petunias.

  Dominique entered the foyer, sniffing appreciatively the clean scent of furniture wax and fresh cut flowers. For the hundredth time, she acknowledged that Clay had been right to insist on the daily housekeeper. Lucy, an attractive, middle-aged woman with smiling features, arrived each weekday morning at nine to clean house and prepare dinner.

  Dominique chuckled when she remembered that she had tried to dissuade Clay from hiring the woman. “I’ve become used to fending for myself,” she had insisted.

  Clay had looked at her skeptically. “You’ve already admitted you can’t cook.”

  “I’m learning,” Dominique had said defensively.

  Clay had taken her in his arms. “Look, everyone here has help, not just the very wealthy. It’s like what you told me about Egypt. It would look odd if we didn’t have someone. Besides, you’ll be gone all day and won’t have time to see to the house, much less to prepare the kind of dinner I like. Do this for me,” he’d coaxed.

  Now Dominique was glad she’d given in. Clay hated arriving home and finding Dominique still out. But the problem would have been compounded if he’d had to wait while Dominique threw together an inexpert dinner. With Lucy, things ran smoothly.

  “Clay!” she called, as she spotted his hat on the hall table. “Lucy!”

  Lucy appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a towel. “Good evening, Mrs. Parker,” she said with a smile. “Mr. Parker’s on the back patio enjoying his martini.”

  Dominique put down her purse and hat beside Clay’s and smoothed her hair in the mirror above the table. “Thanks, Lucy,” she said breathlessly. Then she hurried through the house to the kitchen. The old, wood-framed screen door squeaked as Dominique pushed it open to go out on the patio.

  Clay turned at the sound. When he saw her, he stood up.

  “Congratulate me!” Dominique said cheerfully, letting the door fall shut behind her.

  Clay smiled indulgently. He put down his drink and came toward her. “What for?” he asked as he bent to kiss her.

  “Mark Patout has agreed to host Orman’s charity gala! The one we’re putting on for the cancer society.”

  Clay smiled cautiously. “Mark Patout, the representative?”

  Dominique proudly recited what she had learned about the man. “One of the founding families of Louisiana. Old French aristocracy. And a member of the Louisiana House of Representatives.”

  “Sounds like you did your homework,” Clay teased. He turned and went back to his chair. He pulled the empty chair beside him closer—a gesture of invitation.

  Dominique kept talking as she sat down. “It was so strange how it happened. I was reading an article in Life about the country’s one hundred up-and-coming young politicians. I wasn’t even paying attention to where he was from, I just noticed that his last name was French. Anyhow, when I saw he was from here, I decided to call him about the gala.” Dominique laughed victoriously. “And it was a good thing I didn’t ask anyone’s opinion first, because they told me later that he never does this sort of thing. It’s just that the charity is for cancer and his mother died of cancer, so he feels very strongly about it. At least that’s what his secretary said. I didn’t talk to him personally. But she called me back right away and she said he’d definitely do it!”

  Dominique gave a contented sigh and relaxed into her chair. But a second later, she eagerly perched
at the edge of her seat. “Tomorrow, I’ll send one of the secretaries to the library to find every article there is about him. I really don’t know anything more than the little paragraph I read in Life. I’m sure there’s all sorts of useful information.”

  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 contacte
d 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.