No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  “I’m terribly sorry! I’m glad I didn’t go to lunch or I wouldn’t have even been here!” Dominique stood up and shuffled the papers on her desk until she located her appointment book. She leaned over her calendar and studied the little white square for October 12. Blank. She looked up at the man—and caught him studying her figure. When he realized that she had caught him, he gave her a grin that seemed to say, “You can’t possibly blame me!”

  She laughed, absolutely positive that the grin managed to get him out of most scrapes. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing herself fully upright. “I’ve been doubly neglectful. I don’t have anyone marked down for an appointment. Um… you are… ?”

  He walked toward her, hand outstretched. “Mark Patout.”

  Dominique stiffened with tension. Mark Patout! She stared at the outstretched hand. Then, realizing that she was being rude, she abruptly leaned across her desk and shook it. “I’m so sorry, sir. This is unforgivable.… I know your time is valuable and I—” Dominique stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly remembering something. She looked back down at her calendar. “Oh, no!” she moaned. “I’m afraid I made a terrible mistake. I had you down for next Tuesday.”

  Patout laughed easily. “You did?” He pulled out a small leather appointment book from his jacket and studied it. “You’re absolutely right!” His tone was so pleased that Dominique couldn’t suppress a smile. “I must have turned to the wrong page. My fault.” He casually let the book fall shut and put it back in his pocket. “Oh well, can I buy you lunch? I haven’t had any and I’m starving.”

  Dominique had had only an apple at her desk. Besides, she couldn’t very well refuse the host of Orman’s gala. “That… that would be nice,” she said tentatively. She reminded herself that she had no reason to feel uncomfortable now that they’d discovered that the mistake had been his. She took her pocketbook out of her desk drawer and slung her jacket over her arm. “I’m ready,” she said.

  “How about Café Tartuffe?” Mark asked. With a gesture of his hand, he indicated she should precede him out the door.

  Dominique’s brow furrowed as she tried to remember if she’d been there. “I don’t think I know it,” she said as she pressed the elevator button.

  “No!” he said with mock incredulity. “Then you haven’t really eaten in New Orleans!”

  When they emerged from Orman’s, Dominique found she didn’t need her jacket after all, for the day had turned warm.

  “Would you like me to hold that for you?” Patout asked.

  “Oh… thank you, that’s all right.” Dominique was a little surprised at the small gallantry. It seemed somehow… personal.

  They strolled a few blocks to a little restaurant holding no more than a dozen tables. Each one was whimsically covered in a tablecloth bearing a different flower-print pattern. Dominique had never before seen anything like it, and she smiled in delight.

  When they were seated, Mark said, “Would you like a drink?”

  Dominique held up her hands in a sign of refusal. “I can’t possibly or I’ll fall asleep after lunch.”

  “Me, too.” He smiled broadly as though it were a miraculous coincidence.

  He made her feel so at ease! It was as though they had known each other before. As he looked at the menu, Dominique furtively studied him. He was really one of the most charismatic men she’d ever met. Not because of his looks—his features were pleasant rather than sensational. His eyes were spring green and surrounded by tiny laugh lines. His lean, narrow face bore the tan of a sportsman and his nose, typically Gallic, had a rough bump near the bridge that indicated a schoolyard injury. But Dominique’s eyes kept coming back to his mouth. The perpetual laughter she saw there was the source of his appeal. In repose, his lips curved up, as though anticipating a joke. And when he actually smiled, a long dimple formed on the right side of his face. Dominique couldn’t imagine that mouth ever turned down in anger. She wondered what had given Patout such a sunny outlook. He seemed totally at ease with himself and the world. She thought of the old French expression “bien dans sa peau”—comfortable in his own skin.

  “Have you decided what you want?” Patout asked, looking up from his menu.

  Dominique flushed. She hadn’t even looked at the menu. “Um… whatever you’re having,” she said feebly. Then, trying to justify herself, she added, “I’ve never been here before, so I don’t know what’s good.”

  “I’m having the veal Oscar and a salad,” Patout said.

  “That sounds good,” Dominique said.

  After they ordered, Mark leaned toward her and launched a barrage of questions. He seemed impatient to learn as much as he could about Dominique. He was particularly interested in Egypt and her life there before she left.

  “How did you learn English so well?” he asked.

  Dominique hesitated, and for the first time there was an awkward pause in their conversation. She kept her eyes down as she responded. “In school. But it improved a lot when I worked for the Royal Air Force.”

  Patout studied her for a moment, as though sensing there was more to the story.

  Dominique twisted her napkin in her lap and tried to think of a new topic.

  The waiter broke the silence by bringing their salads. When he left, he seemed to take the sudden pall with him. Patout and Dominique lifted their forks and hungrily began to eat.

  “Wonderful dressing,” she remarked.

  Patout lifted his head and smiled. “Best in town. Simple, but good. By the way, how do you—”

  Dominique interrupted with a laugh. “We’ve talked enough about me! Why don’t we talk about you? How did you get into politics?”

  Patout gave her a crooked grin. “Family business. That and sugarcane.”

  “And I suppose that your ambition is to one day be president?” Dominique said flippantly.

  Mark leaned forward and lowered his voice. “My ambition is to clean up Louisiana politics,” he said with a significant look. “To the extent anyone can,” he added in a cynical tone.

  Dominique gave him a knowing look. “I haven’t been here long, but your politicians seem very open about corruption.”

  Mark snorted and shook his head. “It amazes me. And I don’t want you to think I’m holier-than-thou. The Patout family has had its share of rogues in the legislature.”

  The waiter arrived to take their empty salad plates.

  Dominique folded her hands under her chin and rested her elbows on the table. “So what made you decide to be different?”

  Mark picked up his spoon and began to trace lines on the tablecloth. Then he looked directly at Dominique. “Have you seen much of this state?”

  Dominique shrugged. “Not really.”

  “It’s poor. Lots of services needed. And I don’t like seeing money going into the wrong pockets.” He smiled self-consciously. “I don’t mean to sound preachy, but it irks me.” He sighed and put down the spoon. “I may be fighting an uphill battle. Too many people have been on the take for too long.”

  Dominique nodded understandingly.

  Mark continued. “They say to me, ‘Look, Patout, you’re set for life. Who are you to interfere when I try to do the same for myself?’ But, of course, they’re doing it at the expense of other people. A lot of the old timers laugh at me. They think I’m young and idealistic. They say I’ll get over the ‘reform bug’ as they call it.”

  Dominique laughed. “Do you think you will?”

  Mark shook his head. “No. I’ll just bide my time until I get more seniority, maybe a powerful committee chairmanship. Until then, I have to settle for a few small victories.” He turned up his palms in resignation. “That’s the way the game’s played.”

  The waiter placed their veal Oscars before them. Dominique picked up her fork and knife. When she looked up, Patout was watching her expectantly.

  “I’m waiting for the verdict,” he said, gesturing at her veal.

  Dominique took a bite, feeling sinful for having ordered such
a heavy lunch. “Mmm, wonderful!” she said.

  They enjoyed their meal in silence for a few moments, then Dominique said, “I must tell you that we are very grateful you agreed to host our gala.”

  For the first time, Dominique saw a shadow fall over Patout’s features. “My mother died of cancer.” He paused as though reliving the memory. After a moment, he continued. “Her suffering at the end was…” His eyes clouded with grief.

  Dominique had the urge to put a comforting hand on his, but she held herself in check. After all, she hardly knew him. Her expression serious, she said, “I think working on the gala will be of comfort. It will raise a lot of money for cancer research.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” Patout said seriously. He took a bite of his veal. “I’m looking forward to working with you,” he said. Then, with more energy, “What do I do first?”

  “We need to devise a list of people you believe will contribute something beyond the cost of the ticket. We have an extensive list already, of course. You’ll need to go through it and see whom you feel comfortable contacting. There are other volunteers like you on the gala committee, so you won’t be alone with that task. And, of course, my husband knows quite a number of potential contributors himself.”

  Patout, who had been about to take a bite of his veal, slowly put his fork down. His lids dropped over his eyes. When he raised them, the twinkle was gone. He gave Dominique a half smile and said in a subdued voice, “Your husband’s from here?”

  Dominique couldn’t fail to register the change in Patout. She could see him withdrawing. And the effect on her was as though someone had snatched a warm jacket from her shoulders and shoved her into the cold. The feeling was peculiar and disturbing. And it made her ashamed, as though she were being disloyal to Clay.

  Dominique forced a smile. “Clay Parker of Parker Shipping. We were married a little over a year ago.”

  Patout smiled weakly, “Oh… newlyweds…”

  Dominique thought of Clay. She had a sudden memory of being wrapped in his arms on the balcony in Switzerland. She remembered the romance of the moment, the sweet, unadulterated joy of it. She relaxed, and her smile broadened. “Yes,… it was rather a… whirlwind romance. We just… fell in love so suddenly.”

  Patout nodded. “I know what you mean,” he said.

  I’m going to marry her.

  That was the thought that crossed Mark Patout’s mind the moment he saw Dominique Parker. The idea startled him. He’d never had such an outlandishly romantic impulse. But when he walked into her office and saw her there, eyes closed, shapely legs stretched out, the thought surged unbidden through his mind.

  What was it about her? He couldn’t say. She was by no means the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But she had a magical effect on him! He checked her ring finger. On it, she wore an emerald solitaire. On her right ring finger, a decorative rose gold ring. Neither looked like a wedding ring. Could she be single? Career women in New Orleans usually were.

  The sun streaming in her window had cast a halo around her. Like a spotlight on a dark stage, it drew the eye—everything else in the room seemed invisible. Her hair had been a little mussed, as though she’d walked through a crisp breeze, and the effect had been friendly and sexy all at once. Her head had been thrown back and her eyes closed. In his imagination, it was a pose of welcoming expectancy; as though she were waiting for someone—for him—to embrace her. The happy yellow of her silk blouse had fallen in soft drapes around her lush breasts. He had followed her curvaceous lines down to her slim ankles and her daintily arched feet, which—he noticed with amusement—were shoeless. Then his eyes had traveled back up to her face. Her features were strong, with unmistakable dignity. He could tell that she would be intelligent and charming. He had met beautiful women who, when they’d opened their mouths, had disappointed him to the extent that he no longer found them attractive. Sometimes it was their accents, coarse or grating, sometimes it was what they said. But he knew that nothing of the sort would happen with Dominique Parker.

  And from the moment those remarkable golden eyes had met his, they’d clicked. It had been undeniable, the magnetic hum between them. When he’d asked her to lunch, there’d been no contrived vacillation. She’d simply said yes. It had been difficult to restrain himself from taking her hand as they walked to the restaurant. He knew what it would feel like. Soft and warm and giving. He had instead contented himself with politely guiding her by the elbow through the door. But even that ever-so-small, ever-so-conventional contact had sent a radiant heat through him. It was more than desire: it was instinctive recognition. She was meant for him and no one else.

  Then she had given him the shattering news. She was already married. It had knocked the wind out of him, just as when he’d been a little boy and fallen out of the live oak tree behind the plantation house. Sitting across the table from her, surrounded by people, he had had to fight to conceal his dismay. How could she be married! He wanted to deny it. To insist that there must be some mistake. They belonged together! She had felt it, too, hadn’t she? Or had it just been his imagination? She had said that she and her husband were in love….

  Dominique hung up her coat and went to the side table in the foyer. She sifted through the mail lying there with vague interest until she spotted Danielle’s familiar handwriting. It was the same French schoolgirl’s script that she used. With happy anticipation, Dominique picked up the letter and walked into the study.

  She delayed the pleasure of opening the letter until she had settled on her usual spot on the couch.

  October 8, 1958

  Dear Dominique,

  The plans for your gala sound so glamorous! I wish we could accept your invitation, but Ron says the drive is too long and he doesn’t want to spend money on a gown for me. Please send photos of you and Clay at the gala. I know you won’t believe this, but Mother is very proud of you and her new son-in-law and loves showing off your photos. You should hear how she goes on about Clay. Ron finds it difficult to endure at times, I’m afraid. But we all think you’re very lucky to have found a kind, handsome man—and from a good family, as Mother says! You must pinch yourself sometimes to make sure you‘re not dreaming, especially after that horrible Anton. Personally, I think it’s remarkable that Clay hasn‘t insisted you stop working. Not many husbands are so agreeable.

  Everyone here is fine. Lana loves school. She drew the enclosed picture for you. Monique has turned beautiful. She is Mother’s pet. Mother claims that a modeling agent stopped her and asked if we would consider allowing Monique to pose for advertisements. I told her not to talk to strangers! But you know how Mother is. Even though she hardly speaks English, she makes friends wherever she goes. It’s funny, but she seems to live much as she did in Egypt. Twice a week, she plays canasta with some of the neighborhood women and—you‘ll laugh at this—every Friday night, she plays poker with their husbands. She’s the only woman in their group and I think she loves it that way. If she weren’t such good friends with the wives, I’m sure there’d be all kinds of jealousy. Aside from that, she enjoys looking after the girls. Ironic, isn’t it, considering that she never had time for us!

  Ron has finally agreed to get a house. I’ve convinced him that the girls should each have their own rooms and Mother, too. Everything is going well for him at the agency. He’s even been approached by two other men about starting an agency of their own. Ron is hesitating. He’s been with McCallister, Dewey for such a short while and he’s grateful to them. I’m sure you remember how worried he was when he was out of work. But I told him that he should consider the move. He’d be his own boss that way.

  Also, the advertising business is such that he could be fired tomorrow if he made one mistake. I don’t believe in one-way loyalty! You have to look out for yourself.

  By the way, I’ve enclosed a bank signature card that I’d like you to sign and send back to me. I’ve opened an account in both our names. That way, if anything ever happens between me and
Ron, the money will be secure.

  Please write soon. Mother says she will write you back next week.

  Love, Danielle

  Dominique leaned back in her chair and cradled the phone with her shoulder as she spoke to Mark. She was smiling broadly, and that fact was clearly transmitted in her voice. “The cancer group says they’ve never had so many large donations before one of their events. I said it was all due to you.”

  Mark felt a thrill of pleasure at the warmth of her tone. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help it—didn’t even bother trying to fight it. After all, hadn’t he carefully refrained from contriving ways to see her? And hadn’t he kept his notes to her cordial and businesslike? He had not tried to pursue her in any way. So what harm was there in a little mild flirtation? He wasn’t strong enough to resist that small gratification.

  “This project interests me—” Mark paused, then added, perhaps more caressingly than he should have, “Very much.”

  Dominique kept her tone light, deliberately misunderstanding his suggestion. “And you’re doing a lot of good. I think this event will be the most successful of Orman’s galas.” Then, in a more serious tone, she said, “Your name has brought in a lot of people who in the past have looked down their noses at our events.”

  “So what’s left to do?”

  “Insofar as the logistical details are concerned, nothing. But there are a few people on the list you gave us who should be buying tables and who haven’t.”

  “Hmmm, do you want to”—he hesitated. He wanted so much to see her again. Just to see her, that was all. But to do so was asking for trouble, he knew that. Still, the words came out of his mouth—“discuss it over lunch?”

  Dominique was tempted, but she immediately dismissed the idea. She enjoyed Mark’s company immensely, but she knew that he was dangerously attracted to her. If she weren’t married, she knew that she, too, would be attracted to Mark. However, she was married. Very happily married. She didn’t want to lead Mark to believe that there could be anything more than friendship between them.