No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  “Ouch!” she cried, letting the envelope fall on the table. Reflexively, she brought her finger to her mouth, but the unpleasant taste of blood made her grimace. She dropped her hand and looked at her finger. A thin, red line bubbled from beneath the cut. Bringing the finger back to her mouth, she picked up the envelope. A spot of blood marred the pristine surface, and Dominique stared at it accusingly. Then, holding her cut finger away from the paper, she pulled out the contents.

  Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Carlisle Rivers

  request the honor of your presence

  at the marriage of their daughter

  Nina Merrill

  to

  The Honorable Mark Patout

  on Saturday, the first of October Nineteen hundred and fifty-nine

  at twelve o’clock noon

  Willow Gardens Plantation

  Destrehan, Louisiana

  Dominique stared at the card in disbelief. Why, Mark and Nina had come to dinner just a month before, and there had been no sign that they were even in love, much less engaged. Dominique tried to picture the couple as she had last seen them. True, Nina possessively watched Mark’s every move. When Mark left the room, Nina’s eyes followed him. When he spoke, her eyes were trained on his face. All of which made Mark’s offhand manner toward the blond woman all the more noticeable. He was unfailingly polite, attentive even, but he didn’t look at her like a man in love. Dominique knew, because… a quick thought flashed through her consciousness—and was immediately suppressed. Guiltily, Dominique tried to fill her mind with chatter.

  I’m pleased for Mark. It’s time he married. Nina’s the perfect wife for a politician. Beautiful, intelligent, photogenic, well connected. Just because she acts cold doesn’t mean that she really is. Probably she’s different when she’s alone with Mark. After all, I’m sure she loves him. She’ll try to make him happy.

  And Dominique wanted Mark to be happy. She forced a smile. It was wonderful that Mark was getting married. Her smile faded, to be replaced by a look of concern. If her happiness for him was less than wholehearted, she told herself, it was only because she wasn’t overly fond of Nina. Of course, that was all.

  CHAPTER 14

  “CLAY really is the perfect husband,” Solange told Dominique. It was the third time since Solange’s arrival the day before that Dominique had heard that.

  “I’m glad you like him, Mother,” Dominique said patiently. She was glad that her mother liked her husband, but there was an unspoken implication in the lavish compliments that bothered Dominique. As though Solange couldn’t believe Dominique had captured such a man.

  Or was she, Dominique, just being overly sensitive? She bit her tongue and reminded herself of her resolution to make this visit peaceful. After all, it had been over a year since she’d seen her mother, and then only for a day or two during the Christmas visit to New York.

  Solange turned another page in the album. She stopped at a photo of Clay on the beach in Nice. “So handsome!” Solange said admiringly. She dropped her voice as though divulging a secret. “Much handsomer than your sister’s husband.”

  “Mother, it isn’t a contest,” Dominique said mildly. She was careful to maintain a tone of affectionate amusement. She had taken a two-week vacation to spend time with her mother. It would be a long, tiresome visit if she reacted to every little irritation. Still, there was no denying that they got on each other’s nerves.

  In contrast, Clay and Solange seemed to get along perfectly. From the moment the Parkers picked up Solange at the train station, Dominique had almost felt like a fifth wheel. Clay flattered Solange extravagantly, and she bloomed under his compliments.

  But Clay wasn’t with the two women on this drizzly January morning.

  “I didn’t say it was a contest!” Solange retorted, not bothering to temper her own voice. “Can’t I be happy that you’ve done so well for yourself?” She swept her arm through the air in a gesture that took in the room. Like the rest of the house, it was beautifully decorated with antiques and fine art. Warming the atmosphere were bouquets of fresh flowers and amusing knickknacks Dominique picked up in the dusty little shops of the French Quarter.

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” Dominique said. “I’m glad you’re pleased.” She felt ashamed. After all, Solange had praised Clay. It was just that Dominique had become peeved in advance of her mother’s visit by imagining the types of slights Solange would inflict—the backhanded compliments, the niggling criticisms, the constant comparisons to Danielle.

  Solange turned the upper half of her body and studied her daughter. “Well, aren’t you pleased, too?”

  “Of course I am!”

  Solange sniffed and turned back to the album. “You should be. After all, you were a penniless divorcee when Clay met you. A lot of men of his background wouldn’t have married you. I’m sure he had many lovely young women to choose from.”

  Dominique was stung. Her first impulse was to say something rude in return. But she knew she was jumpy, ready to react angrily to a wrong word from her mother. So she made an extra effort to control herself. Dominique wanted to show Solange that she was above losing her temper now. She was a married woman. An adult. She fixed her eyes on the pages of the album, determined not to betray her feelings.

  When she received no response, Solange went on with her lecture. “You should remember how lucky you are. And you should stay home and take care of him instead of running to that store every day. It’s time you settled down and had children, anyhow.” She gave her daughter a head-to-toe perusal.

  It was as though Solange had pushed a button that said “Blast off!” Dominique’s self-control was shattered as, with brutal accuracy, Solange hit on the only real trouble spot in the Parkers’ marriage.

  Dominique sprang to her feet, causing the photo album to slam shut on Solange’s lap. She stood above her mother, hands on her hips, her face scarlet with anger. “You haven’t even been here a day and already you’re criticizing me!” she fumed.

  Solange threw up her hands in exasperation. “Oh! You’re like a child! One can’t say anything to you! I’m simply trying to warn you that you have a very handsome husband and you should be careful.”

  “Mother, do you think Clay is going to leave me because I work?” Dominique demanded. “Wasn’t I working when he fell in love with me?”

  Solange drew herself up and crossed her arms over her chest. “That was different. You didn’t have a wealthy husband to support you,” she said coldly. “This… this insistence on working is certain to alienate him! No man wants a woman like that!”

  The glacial quality of Solange’s tone fueled Dominique’s lifelong resentment. She felt like a pressure cooker about to burst. “Just because you’ve never found anything to love in me, don’t assume that others haven’t!” she hurled.

  Solange looked stunned by Dominique’s vehemence. Her eyebrows shot up into two arcs, then dropped into the V of a scowl.

  Dominique saw the outrage in her mother’s face and burst forth with a torrent of words before Solange had a chance to interrupt. Her head shot forward, the veins in her neck throbbing. “It’s true! All my life you’ve told me how much better Danielle was, how much prettier. You’ve never supported anything I wanted to do!” Dominique wanted nothing more than to hear her mother deny the accusations. She wanted to be told that she had misunderstood everything. That Solange loved her as much as she loved Danielle. That she really did think Dominique as pretty and smart as her sister.

  Solange leapt to her feet, letting the photo album crash to the ground. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth in an expression of unadulterated rage. She pointed an index finger at her daughter and shook it with each syllable that she spoke. “I always treated you equally! I never gave her anything I didn’t give you. You had everything when you were growing up!”

  “I’m not talking about things” Dominique said, as though Solange were unspeakably stupid. She turned her face away from her mother. She had something more to say,
but the words stuck in her gut. They were the crux of the matter. Yet to accuse her mother was to admit her own shame. Without even realizing it, Dominique dropped the volume of her voice. Her mouth quivered uncontrollably as she spoke. “You never loved me as much as Danielle.” There. She had finally said it. Finally brought the taboo subject to light. It had been festering since earliest childhood. The knowledge that she was not as well loved as her sister, that she wasn’t as good.

  Solange glared silently at her daughter. The only emotion visible in her face was anger. Dominique had hoped to see more. Love, penitence, understanding. Something to show that she had reached Solange. But she saw only anger.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Dominique asked, her voice bitter.

  Solange turned her back to her daughter. She folded her arms around herself; her back hunched forward. It was a curiously vulnerable pose, one very unlike Solange. For a moment Dominique thought her mother might cry. But then Solange turned her head so that her profile was visible to Dominique. Her eyes were dry, her voice harsh as she said, “It’s terrible that you would say such things to me.”

  “What about me!” Dominique hated the sound of her voice, of the words. Hated the pleading motion she made with her hands. It was all so childish, so ignoble! But she couldn’t stop herself. “What about how you’ve hurt me?”

  Solange whirled about to face Dominique. “What have I done that was so terrible? Name one thing!” Her tone was challenging.

  Dominique saw with despair that Solange wasn’t even trying to see her point of view. Instead, she was trying to defend herself. Dominique let out a long, shaky sigh. She put one hand on the mantel and rested her forehead against it. She was too drained for anger. She had said all she could, but she still hadn’t gotten through to Solange.

  Then she remembered an incident from her childhood. Slowly she raised her head and released the mantel. She stepped toward Solange, her expression imploring her to understand. “Do you remember when the three of us were in France on the train from Nice to Paris? It was right after the war, the year before Danielle was married.”

  Solange nodded uneasily, as though she knew she would dislike what she was about to hear.

  “The lady sitting near us said how pretty I was. I was only twelve, but it was the year you let me grow my hair long and she said she liked the color. Do you remember what you said to her?” Dominique’s voice was shaking.

  “I don’t even know what you’re talking about!” Solange snapped.

  But Dominique could tell Solange was lying. She continued as though she hadn’t heard her. “You said, ‘Dominique? Pretty? No, her nose is too long! Danielle is the beauty of the family.’” Dominique perfectly mimicked Solange’s breezy manner as she relived the memory. When she finished, she leaned forward from the waist, her hands at shoulder level punctuating each phrase. “How could you say that, Mother? How could you humiliate me that way? Didn’t you ever stop to think how it made me feel?” Dominique shook her head in incredulous outrage. “The woman knew. She looked at you like you were a monster—”

  Solange stamped her foot. “She did no such thing! You’re just overly sensitive and you twist everything—”

  “Mother!” Dominique yelled, startling Solange into silence. She took a step toward the older woman. Something in the intensity of her gaze caused Solange to step backward. Dominique stepped forward again, forcing Solange to look directly into her eyes. “Don’t you see? You made that woman pity me! She felt so sorry for me that she said to you…” Dominique forced herself to exhale slowly. The lump in her throat subsided a little and she continued. “The lady said, ‘I think you’re wrong. Your younger daughter’s features are more unusual, it’s true, but also more expressive. I think she will be the beauty.’ Mother, why couldn’t you just let one person think I was better than Danielle? Why did you have to contradict her?”

  The blood drained from Solange’s face. She looked so shaken that Dominique was suddenly afraid for her. “I’m…” Solange bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Dominique. I never meant to hurt you.… I just didn’t think.” She raised her eyes to her daughter’s and took a step toward her. “The two of you were so different. Danielle was obedient and affectionate. She adored me. But you…” Solange turned her head so that Dominique was again looking at her profile. “It was almost as though you were Nanny’s child, not mine,” she said quietly. Her eyes came back to her daughter. They were soft, full of emotion. “It’s not that I didn’t love you. You argued constantly with me. You did as you wished and didn’t seem to care if it made me angry.” Solange paused. Her gaze shifted to a point behind Dominique. “Do you remember when you were little and you broke the lock on the sideboard where I had hidden the cookies for my canasta group?”

  Dominique was surprised to find herself smiling tearfully at the memory. “I remember.”

  Solange shook her head slowly from side to side. “You used a nail file to get it open, and you left those gouges in the wood.”

  Dominique met her mother’s eyes. She used the back of her hand to wipe her tears and her nose.

  “Stop that!” Solange commanded. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a clean handkerchief. “Here, use this.”

  Dominique took the little square of cloth. “Thank you,” she said softly. She blew her nose.

  “That was a very valuable antique, you know,” Solange said. Her voice grew more animated. “I was furious!”

  “I remember,” Dominique said ruefully. “You spanked me and sent me to bed without supper.” She gave a tremulous laugh at the memory.

  “But you didn’t seem to care. That’s what was so maddening!” Solange wore a scolding expression, but the younger woman knew she meant it in humor.

  Dominique grinned. “I didn’t care because I was sick from the cookies.”

  Solange returned her smile. “That was the sort of thing that only you would do. Danielle would have never—” She stopped short and looked cautiously at her daughter.

  “It’s all right.” Dominique gave her mother a reassuring nod. “I know what you mean.”

  “It’s not that I didn’t love you.” Solange’s voice was insistent. “But Danielle was easier for me to understand.” She tapped her index finger against her chin. “We’re more alike.”

  Dominique nodded slowly. “I know.”

  Solange gave her daughter an uncharacteristically sheepish look. “I’ll try not to nag you so much. I know it annoys you, and I always vow to keep silent, but when I see you doing something that isn’t best for you, I can’t help saying something.”

  Dominique sighed and reached for her mother’s hands. “And I’ll try to be more tolerant,” she said warmly. “I know you mean well.”

  “Well,” Solange said in a heartier tone of voice, “I’m glad we’ve resolved this.”

  Dominique squeezed her mother’s hands. It was as though a huge burden had been lifted. It was a relief to give voice to the anger, envy, and frustration she had carried with her her entire life. And she understood a little—though not entirely—why Solange felt closer to Danielle. It still hurt to know that it was the case, but it was better than thinking that her mother simply didn’t love her. Dominique wondered if she and Solange would ever truly feel comfortable with each other—ever truly be friends. Even now it didn’t quite seem possible. But at least they had talked. Dominique knew that there remained more to be said. She would have liked to talk for hours, days, about all their misunderstandings. Yet Solange wasn’t ready to say more. She was anxious to gloss over the hard feelings, to call the problem solved and move on.

  Dominique knew Clay wanted to make Solange’s last night with them special when he suggested dinner at the Pontchartrain Hotel’s Caribbean Room. It was not the spot for a casual, drop-in sort of dinner, and Clay had taken Dominique there only twice before: on their first anniversary and on the day they had moved into their grand new home on St. Charles Avenue.

  Throughout Solange’s two-week visit, Clay
’s manner toward her had continued to be as solicitous as on the first day. Now, as they were led to their table, he gave her his arm, leaving Dominique to follow a few steps behind. He held out Solange’s chair as the waiter held Dominique’s.

  When they were seated, Clay ordered a bottle of champagne, then turned to Solange to discuss the menu with her. Clay had learned a smattering of French—hardly enough to string together a sentence—and Solange spoke only broken English, but with Dominique’s help, they made themselves understood to each other.

  When the champagne came, Clay raised his glass and proposed a toast. “To family,” he said as he tipped his head in Solange’s direction. She smiled warmly at her son-in-law and the three of them clinked their glasses together and took a sip of champagne.

  “Soon I hope we’ll have an even bigger family to celebrate,” he said, looking pointedly at Dominique. For Solange’s benefit, he cradled his arms as though they contained a baby.

  Solange’s eyes widened and she looked questioningly at Dominique.

  Dominique shot Clay a warning look that said “Don’t start,” then, with some embarrassment, admitted to her mother, “He’s talking about having a baby.”

  Solange turned to her daughter with an “I told you so” look. “Why you no want baby?” she asked in English, her tone accusatory. For two weeks she hadn’t revived the subject, but she clearly thought Clay’s comment gave her license to do so now.

  Dominique was irritated no end. Given their recent argument, Solange had to know she was treading on sensitive ground. Dominique was tempted to retort that it was none of Solange’s business. But, of course, that would have started a row. Instead, she glared at her mother and allowed a lengthy silence to develop, hoping it would make the same point. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Clay had turned to look at her. His hands were folded in front of him and his eyebrows were raised in an exaggerated pose of expectancy.