“I told you,” Clay said tightly, “she’ll get over it.”
Clay’s deliberate calm sickened Dominique. She wanted him to show emotion. Wanted to find words to hurt him. To bring him alive. “You know nothing about your daughter!” She pointed an accusing finger at him. His face stiffened, and Dominique could tell that he was trying to restrain himself from responding. He didn’t want the involvement. That enraged her further. “You’ve been so busy traveling and… and…”—she sputtered for a moment, trying to think of the most insulting phrase she could—“and having your sordid little affair, that you haven’t even bothered with your own daughter!”
Clay’s eyes snapped with anger. He took a step toward Dominique. “My daughter loves me. And she knows I love her!”
Dominique felt as though the top of her head would blow off from the pressure of her mounting emotion. Don’t be so sure! she wanted to counter. But she held back. Gabrielle was sacrosanct. Dominique refused to use her as a weapon in her quarrel.
Instead, she changed tacks. “Have you thought about what our friends are going to say?” she asked in a venomous tone. “Have you thought about how people are going to laugh behind your back for making a fool of yourself with a woman half your age?”
For the first time, Dominique saw that she had stung Clay. Bright spots of color appeared on his tan cheeks. “Marie and I are a perfectly appropriate couple,” he said huffily. “No one has ever—” Clay stopped, realizing that he’d given away too much.
Dominique blinked as the full import of his words sank in. Her voice sank to a dangerous growl. “You’ve told other people about this.”
Clay dropped his eyes. “Just one or two.” He sidled away from Dominique as though trying to escape a tiger’s cage without arousing the occupant’s attention.
“Who?” Dominique hurled at him. She took several steps forward until she stood directly in front of him. “You’ve humiliated me like this? You’ve let other people gossip about this and feel sorry for me behind my back?” Her stomach burned painfully as she realized the extent of the betrayal that had been visited on her. Not only her husband, but her friends. Why had they conspired with him? Didn’t they care about her?
For a moment, Clay didn’t answer. He stood still and gazed down at the top of Dominique’s head, careful not to meet her eyes.
“Who?” Her voice rose and cracked.
“Only Lucas and Henry!” Clay shot back, his voice defensive. His golfing chums, both vice presidents at Parker Shipping. Their wives were Dominique’s friends. Henry’s wife, Celeste, belonged to the French club and often came to the house.
Dominique’s glare bored into Clay until he was forced to meet it. “Celeste and Linda know about this?” she asked dangerously. “You introduced them to your whore?”
“Don’t be naive!” Clay said scornfully. “You think those guys aren’t doing the same thing? You think they’d let their wives know about it?”
Dominique was aghast at her own blindness, the blindness of her friends. She lifted her hands to her face, but no tears came. Her despair, her sense of loss, went beyond tears. She wished she could block out what was happening. She felt as though she were headed for a raging waterfall in a barrel and could do nothing to stop certain disaster. Helplessly, hopelessly, she dropped her hands. Clay stood silently before her. He stared at her without emotion. Dominique was reminded of the flat, black eyes of a shark she had once seen at an aquarium—two eerie pools of emptiness. Where was Clay, her husband, behind those stranger’s eyes? Was he so focused on his love affair, that he had no emotion for anyone else?
She took a deep, trembling breath and said, “Why is it so necessary that you move in with her? Why can’t you just do what your friends are doing?” Her voice broke, but she forged ahead with the shameful words. “Why can’t we make some”—she turned away, unable to look in his eyes—“accommodation?”
Clay shrugged, seemingly unmoved by his wife’s despair. “Because she’s the woman I love.”
That had been hours ago, Dominique wasn’t sure how many. How long had she sat huddled, trembling in her bed? She blinked in the dim light and tried to focus on her watch. It was almost five and already growing dark. A violent wind outside, a winter storm, slammed a loose shutter against the house. Dominique cringed miserably.
She knew she should call Gabrielle and Solange in to her—explain things more clearly, talk about the future. But she hadn’t the will. She had kept the news from them for the past four days, ever since their return from St. John. After all, there had still been the chance that Clay would change his mind. There had still been the hope.
What could they possibly be thinking now, her mother and daughter? Clay said that Gabrielle was “handling it well’. As for Solange, Dominique had had to suffer the ignominy of hearing her own pleadings repeated by her mother as Clay marched down the hall with his suitcase. Clay hadn’t raised his voice to Solange. Dominique had heard little, but the portion of the conversation that had taken place directly outside her bedroom door had been enough to reveal that Clay still bore a deep affection for his mother-in-law. He was more tolerant of her appeals than of Dominique’s! But as the voices drifted away, Dominique knew her mother was fighting a battle already lost. Then the slamming of the front door, the crunch of tires on gravel. Silence.
Dominique became aware of a pressure on her bladder. She unfolded her stiff limbs and made her way shakily to the bathroom. Her muscles felt rubbery, of uncertain strength. When she emerged, she went back to the bed and sprawled on it face down. She lay still, collapsed, her mind a blank. The room darkened, but she made no move to turn on the light. She wished she could escape into sleep, but it seemed impossible that she would ever find the peace to sleep again.
A soft knocking at the door entered her consciousness. She didn’t answer, didn’t want to see anyone. Dominique buried her head in her arms.
“Dominique?” It was Solange’s voice, muffled by the thick wood of the door.
Dominique opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. She gave up and closed her eyes.
The knocking resumed. “Dominique?”
Dominique turned on her side. She drew her legs up in the fetal position and pulled the pillow over her head.
Then her mother was beside her, her hand on her arm. “Dominique, get up. We have to talk.”
“I can’t,” Dominique whispered hoarsely.
“Dominique, what’s wrong between you and Clay?” Solange’s voice was urgent and her hand insistently tapped Dominique’s arm to punctuate her words.
Dominique pulled her arm away and flipped in the bed, so that her back was to her mother. “I… I can’t talk now.” The words came out with difficulty, and when Dominique was finished she was short of breath.
Solange stroked her daughter’s arm more gently than before. “My poor girl,” she said, her voice soft. “It’s just a caprice of his. It happens to men. He’ll get over it,” she said with conviction.
“He wants to marry her,” Dominique said dully into the pillow.
Solange made a sound of surprise. “That doesn’t seem possible. Why, when we were in St. John he was very attentive toward you. He must love you still.”
Dominique thought of how she herself had been deceived by Clay. So, he had deceived Solange, too. Everyone. When had he stopped loving her? Dominique wondered. How many times had he made love to her since?
At the thought of it, Dominique’s teeth began to chatter. “He doesn’t love me!” she cried bitterly.
“But your marriage was good!” Solange protested. “What happened?”
“Why do you ask me that?” Dominique said in a tortured voice.
“There must have been some sign that things weren’t right!” Solange pounded the mattress with her fist for emphasis. “There must be something you can do, even now!”
Dominique jerked into a kneeling position facing her mother. Solange’s attempts to reason enraged her. There was nothing logical ab
out what was happening! “This has nothing to do with me, Mother! He’s decided he wants someone younger. He fell in love. If you could have seen his face”—she choked on the words—“you would know that he feels nothing for me anymore. Nothing!”
Solange recoiled at the rawness of her daughter’s emotions. “Calm down, Dominique,” she said in the tone of one talking to an unbalanced person. “I didn’t say you had done anything wrong. I’m just wondering how something like this could have happened without your having any hint of it. Men often go through a stage where they seek out a younger woman for’—Solange blushed—“reassurance. They think they’re growing older, and a younger woman makes them feel important and virile. But things like this rarely happen without reason. There must have been some sign that—”
“I can’t believe you!” Dominique cried, slapping her thighs in outrage. “Clay walks out and you try to blame me!” She jabbed her finger at her own chest. “What do you know about things like this? Father died when I was nine—he didn’t have time to grow tired of you!” Dominique’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “What difference does it make why Clay left? He doesn’t want to come back! He wants a divorce!” Dominique clamped her hands over her ears, trying to block out further conversation. “I don’t understand why you’re bothering me with these ridiculous questions!”
Solange’s careful self-control snapped under her daughter’s assault. “I’m not blaming you!” she shouted back. “I just thought that there might be a chance to get him back. “That if you knew why he—”
Dominique could stand it no longer. “I don’t know!” she yelled. “I don’t know! I don’t know!” She sank back onto her pillow and covered her eyes with her arm.
Solange made no reply. She simply stared at her in shock.
After a few moments of silence, Dominique said wearily, “Mother, please go away. I’m tired.”
Dominique didn’t open her eyes, but she heard the mattress creak and felt the weight equalize as Solange got up.
“May I”—Solange hesitated—“may I bring you something? A glass of sherry? something to eat?”
“I’d just like to be left alone.”
Dominique heard her mother take a deep breath as though preparing to say more. She uttered only one word. “Gabrielle?”
Dominique dropped her arm and stared at her mother.
Solange continued. “Do you want me to—”
Dominique interrupted. “No!” she said sharply. “I’ll talk to her myself. I’ll get up.” She struggled to her elbows.
Solange leaned toward her, her face full of concern. “You’re too emotional just now,” she said in a soothing tone. “Wouldn’t it be better if you waited until tomorrow?”
“And leave my daughter alone all night wondering what happened? I can’t do that!” Dominique declared. “She needs to talk to me. She’ll have questions.”
“Clay told—”
“Clay!” Dominique expelled the word as though it were a piece of spoiled meat. “Who knows what he told her!”
“He said”—Solange hesitated, as though measuring the effect of her words on Dominique—“he said that you had mutually agreed to divorce.”
Dominique’s lips tightened into a thin line of anger. “Did he?”
“You mustn’t turn the child against her father!” Solange said the words in a rush, as though afraid she would be interrupted.
Dominique looked up at her mother, her expression icy. “How can you think I’d do such a thing?”
Solange replied defensively, “You’re very hurt. It would be understandable—”
“I would never hurt Gabrielle,” Dominique said vehemently. She gave Solange an accusatory glare and pushed herself off the bed. Then she went into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
Gabrielle, only Gabrielle, kept Dominique going. In the two weeks since Clay had left, Dominique found herself unable to rise from bed until noon. She would toss on a bathrobe, then go downstairs for an inadequate, hastily bolted meal of sweets from the freezer. All she craved were sweets: frozen cheesecakes, cookies, and chocolates. She had never been one to binge, but now she stole items up to her room to wolf down in solitary misery. She didn’t care that the food wasn’t healthy, or that she was rapidly gaining weight. The sweets provided comfort.
After eating, Dominique would go back to bed until it was almost time for Gabrielle to come home from school. Then she would shower and dress to await her arrival. It was important to keep up appearances for Gabrielle. For the same reason, she would descend each evening for dinner with her mother and daughter. The evening meal had become a desultory affair with little conversation, despite the fact that Dominique roused herself to ask Gabrielle questions about school. But she accepted the monosyllabic answers typical of youngsters without further probing, though she had never done so before. In the end, Dominique would leave most of the food on her plate and retire to her room with packages of sweets.
Then, one afternoon, as Dominique was zipping up her dress, she heard the crunch of tires in the driveway. With an inexplicable feeling of alarm, she rushed to the window to see who it was. An unfamiliar sports car shimmered white in the February sun. Before Dominique had time to wonder who it belonged to, she saw Gabrielle emerge, wave good-bye to the occupant, then jog up the stairs to the house.
Dominique slipped on her shoes and hurried down the hall to meet her. Her daughter was too young for drives with boys, and Dominique intended to tell her so in no uncertain terms. She mustn’t allow Gabrielle to take advantage of the fact that her father was no longer a force of discipline in the house.
“Gabrielle!” Dominique called out sharply.
Gabrielle stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up at her mother with a guilty expression.
Dominique marched down the stairs with more energy than she had shown since Clay’s departure and came face to face with her daughter. “Who was that who dropped you off?” she demanded.
Gabrielle looked surprised. “Didn’t you know? It was Daddy.”
Now it was Dominique’s turn to look astonished. “Your father? Where’s his car?”
Gabrielle said breezily, “He got rid of the Cadillac.” Her expression brightened with admiration. “That was an Alfa Romeo!” She gave her mother a sidelong glance and asked tentatively, “Isn’t it neat-looking?”
“It’s a little young for your father,” Dominique sniffed.
Gabrielle shook her head in denial. “All the girls at school thought he was so handsome in it! Like Paul Newman or something!”
Dominique suddenly became conscious of her dowdy dress—one of the few roomy enough to accommodate her weight gain.
“Why did your father pick you up?” Dominique asked in an even tone.
Gabrielle looked down. “He just wanted to talk,” she said.
“That was nice.” Dominique forced herself to say it without irony.
“He…” Gabrielle looked at her mother, apprehension written on her face.
Dominique crossed her arms, unaware that she was making the protective gesture. “Yes?”
“He wants me to spend the weekend with him.”
Dominique nodded. “That’s a good idea.” She was relieved that Clay was keeping up contact with Gabrielle.
“Well, it’s just that…” Gabrielle kicked at the newel post with her sneakered toe.
“Stop that,” Dominique said, enervated, “and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Gabrielle blurted out, “He has a new friend and she’ll be there!”
Dominique took a deep breath and suppressed an expression of disgust. “I know about her.” She had prepared herself for this and had vowed to accept it with good grace. Dominique remembered losing her own father at a young age, and it had hurt. It had to be even worse for Gabrielle, who was an only child, and whose father had left of his own free will. Dominique had no intention of saying anything to alienate Clay and Gabrielle.
“It’ll be weird with her there,�
�� Gabrielle confessed.
Dominique reached forward and stroked her daughter’s cheek. “I know,” she sighed, “but it looks like she’s going to be your father’s new wife, and you’ll have to meet her sometime.” Dominique fought to smother the panic that welled up in her at the thought of the impending divorce.
Gabrielle studied her mother for a moment without speaking, then took a step forward and wrapped her arms around Dominique.
Dominique grasped her daughter tightly. It felt good to be touched again.
Dominique paced anxiously in the living room as she waited for Gabrielle to arrive home from her weekend with Clay. She was sure that her daughter would want to talk—pour out grievances, confess to feelings of homesickness. It couldn’t have been easy, Dominique thought sympathetically, trying to behave nicely toward the woman who would marry her father. She wondered if Gabrielle would guess that Marie had, in fact, been responsible for the breakup of their family.
Dominique had reached that peculiar stage of denial that allows wronged women to forgive the man his transgressions while holding the other woman responsible. Never mind that Dominique had exchanged marriage vows with Clay, had lived with him and supported him in his endeavors for fourteen years. It was easier to blame the other woman. Easier to believe that one’s own judgment hadn’t been wrong after all, that one’s husband was still basically a good man. He had simply been tempted beyond endurance.
Dominique cocked her head as she heard the car. She wanted to run to the window and look out, but didn’t for fear that Clay would see her. A moment later, Gabrielle burst into the house.
“Mom!” she called from the front hall.
“In here!” Dominique called back, hurrying to the foyer. She halted in astonishment when she saw Gabrielle. “You’ve cut your hair!” she exclaimed.
Gabrielle self-consciously raised a hand to her chestnut curls. “Do you like it?”
It was a sleek, short cut, far too sophisticated for the child. And there was something else different about her daughter. Dominique took a few steps forward and peered warily at Gabrielle’s face. “Are you wearing makeup?” she cried.
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