What had she let Clay do to her? She shook her head vehemently. Only what she had permitted him. Unconsciously, she raised her chin and tightened her jaw with determination. Then she turned away from the shop and headed for home.
Two hours later, after eating a tuna fish salad for lunch, Dominique sat down at the desk in her study and began to go over the résumé she had put together for her new job quest. As she scanned it, she realized that her approach had been all wrong. She had listed her jobs and education, but not her most recent accomplishments in the event planning field. Why not take the same approach she’d used in New York fifteen years before? Her volunteer work was as meritorious as any for which she’d been paid, just as her background at the time had enabled her to enter event planning in the first place.
She decided to make a draft, which she would type later on Gabrielle’s typewriter. Enthusiastically, Dominique began to describe some of the events she had organized. She devoted considerable space to her work on behalf of Mark Patout—it would look impressive to have been associated with a U.S. Senator.
Dominique smiled as she thought of him. For a moment, she paused in her writing, her pen tapping thoughtfully against her pursed lips. How long had it been since she’d spoken to Mark? Only a few times since his divorce from Nina. Clay and Dominique had hosted a dinner in his honor two years before, but Mark had been so surrounded by others that Dominique had barely had the chance to say hello. Most of Mark’s time was spent in Washington now. That had been the case ever since he’d been elected to Congress.
Still, Dominique was certain that if she needed a letter of reference, he would be happy to provide it. She could attach it to her résumé so that, right away, people could see that she was well connected. Good connections were a prime asset in the event planning field. Of course, as Clay’s wife, she had once had them.
Her brow furrowed as she considered the drastic change in her situation. Since the separation, she’d received only a fraction of the invitations she used to. And they had all been for daytime events, never dinner parties. As for her connections in the volunteer field, she had been too devastated to participate in any of the functions that had taken place since the new year. Why, she had been downright reclusive. There had been days at a time when she had let the phone ring and ring unanswered.
Now Dominique needed her old connections, and she knew she would not find them intact. According to Gabrielle, “Daddy” had “parties all the time.”
“Really, who came?” Dominique would be compelled to ask.
“All the people who used to come here,” Gabrielle said brightly. In her innocence, she was glad of the chance to see them again.
The thought that Marie was accepted everywhere enraged Dominique, but she struggled to suppress the feeling. She needed her energy for the work before her.
Dominique poised her pen above the notepad. What other assets could she include in her résumé? It would be good if she could get a letter of reference from someone at Orman’s. The former store manager, Turner Coltrane, had long ago left for a job with Neiman Marcus in Dallas. Perhaps she could contact him there. And what about her old mentor, Bruce? He was now president of the entire Orman’s chain. Surely, he would write a letter of reference. She had kept in touch with him and Maude over the years, exchanging greeting cards and family pictures. And, when Clay had left her, she’d written to them, somehow needing that link with happier times.
Feeling cheery at the prospect of talking to her old friend, Dominique picked up the phone and dialed Orman’s number in New York. She spoke to a secretary, and seconds later Bruce’s urbane voice, comfortingly familiar, greeted her. “Dominique! What a wonderful surprise!”
“Bruce, it’s so good to talk to you again.” They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, then Dominique lowered her voice, suddenly serious. “I’ve appreciated Maude’s letters these past few months. They helped me feel… less alone.”
“Oh, Dominique,… we’re so sorry. We wanted to call, but we weren’t sure you were up to talking. Maude said—”
Dominique cut him short, but her tone was affectionate. “Sometimes it’s easier to put your feelings down on paper. I wasn’t ready to talk…” Dominique’s voice tapered off.
“I understand,” Bruce said gently.
“But I’m better now, Bruce, truly.” There was a sprightliness in her voice that lent credence to her claim. She leaned back in her chair, settling in for a long chat.
“Why don’t you come up for a visit? We’d love to see you.”
Dominique laughed. “Not yet! I’m busy looking for a job.” She made an effort to keep her tone jolly. “I’m reduced to living in reduced circumstances.”
Bruce’s voice turned grave. “Dominique, you know that Maude and I can always give you a loan. I hope you wouldn’t hesitate to ask.”
Dominique couldn’t reply immediately, she was so touched. What good friends they were! She had been feeling so alone, yet she did have resources; there were people who cared about her. “Oh, Bruce,” she said softly, “you don’t know how much that means to me, but I’ll be fine as soon as I find full-time work.”
“You’re ready to go back to full time?” Bruce said thoughtfully.
“I haven’t much choice.” Dominique’s tone was dry.
“Hmmm.… I didn’t realize…” Bruce murmured.
“Anyhow, will you write a letter of recommendation that I can attach to my résumé. I’ll try to get one from Mark Patout, also. I think it will set my résumé apart from the rest,” Dominique said energetically.
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Bruce chuckled.
Dominique paused, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”
“Résumés, letters, job applications? That’s nonsense! You’ve got skills that are very much in demand nowadays. It’ll be a cinch to find you a job.”
“It hasn’t been a cinch so far,” Dominique said ruefully.
“Where have you looked?” Bruce sounded skeptical.
“Orman’s for one—”
Bruce sighed. “I wish we could do something for you down there, but we’re very happy with the person we have in your old slot.”
“I know,” Dominique said warmly. “She’s great! I’m pleased she’s done well.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Bruce said, “You wouldn’t be interested in coming back to New York, would you?”
Dominique hesitated. Move from New Orleans? She hadn’t even considered it, yet, in some ways, it made perfect sense. Opportunities in another city would be limitless, since she wouldn’t have to deal with people who’d known Clay Parker since childhood. In addition, a bigger city would have more businesses that could use her skills. And above all, there was Gabrielle to consider. She would be changing schools anyhow, since she was entering junior high. But New York? “I think it would be too drastic a change for Gabrielle,” she told Bruce. “Besides”—she wrinkled her nose—“it’s the most expensive city in the country.”
There were a few moments of silence as they ruminated over this. Bruce was the first to speak. “Dominique…” He hesitated. “What about Washington?”
“D.C.?” Dominique’s voice quickened. She had always loved the city. It reminded her of Paris, with its flower-laden parks and broad avenues.
“Yes. A friend of mine, Grace Filmore, started a wedding planning business there a few years ago. Then she branched out. She does a lot of work with embassies, museums, lobbyists—that type of thing. Anyway, she called me a couple of weeks ago to ask if I could recommend someone for a vacancy in her office.” He chuckled. “She knows we train the best here at Orman’s. But, at the time, I couldn’t think of anyone. I didn’t know you were looking.” He paused. “Apparently, the demand for her service is growing almost faster than she can keep up. Especially since most women in Washington have full-time jobs.”
“They do?” Dominique asked.
Bruce laughed at her tone. “The winds of change may not have blown
into New Orleans yet, but they will soon enough. The Old South is dying. You should see our Atlanta store. Half my top executives are women!”
“Really?” Dominique asked with interest. Of course Atlanta wasn’t considered the South in the traditional sense. It was known as a mecca for northerners. Still, Bruce was making her aware of fascinating new possibilities. “You must have a lot of turnover. I mean, once the women get married and have children—”
“No, no!” Bruce interrupted good-naturedly. “They often work until the day they give birth, and then they’re back in a couple of months.”
Dominique sniffed disapprovingly. “So the child hardly sees its mother. That’s not progress. When I was young, every upper-class European woman let servants raise the children. Still do, for all I know,” Dominique added darkly, remembering her own childhood.
“You think a woman needs to give up her own aspirations for the sake of her children?” Bruce’s challenge was issued in a thoughtful tone.
“Isn’t bringing up your children ambition enough?” Dominique countered.
“Sure, but it wasn’t for you,”
Dominique bridled. “What do you mean? I quit my job before Gabrielle was even born!”
“You quit getting paid, but it wasn’t long before you were doing the same thing for charity.” Bruce had a calm, professorial way of making a point that soothed Dominique’s ruffled feathers.
“Yes… but I didn’t have to be at an office every day. I spent most of my time with Gabrielle,” she said emphatically.
“But if the mother’s happier working, maybe it’s best for the whole family. Especially since a lot of fathers are helping more than they used to.” Bruce paused. “You know, the choices you and Clay made may not be for everyone. The point is, the women I know are glad to have more choices than they had even five years ago. Besides”—again he hesitated—“you’re going to be a working mother, too,” he said gently.
Dominique was startled to think of herself that way. “You’re right!” she admitted. She wrapped the phone cord around her finger as she mulled over Bruce’s words. She sighed. “I don’t regret the time I spent at home with Gabrielle, but I’d be in a better financial situation now if I’d continued to work.” She paused. “I was brought up to believe that women didn’t do that after they married. It was a big concession on Clay’s part, I remember. And when we didn’t need my income anymore, he wanted me to quit immediately. I wasn’t ready to stop until Gabrielle, but then there was never any question,” she concluded quietly. How would Gabrielle adjust to Dominique working? Would she be resentful? Lonely?
She must have betrayed her concern, because Bruce said, “It’s lucky your mother lives with you. That way, Gabrielle won’t come home to an empty house.”
“At any rate,” Dominique said in a resigned voice, “I have no choice. We’ll have to get used to it.”
“You’ll do fine,” Bruce reassured her.
Dominique thought of the misfortunes that had rocked her life. First in Egypt. Then her nightmarish union with Anton. The time of loneliness and despair in New York. And now… this. But she had weathered it. She had weathered it all! A surge of optimism fired her spirit.
“You’ll call your friend today?” she asked eagerly.
Bruce chuckled. “As soon as we hang up.”
“And you think she’ll consider me?”
“You’re exactly what she’s looking for. Besides, to someone like Grace, a friend’s recommendation means a lot more than an impressive résumé. But don’t worry,” Bruce said reassuringly, “you have both.”
Dominique’s first trip to Washington with Gabrielle began in disaster. As the realtor showed them one blank high-rise after another, Gabrielle’s expression grew increasingly fearful and rebellious.
Finally, when they stopped for the day and mother and daughter were back in the hotel, Gabrielle broke down, sobbing. “Why do we have to move from our house? I hate it here. Why do we have to leave New Orleans?”
Dominique soothed her as best she could. “Honey, my new job is here.” She was filled with distress, but it was mixed with a sense of urgency. “I begin August first. We have to find something and get settled before then.”
“I don’t like big apartment buildings! The halls are dark and creepy! They smell like carpet. Why can’t we have a house like before?”
Because your father is a bastard, Dominique felt like saying. As Patricia Masterson had suspected, Clay had moved his assets to the business so Dominique couldn’t touch them. But Masterson’s threat to subpoena all Clay’s financial records for the past three years—business and personal—had resulted in a settlement that provided good child support and reasonable alimony. And, to Clay’s credit, he had insisted that Gabrielle attend Washington’s best private school.
“It’s time to start thinking about college,” he’d intoned.
Patricia Masterson later told Dominique in private, “Clay’s Achilles heel is his ostentation. He wants to be able to say he’s providing the best for his daughter, whatever that is. It’s going to be very important to him that she go to a good university, that it doesn’t look like he abandoned her.” She paused and gave Dominique a shrewd look. “You just want to make sure that Gabrielle does what’s best for her, not what Clay thinks is best. All he’s interested in is brand names.”
Dominique had protested. “Not just that! He truly loves Gabrielle.”
Patricia Masterson had given her a dubious look, but she hadn’t argued.
Now, as Dominique sat in the hotel room trying to comfort Gabrielle, she reflected on Patricia Masterson’s words. Dominique wondered what Clay’s reaction would be if he could see how unhappy Gabrielle was about moving. Did he care about the upheaval he’d caused in Gabrielle’s life? Did he feel guilty that his own home, his own style of living, was so much more grand than his daughter’s?
Oh, what was the use of such thoughts? Dominique wondered in frustration. She had no intention of asking Clay for more help. Her life—and Gabrielle’s—was in her own hands now.
The next morning, Dominique picked up the classified section with renewed determination. And then she saw it: “Charm galore in exclusive Georgetown. 3 BR/1BA apt. in former carriage house. Sep. ent./FP/no pets.”
Dominique dashed to the phone and dialed the number. Thirty minutes later, she and Gabrielle were in a taxi bumping over a shady, cobblestoned street. Flanking the narrow lane were discreet town-houses maintained in spit-and-polish style—shining brass knockers and freshly painted trim.
The driver stopped in front of the imposing red brick facade of a Georgian-style townhouse. The residence was the largest on the block, its expanse proclaiming its superiority over the quaint, narrow townhouses more typical of Georgetown. Long Palladian windows shut out the world with heavy draperies. A high brick wall, almost buried in climbing yellow roses, led from the side of the house to a point halfway down the block, where it intersected with a separate residence of mellow beige stucco.
Dominique and Gabrielle emerged from the cab and stepped onto a brick sidewalk set in a herringbone pattern. The walkway was old and, in spots, covered in fuzzy green moss. Two massive sycamore trees, only a few feet from the front of the house, shaded both the porticoed entrance and the street. Though the day was hot and humid, the narrowness of the street and the canopy of mature trees made it seem cooler.
Dominique glanced at her watch and saw that they were early. She turned and gave Gabrielle a reassuring smile, then took her arm. “Let’s look around a little.” The neighborhood was wrapped in Sunday morning tranquility, and there was no one about to observe them. They stood at the curb and scanned the block, first in one direction, then the other.
The homes were attached in one continuous row—very few had side gardens or alleys. Yet each facade was different, lending an air of eclectic quaintness to the whole. There were bay windows and turrets; houses of wood, stone, or brick; tiny front gardens or none at all. And everywhere there were flow
ers and trees. Not the exotic hodgepodge found in New Orleans, but regimented, European-style plantings.
“Mom!” Gabrielle called. She scampered to the brick wall of “their” house, and buried her face in the yellow roses. “Come smell these.” She closed her eyes in appreciation.
Dominique smiled and went to join her. This was the happiest Gabrielle had looked since their arrival in Washington. When Dominique reached her daughter’s side, she leaned close and sniffed the sweet aroma. “Wonderful,” she murmured.
The thud of a car door closing made Dominique turn. A cheerful-looking woman of about sixty was heading in their direction.
“Mrs. Parker?” the woman asked as she approached with a smile.
Dominique shook her hand, then introduced Gabrielle.
They exchanged a few pleasantries, then the realtor pulled out a ring of keys and led them to a thick wooden door buried in the brick wall. Its hinges, old-fashioned iron ones, squeaked as the woman pushed it open.
Dominique and Gabrielle stepped onto a crooked stone path, stopped, and smiled at each other. In front of them stood a tiny elves’ cottage of aged red brick. Two bay windows were hooded by copper roofs washed with a green patina. Ivy wound its way up the chimney.
The realtor turned to face them. “I should tell you that apartments in Georgetown are very small. But this one’s a bargain. It just came on the market. The couple who owns it winters in Barbados and they want someone around the place. So they turned the carriage house into an apartment. It used to be the wife’s studio, I think.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “They don’t really need the money, so they’re not asking as much as they could. In exchange, though, you’d have to pick up their mail and forward it to them while they’re gone. That’s about it.” Her voice returned to normal and she smiled. “They’re just looking for nice, stable tenants.”
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