No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  The woman stepped behind them and locked the wooden gate, then led them through the shady garden to the front door. Despite her warnings, Dominique wasn’t prepared for the small size of the house. The living room couldn’t have been more than twelve feet wide, Dominique was certain, and it also had to serve as a dining room. But its uneven wooden floors shone with fresh wax and its built-in bookcases created attractive alcoves on either side of the fireplace. Dominique smiled to herself as she realized that the table and chairs from her old dining room wouldn’t even fit through the door. It was a good thing she had sold them.

  “Kitchen’s this way,” said the realtor, holding open a slatted wooden door.

  Dominique and Gabrielle simultaneously exclaimed in pleasure as they stepped into the cheery little space. It sparkled with newly installed white appliances. On the rear wall were two sash windows and a back door opening onto a small herb garden.

  “It reminds me of my old place in Greenwich Village,” Dominique told Gabrielle wistfully.

  “I love it!” Gabrielle whispered back. “And we’re just a couple of blocks from Wisconsin Avenue.” One of Georgetown’s two main commercial thoroughfares, Wisconsin Avenue was an enticing potpourri of brightly painted boutiques, flower stands, restaurants, and bars. It was Washington’s “fun” district, crowded with pedestrians from ten in the morning to the small hours of the night.

  Dominique put a calming hand on Gabrielle’s shoulder. “Let’s see upstairs first.”

  The realtor led the way up a narrow flight of wooden stairs. Two small bedrooms at the front of the house had dormered windows, but were painted bright white, making them appear larger. A bathroom, with barely enough room for a stall shower, toilet, and sink—all new—hid behind a narrow door in the hall. The master bedroom, in the back of the house, had an original beamed ceiling and its own minuscule half bath. From any of the four windows along the back wall, it would have been possible to climb out onto the limbs of a huge old willow oak.

  “I’m afraid there’s no central air,” the realtor said apologetically, “but there are window units.”

  Gabrielle tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Let’s take it!” she whispered excitedly.

  Dominique hesitated. The rent was more than she would have expected for such a small place, but it was unique. She looked around the little room, already envisioning how nice her white cotton and lace bedspread would look there. And she’d hang window boxes, fill them with flowers. Dominique turned to the realtor. “We’ll take it!”

  CHAPTER 21

  DOMINIQUE pushed forward from the waist, her hands stretched toward her knees, her face scrunched into a grimace. “Twenty!” she gasped. “That’s enough!” She lay back on the rug and swiped at her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

  “Mom,” Gabrielle said with an air of superiority, “that’s not enough.” She released Dominique’s ankles and stood up. She crossed the tiny living room and went into the kitchen. Dominique heard the sound of a cabinet opening, then closing, the rush of the faucet. A few seconds later, Gabrielle reappeared, a glass of water in her hand. She took a sip, then handed it to her mother. “You should do another twenty in a couple of minutes,” she said firmly.

  Dominique looked at her daughter’s slim figure, then down at her own lumpy form. “Easier said than done,” she remarked wryly. She turned over onto her stomach, her arms and legs splayed out in exhaustion. “What an awful way to spend our first weekend in Washington! We should be out exploring—the Smithsonian or something.”

  Suddenly Gabrielle was a little girl again. Her face lit with enthusiasm and she clapped her hands together. “Yeah, and can we see a movie after?”

  Dominique looked over her shoulder at her daughter. “What movie?”

  Gabrielle’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Klute?” she asked, flinching comically.

  Dominique rolled her eyes and pushed herself back into a supine position. She folded her arms behind her head as a pillow. “You know better than that!”

  “Aw, Mom!” Gabrielle moaned. “I’m old enough.”

  Dominique laughed at her daughter’s maudlin show of disappointment. “No! Besides, we still have to unpack.” She looked around at the cardboard boxes stacked against the walls. Their new place was small, and the boxes made it appear positively cramped. Especially when compared to the baronial home they had left behind in New Orleans. Dominique wondered what Solange’s reaction would be when she arrived from New York the following week. The older woman had exclaimed over the photographs of the cottage, but would the size come as a shock when she experienced it in person? “We should get these boxes unpacked before Grandmère comes,” Dominique said. “And, don’t forget, I start my job on Monday, so it has to be done this weekend.”

  “Are you scared about your new job?”

  Dominique looked up at Gabrielle’s worried face, thankful that her daughter was there. How alone she would have felt without her! And Dominique knew they would both be glad when Solange arrived. They needed a sense of family, now more than ever. “Why should I be scared?” Dominique said in a soothing voice. “I know what I’m doing and, besides, Grace Filmore is a very nice lady.” Dominique drew her limbs in and prepared to stand up.

  Gabrielle looked back at her mother, her gaze speculative. “The exercise is helping, you know,” she offered.

  Dominique, kneeling, looked down at herself. “You see a difference?”

  Gabrielle nodded. “Yeah.” The syllable ended with an uplift of surprise. “Yeah, I do.” Gabrielle folded her legs under her and sank to the floor. “Ready for another twenty?”

  “No!” Dominique protested. “Come on, let’s go out!” She pushed one foot under her and made as though to rise.

  Gabrielle gave her a reproachful look. “After you’ve finished your sit-ups,” she insisted. She tugged on the front of her mother’s sweatshirt.

  “Oh, all right!” Dominique conceded grumpily. She let her body fall backward, then heaved herself up and began to count.

  CHAPTER 22

  DOMINIQUE hurried through the sleek lobby of the office building until she reached the bank of brass-fronted elevators. As soon as she pressed “up,” she heard a chime, and a set of double doors slid open. Two men wearing pin-striped suits and holding briefcases emerged. With a thrill of anticipation, Dominique took their place. It was fun to be working again! To be on her way to “the office.”

  She pressed the button for the tenth floor and stepped to the back of the elevator. As the doors were about to close, she heard high heels beating a tattoo across the polished granite floor. A glossy brown hand with long, shining red nails thrust through the opening and determinedly shoved the doors apart.

  Into the car stepped one of the most stunning women Dominique had ever seen. She was perhaps six feet tall, with a close-cropped black Afro and impossibly high cheekbones. Even more dramatic was the vivid red ankle-length dress, slit to the thigh.

  Fashion model, Dominique thought immediately.

  “I’m sorry!” the young woman opposite her said. She was breathing hard from her run. “I’m late.” She glanced at her watch. “Not really late. It’s only nine, but I would have been if I hadn’t caught this elevator.” She gave Dominique a friendly glance with her long-lashed black eyes. They were heavily made up a la Cleopatra but, on her, anything less would have been out of place. The look worked sensationally.

  Dominique smiled. “What floor would you like?”

  The woman turned to the panel of buttons. “You’ve already pushed it. Are you going to Capital Events?”

  Dominique let out a startled laugh. “How did you know?”

  “Mrs. Filmore announced it at the staff meeting on Friday. So I guess you’re Dominique Parker.” She held out one of her perfectly manicured hands and said, “I’m Felice Michaels, the receptionist.”

  Dominique shook her hand and said, “Pleased to meet you.”

  The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened with a su
bdued whoosh.

  “Follow me!” said the woman with a bright smile. “It’s right here.” She stopped in front of a set of double glass doors opposite the elevators. Inside the office, the lights were on. “Uh-oh,” she said softly, “Dragon Lady’s here.”

  Dominique raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Mrs. Filmore?” The woman was one of the most refined and pleasant people Dominique had ever met.

  Felice expelled a whispered giggle. “Of course not! She’s an angel! But she only comes in about once a week.” She pushed open the door and leaned against it so Dominique could pass through. “You know, for important presentations, that sort of thing.” She paused and cast a secretive glance down the hall. “Sylvia Brussels pretty much runs the show.” She lowered her voice even more, and spoke in a manner both urgent and conspiratorial. “You should report to her right away.”

  Felice let the door fall closed behind Dominique, then hurried to the reception desk. It was an antique Regency writing table of a quality rarely found in offices. Dominique looked around at the rest of the furniture. All of it was fine, the sort one might expect to see in an embassy. But the muted cream and peach color scheme, and the pastoral landscapes on the walls, softened the elitist effect. Though it transmitted an aura of distinct success, the reception area was welcoming.

  Dominique had never before visited the office. Mrs. Filmore had instead invited her to lunch—“to give us a chance to get acquainted in a more relaxed setting”—treating her more like a social acquaintance than a prospective employee. “Your résumé is impressive and, of course, I hold Bruce’s opinion in the highest regard. You’re probably just what the firm needs. We have some very competent people, but I’ve been looking for someone with your social background. Someone who understands protocol and dinner service à la Russe, if you see what I mean.” Dominique saw. She told Mrs. Filmore about some of her recent projects. In the end, Mrs. Filmore said uncertainly, “You seem overqualified for the opening we have, but we could certainly use you.” Then she had smiled reassuringly. “And we reward good work with promotions.”

  Dominique had leapt at the offer, and Mrs. Filmore had visibly relaxed. “Enough business! You’re from New Orleans? You must know Loulou de la Houssaye. Really? Her place in Cap-Ferrat? August 1970? Why, we must have missed each other by just days!”

  In that glow of acceptance, Dominique would have felt boorish to press for details of her employment. The salary mentioned was adequate and her title would be that of project assistant. Only once had Grace Filmore uttered the name of Sylvia Brussels. “It’s a shame she’s out of town. She runs the office on a day-to-day basis and you’ll be reporting to her, for the most part. Don’t worry about it, though. I’m sure she’ll be delighted I’ve found someone of your background. Phone me when you’ve settled in your new house and I’ll let the staff know you’re to join us.”

  Now Dominique wished that Mrs. Filmore was available to introduce her to Sylvia Brussels. It would have been so much more comfortable than simply presenting herself to the unknown woman. Nervously, she asked Felice, “You’re sure Mrs. Filmore isn’t going to be in today?”

  Felice gave her a sympathetic look. “She’s in New York until Wednesday.”

  Dominique sighed and lifted the hand holding her purse. “If you could just point the way to my office, I’ll put this down before I go to see Miss Brussels.”

  Felice stood up and came around her desk, shaking her head from side to side. “Miss Brussels will assign you an office.” She put a hand on Dominique’s arm in a gesture of camaraderie. “I wouldn’t keep her waiting, if I were you.”

  Dominique tried to stifle her sense of disquiet. She took one last look around the reception area. Its gracious ambiance was reassuring. Then she turned back to the receptionist. Felice looked no older than her mid-twenties. Maybe this was her first job; it would explain her apparent fear of Sylvia Brussels.

  “How long have you been working here?” Dominique asked.

  “A year. I worked in a law office before, but was that ever boring!” Felice grimaced.

  Dominique laughed. “You certainly don’t look like the law office type,” she said in a way that made it sound complimentary.

  Felice smiled in acknowledgment. Then her expression turned serious. “Anyway, Mrs. Filmore is a sweetie. But” —she glanced at her wristwatch—“I’m keeping you from Miss Brussels. You’d better go on,” she said gently. She looked up at Dominique with an expression of encouragement. “Last door on the left. I’ll let her know you’re here.” She pointed down the hall.

  Dominique lifted her chin and, with what she hoped was a relaxed gait, headed in the direction Felice had indicated. The hall was as carefully decorated as the reception area, Dominique noted, with fine prints and recessed lighting. The very atmosphere was soothing.

  At the end of the hall, she stopped outside a closed door that announced, in brass letters, “Sylvia Brussels.” Before Dominique knocked, she glanced down at her suit to ensure that every seam was in place. The understated Halston of navy silk was several years old, but a classic. Dominique was relieved that she could fit into it again, for she never could have afforded it now. Knowing that it had been tailored for her gave her confidence; she felt polished and professional-looking.

  Dominique put a smile on her face and rapped on the door.

  Silence. A few seconds ticked by. She raised her hand hesitantly. Should she knock again?

  “Come in,” said an impatient voice.

  Dominique opened the door and stepped into a starkly modern space of chrome, black, and white.

  Sylvia Brussels glared at Dominique over the top of her glasses. They were thick, black-framed affairs perched halfway down her pointed nose and contrasting harshly with her frosted blond hair. The glasses, though, matched the rest of her outfit: a flawlessly cut black silk dress, black sheer stockings, and black pumps. Sylvia had the ghostly complexion of a person who rarely saw the sun, the only touches of color provided by her crimson lipstick and matching nails. Everything about her was hard-edged and cold.

  Determined to charm her into acceptance, Dominique took a step forward. “How do you do? I’m Dominique Parker.”

  “Right. The new girl.”

  Dominique tried not to flinch at the condescending phrase.

  Sylvia sat back in her chair and gave Dominique a suspicious look. “You have some connection with Mrs. Filmore?”

  “We have a mutual friend,” Dominique said calmly. “I didn’t meet Mrs. Filmore until the interview.”

  Sylvia shuffled some papers on her desk. “Right. In July. I was in Hong Kong.” Her tone seemed to imply that Dominique had contrived an interview at precisely the moment when Sylvia was out of town. She plucked a piece of paper from her desk and ran her eyes over it with deliberation. Then she gave Dominique a piercing look. “It says here that you’re from New Orleans. What’s that accent?”

  “French,” Dominique replied, meeting her gaze steadily. “But I’m completely bilingual. I speak Italian and a little Arabic, too.” She paused before continuing in a matter-of-fact tone. “Mrs. Filmore says that you do some work with embassies. I hope my languages will prove useful.”

  Sylvia sniffed and went back to studying Dominique’s résumé.

  Dominique shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. It was unforgivable that this woman should leave her standing. “May I sit down?” she asked pleasantly.

  Sylvia looked up, removed her glasses, and gave Dominique the fish eye. For a second, Dominique had the horrified feeling that her request would be turned down, and she was tempted to turn on her heel and walk out of the office. But she had to make Sylvia like her. Her job depended on it. Dominique forced an agreeable smile.

  With a flip of her wrist, Sylvia finally said, “This won’t take long, but go ahead.”

  Dominique realized she’d been holding her breath. She exhaled and sat, stiff and straight-backed, on one of the black leather and chrome chairs in front of Sylvia’s des
k.

  Sylvia cleared her throat and folded her hands in front of her like a judge ready to administer a sentence. “I hope Mrs. Filmore warned you that this isn’t a nine-to-five job. We work weekends and evenings and we don’t get much time off.”

  Dominique said with composure, “I remember what it was like. I look forward to the challenge.”

  Sylvia’s expression was cynical. “How long since you had a paying job?”

  You know the answer, Dominique thought angrily, my résumé is right in front of you. Aloud, she said, “A number of years, but payment really has nothing to do with the effort I put forward. When I worked on Senator Patout’s campaign or the Heart Fund ball, I tried to do as well as I did for Orman’s.”

  Sylvia pursed her lips and began to lecture, “This is not the same—” But the ringing of the telephone interrupted her.

  Felice’s voice came over the intercom. “Mrs. Hamilton, line one.”

  “I have to take this,” Sylvia snapped. She gave Dominique a dismissive wave of her hand. “Your office is all the way down the hall on the left.”

  Mrs. Filmore’s unobtrusive black sedan stopped in front of the high iron gates that so elegantly barricaded the entrance to the French embassy. Her driver lowered the window and announced his passengers, then the gates swung back and the car moved up the long, curving drive.

  Dominique’s pulse raced with anticipation as they drew near the main structure. The embassy looked like the country chateau of foreign nobility, its architecture distinctly European: light cornerstones on dark brick, leaded windows, and arched doorways. Set in a tree-dappled preserve in the exclusive Kalorama section of downtown Washington, the impressive acreage tumbled down a hill to Rock Creek Park, lending an air of splendid isolation to the property.