“So beautiful!” Dominique exclaimed as it spread its wings and with barely a splash floated off the water.
A few minutes later, Dominique pointed excitedly. “Look!” A brown-and-white mother duck paddled near shore, six ducklings in a row behind her.
Mark smiled. “There’s bread in the cooler.” He spoke softly so as not to disturb the creatures. “Let’s feed them.” He lifted his oar out of the water and let the canoe drift.
Quietly, he opened the cooler and located a plastic bag. Dominique watched as Mark crumbled the bread into pieces tiny enough for the ducklings. Then he released it on the water. After a few cautious forays, the mother duck eagerly plunged toward the bread, the babies lagging a little behind her. Mark beamed at the scene. When the ducks had eaten every bit, Mark turned to Dominique. “How about you? Are you hungry?”
“Starving!”
“Then you should start paddling,” he joked. “We’ll hit ground in no time.”
“That’s cruel!” Dominique pretended outrage, but her broad smile let him know she wasn’t insulted.
Indeed, they did reach shore quickly with Mark paddling alone. He hopped out and dragged the canoe out of the water so that Dominique’s feet wouldn’t get too muddy. Afterward, they trooped a short way through the forest and back onto the path.
“There’s a nice big grassy area near Teddy Roosevelt’s statue,” Mark said over his shoulder. After a few minutes, the trees began to thin and Dominique spotted a broad, circular meadow. The center lay in full sun, the perimeter in dappled shade created by the new spring growth on the trees overhead. Directly opposite them was a bronze statue of Teddy Roosevelt.
“It looks like it’s just going to be us and him,” Mark said with a satisfied smile. “Where do you want to sit?”
Dominique looked around the cleared area trying to decide among a variety of enticing spots. “How about under that tree?” She pointed to a rough-barked maple whose leaves were just beginning to unfurl.
“Looks good.”
After they had spread their blanket and sat down, Mark pulled from the cooler a bottle of white wine, a variety of cheeses, crackers, and chicken sandwiches.
“You thought of everything!” Dominique said.
Mark looked into the cooler with a frown of puzzlement. “There’s something else,” he said in a preoccupied voice.
Dominique watched in amusement as he searched through the ice.
“Aha!” he crowed, pulling out two frozen Snickers bars. He gave Dominique a look of mock gravity. “You do like these, I hope.”
Dominique grinned. “Love them.”
Mark pretended to wipe sweat from his brow. “Phew! As long as we have Snickers in common… That’s very important, you know.” He carefully laid them on top of the ice, then closed the cooler.
Dominique couldn’t seem to stop smiling. Everything Mark did seemed agreeable—either funny or polite or thoughtful.
Dominique held the two chilled wine glasses as Mark poured the golden liquid into them. When he was finished, Mark clinked his glass against hers. “To our future,” he said softly. He gave her a searching look.
Dominique’s eyes locked with his as she brought the glass to her lips. The wine exploded on her tongue in a cool shower of fruit and oak and butter. It was one of those rare moments of perfect beauty. The smell of spring, the sweet current of air that rustled through the trees. Mark’s green eyes, bright and expectant. His smile.
Dominique stared at him, her gaze lingering on each of his features. Suddenly, time and movement stopped. In that one breathless second, she was captured by the electricity that surged between them.
Mark sat immobile, his gaze fixed on her, suddenly tense, waiting. His magnetism was inescapable. Dominique felt as though she were being pulled toward him. She had no will of her own. Hypnotized, she moved forward until her face was close to his. She could almost taste his lips, feel their flesh. Every nerve ending strained toward him.
For an instant she paused, vibrating on the edge of motion. Then, ever so slowly, she reached for him. Her palm brushed the springy hair on the back of his neck. Brought him closer. She felt the warmth of his breath, of his skin. And then she kissed him.
Ten days later, on a Saturday morning, Dominique sat at the breakfast table in a dispirited mood. At her elbow was a smartly bound navy-blue folder: her business plan. The banks she had visited had praised it, as well as Dominique’s impressive background and determination. But, they said regretfully, she didn’t have the contracts necessary for a loan. Even if she had, one banker gently told her, her lack of personal credit would have made it almost impossible for him to convince his board to approve a loan.
Solange, sitting across the table drinking her coffee, remarked, “You seem glum. What’s wrong?”
Dominique sighed and looked down at the plan. “I suppose I should tell you… I’ve been thinking of starting my own business. That is,” she added ruefully, “if I can get a loan, which, so far, doesn’t seem likely.” She watched her mother carefully, not sure of what reaction to expect. Would she be skeptical, like Danielle?
Solange’s eyes widened with pleasure. “That sounds interesting. You could make a lot more money than you do now. Besides”—she sniffed—“you wouldn’t have to report to that awful Sylvia.” She looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then back at Dominique. “Yes, I think it’s a good idea,” she said breezily.
Dominique wondered if Solange understood what owning a business entailed. How involved had she been in running the cotton business in Egypt? Had it all been left to caretakers? Dominique wasn’t sure. What she did know was that Solange had almost never gone to the office near the Port of Alexandria.
“Why do you need a loan?” Solange asked, confirming Dominique’s doubts.
What good was Solange’s approval if it was based on nothing more than the pleasant sound of the idea? Dominique rubbed her temple fretfully. “I need an office and a business telephone, stationery, and cards. Someone to help me.”
Solange looked skeptical. “That sounds expensive. Can’t you install an extra telephone line here and work out of the house?”
Dominique shook her head regretfully. “How can I have an employee here? It’s crowded enough as it is.”
Solange looked down at her coffee cup. She was silent for a few moments. Then, in a solemn voice, “I could go back to New York. You could use my room as an office.”
“No!” Dominique said at once. She was surprised at how strongly she rebelled against the idea. “I don’t want that.” Dominique fixed her eyes on her mother’s. It occurred to her that she needed her—or at least wanted her—for moral support.
“But we have to be practical—” Solange started to lecture, then she stopped. The stiffness went out of her posture and she gave Dominique a grateful look. “May I see that?” She pointed at the business plan.
Dominique shrugged and slid the packet across the table to Solange. She wasn’t sure her mother would understand it, not because it was in English—business terms were almost the same in French as in English—but because she doubted her mother’s familiarity with such documents. “I don’t see any way to improve it, but all the banks have said no.” She didn’t mean to sound so hopeless. After all, she still had a job. It wasn’t as though her family’s livelihood depended on her starting her own business. On the contrary, it might be jeopardized by it. But, somehow, she had worked herself into a high pitch of excitement over the plan, and the idea of simply going on at Capital Events was defeating.
She gave Solange a wan half-smile and waited for her mother’s response.
Solange simply nodded, then lowered her head and stared thoughtfully at the report. After a moment, she asked, “Where did you get this rental figure? It seems low.”
Dominique explained about the law office nearby.
Solange raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “That’s a bargain.” She went back to studying the document. “What about this figure for inve
stment capital?”
Dominique inwardly winced, expecting condemnation. “The money from the sale of the house and things.”
Solange looked up, her expression concerned. “And that’s not enough?”
No warnings? No criticism of Dominique’s use of her life’s savings? For a moment, she was too surprised to reply. “Uh, no. You see, I need at least a year’s cushion.” She frowned. “After all, our livelihood will depend on this.”
For several minutes, neither woman spoke. Dominique found herself forgetting her own problem as she studied her mother. Solange was normally so argumentative and determined. Clearly, she knew more about business than Dominique had initially thought. Why wasn’t she urging Dominique to try other avenues? Why wasn’t she berating her for not going about things differently?
But Solange remained quiet, her expression studious as she went over the plan.
Mollified, Dominique tried to summon words of optimism, but she could think of none. She would simply have to put aside a little money each month until she had saved enough to leave her job. Or perhaps she could come up with an alternative plan. Dominique cradled her cheek in her hand and tried to think creatively.
She was concentrating so intensely that the sound of her mother’s voice startled her.
“We have the jewelry,” Solange said quietly.
Dominique heard the words, but they didn’t immediately register.
Solange seemed to understand this, for she elaborated. “The diamond bracelet, the rings, the whole lot that I took out of Egypt. If you sold it, you’d have enough.”
Dominique dropped the hand that held her face and sat upright in her chair. She shook her head vehemently. “That’s out of the question—it’s everything you own!”
Solange gazed seriously at her daughter. “The jewelry will be yours one day. Anyhow, it’s much too elaborate for these times. We should sell it,” she said decisively.
Impossible! Dominique thought. Solange treasured the gems, wore them proudly at every opportunity. These were not jewels kept in a safe-deposit box and only brought out once in a decade. Solange donned her rubies as casually as the youngsters on the street wore peace symbols. Her emerald engagement ring never left her hand. And she eagerly pounced on excuses to wear her diamond earrings. She even found occasion to adorn herself with the glittering bracelet once or twice a year.
The jewels were Solange’s link to a life that had long since disappeared. To sell them was to sell the family’s past, its heritage. “Mother, how can you think of parting with them? They were your mother’s. And Father’s mother’s. We’ll never see workmanship like that again. And”—she shook her head—“they’re part of you. Part of us.” She finished in a sad voice. “You’ve always been so proud of them.”
Solange averted her eyes, then pushed herself up from the table and brusquely moved to the coffeepot. Dominique half turned in her chair to follow her mother’s movements. Solange poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, then returned to the table and sat down. She regarded her daughter steadily. “It doesn’t pay to be attached to pieces of stone and metal.”
Dominique knew Solange had more to say, but she appeared lost in thought. Her eyes had the distant expression they sometimes got when she spoke of Egypt before the trouble. A tremor went through the older woman, then her eyes focused once more on Dominique. She leaned toward her daughter, her expression ardent. “Those jewels—they aren’t alive.” She placed a hand on her chest. “We’re alive! You need your freedom, and that jewelry can buy it for you. Believe me, aside from good health, there is nothing as valuable as independence!” Her words spilled out in an impassioned flow.
Dominique looked at her mother with astonishment. Solange’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered.
“But… what if I don’t make a go of the business? What if we sell them for nothing?”
Solange’s lips tightened into a decisive line. “That won’t happen. Look at all you’ve done so far.” She spread her hands expansively. “Your life fell apart not once, but twice, and both times you recovered and went on to new success.”
“But, Mother,” Dominique said with a grave expression, “I didn’t have a choice then.” She paused. “I don’t feel comfortable taking the security you—”
Solange’s palm slammed down on the tabletop. “Well then consider how I feel! You think I enjoy being indebted to my own daughter? All these years, I’ve depended on you and Danielle—mostly you! I never thought anything like this could happen to me. We had so much!” she cried, as though she still couldn’t fathom the loss. She bit the inside of her mouth and turned her head away.
Dominique stared at her mother in disbelief. All these years, Solange had accepted their help as though it were expected, voicing gratitude only rarely. And, indeed, neither Dominique nor Danielle had expected gratitude. This was the culture in which they had been raised. One helped family. Suddenly, though, Dominique realized that Solange’s insouciance was an act—an act designed to preserve her dignity. It was not in Solange’s nature to cast herself in the role of poor relation, particularly when it would serve no purpose. Now, though, it would serve a purpose, and she was for the first time willing to admit what had gone unspoken for years.
In a bitter voice, Solange said, “I’ve just been a burden to you! Who in Egypt would have imagined things could change so?”
Dominique was immeasurably moved. She shoved her chair back and went to her mother’s side. Then she knelt and enclosed Solange in her arms. “You don’t owe me anything,” she whispered. “You’re my mother!”
Solange gently disengaged herself from her daughter. She splayed her hands on the tabletop and looked down at them. For several seconds she sat that way, her shoulders slumped, her eyes fixed. Then she straightened her back and, ever so slowly, took off her rings, all save her gold wedding band. She raised her chin and met Dominique’s eyes with a look of dignified resolve. “You’d be doing me a favor to take them.” She gently reached for Dominique’s hand and opened it, then dropped the rings into her palm. Finally, Solange folded Dominique’s fingers over the jewels and pressed her own hands on either side of Dominique’s, almost as though in prayer.
Dominique’s throat tightened. She didn’t trust herself to speak. She put her head against her mother’s chest and hugged her close. The older woman’s arms closed around her, strong and warm.
CHAPTER 26
DOMINIQUE opened the manila folder on her desk, then pressed the intercom to her assistant. “Did you send the seating arrangement for the Capitol Hill luncheon to the Comtesse de la Croix?”
In the outer office, the secretarial chair squeaked. An instant later, a statuesque redhead rolled into the doorway. “She says it’s fine. I’ve already sent a copy to the Secret Service.”
Dominique gave Carter James a smile of approval. Thanks to Carter, the details of the French president’s visit were largely under control. Dominique could count on her. “Make sure that Congressman Rosen’s office gets a copy, too. And let’s pray he doesn’t have any changes.”
Carter grinned. “Done.” She used her hands to push her chair away from the threshold and was gone in a leggy blur.
Dominique had met the American University graduate student at a dinner party given by Felice. The two younger women took a class together in business administration.
“Pretty gutsy of Dominique to start her own business, don’t you think?” Felice had proudly asked the group gathered around the dinner table. “I would’ve gone with her if she could afford me.”
They’d all laughed, but later, Carter had expressed an interest in coming to work for Dominique. “I won’t be as expensive as Felice,” she’d said with a reassuring smile. “I just want experience in event planning. Felice has made it sound so interesting.” At the time, Carter was supporting her night school classes by modeling in department stores.
“I’m sick and tired of threatening to spray innocent shoppers with perfume!” she had explained with
a chuckle.
Dominique had studied the glamorous young woman dubiously. “This job would involve a lot of menial tasks.”
Carter had nodded firmly and said, “I’m not afraid of that. It’s the only way to learn the business.”
Dominique had remained unconvinced. “How can you work full time if you’re still in school?”
“I worked full time while I was earning my undergraduate degree, and I have to work full time while I earn my MBA,” Carter said in a no-nonsense fashion.
That impressed Dominique and she had agreed to a one-month trial period. Now, almost three months later, Carter was virtually indispensable. Not only did she help with events, she ordered office supplies, paid bills, kept the books, and generally freed Dominique to pursue new clients and manage events.
Things had been very slow the first month, and Dominique had begun to worry that her funds would run out even sooner than she had projected. Then, one day, her name had appeared coupled with Mark Patout’s in a Washington column.
No one created a greater stir at the glittering Italian embassy soirée last night than the very eligible, very attractive Senator Mark Patout. On his arm was a diminutive titian-haired mystery woman with a très piquant French accent. I don’t need to tell you, Dear Reader, that all the bachelorettes were hoping she had just flown in from the Continent for a short visit. No such luck, girls (sigh). Turns out she’s a former resident of the Senator’s home state (giving a whole new meaning to the term constituent services). That’s right, she’s from that party capital, New Orleans, and she’s moved to Washington to show us how to throw great galas. Until recently, she was at savvy Grace Filmore’s Capital Events and now she’s opened a shop of her own in Georgetown, Affairs to Remember. Could it be she’s trying to tell us something?
Dominique was annoyed at the piece, until the calls started coming in. Mark Patout was a powerful senator and there wasn’t a lobbyist in Washington who couldn’t immediately envision the benefits of hiring his “friend.” Before the day was out, Dominique had firm commitments for two Capitol Hill receptions and one sit-down dinner in the Chevy Chase mansion of a prominent lawyer campaigning for appointment to the Supreme Court. These sorts of events didn’t bring in a tremendous amount of money—not like huge galas held on behalf of charities or museums. Such established institutions didn’t need to seek out Mark Patout’s favor, so they were not the ones to respond to the column. But the smaller events were a start, and they paid the rent.
No More Lonely Nights Page 47