No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  Dominique’s expression turned to one of shock as Mark stood up with a jerky movement.

  She, too, stood abruptly. Her purse dropped to the floor, but she ignored it. She stretched her hand toward his. “Mark… listen…” she pleaded.

  He drew back sharply to avoid her touch.

  Dominique was aghast at the action. Mark had recoiled from her! “Mark!” she repeated, her voice rising in alarm. “We can work this out!”

  Mark looked down at Dominique and it took all his willpower not to draw her to him. He wanted her in his arms. He wanted to tell her that he would continue to love her on whatever terms she set. But he felt a heavy pressure on his heart, as though someone had laid an iron weight on his chest. It prevented him from speaking.

  Dominique gazed in despair at Mark. He looked stony, immovable, foreign to her. She wanted to thrust away the barrier, to bring Mark back to her. She couldn’t bear this cold stranger. “I love you, Mark,” she said, her voice resonant with feeling.

  The words jarred Mark. “Whatever you mean by that, it’s obviously not the same thing I do,” he said.

  Dominique blushed like a person disgraced. Mark had given generously and completely of himself, but she had been incapable of doing the same. She looked down at her feet. For the first time, she noticed that the contents of her purse had spilled onto the rug. She stared at them, not making a move.

  Mark felt protective tenderness well up in him as he observed Dominique’s slumped shoulders. His eyes traveled to the springy waves on top of her head, an incongruously lively note in the heavy atmosphere. His fingers wriggled involuntarily with the urge to caress them. He fought the impulse and clenched his fists tightly. He waited for her to speak. If she gave him a sign of encouragement—any sign at all …

  Dominique stood silently, her eyes downcast. She felt Mark’s gaze on her—could sense the accusation in it and could think of nothing to counter it. Her heart twisted in pain at the thought of living her life without Mark. She remembered the loneliness of the first days without Clay and knew it would be a thousand times worse this time, for Mark had given a thousand times more of himself. He had filled her life as Clay had never done. He had loved her as no one had ever done. She wanted—no, ached for—a way to hold him. But she knew he would not accept a promise without conviction.

  Wearily, with an air of defeat, she knelt and slowly picked up the contents of her purse. Had this been any other moment, she knew that Mark would have rushed to pick up the items himself. The thought made her feel heartbreakingly lonely. Through blurred eyes, she watched his feet step back from her line of vision. She deliberately slowed her movements. She concentrated on placing each item in its own compartment of her purse. She wanted to immerse herself in the methodical act, to forget the reality of what was to come. She wanted to remain kneeling on the floor, to collapse against the soft chair and bury her face in her arms. But when each item was in place, she automatically clicked her purse shut.

  For a moment, she did not rise. Her posture was that of an old woman, exhausted after an activity that would not have troubled a younger person. Then, reluctantly, and with great effort, she pushed herself to her feet. She stood immobile and tried to gather her strength. An illogical, unfounded shred of hope kept her eyes on the patterned rug before her. Until she raised her eyes and looked around the room, she could still try to convince herself that Mark was there.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” came the voice of the waitress. “Will there be anything else?”

  Dominique turned hollow eyes to the young woman. As though observing a movie about two strangers, she saw the waitress’ expression turn to one of concern. “Is anything wrong?” a voice asked her.

  Dominique heard herself say, “No, no, thank you. I’m just leaving.” How calm she sounded. How normal. How had she managed to make that voice emerge? Dominique turned away from the waitress and looked about the room. She felt sick and disoriented. Where was she to go next? She couldn’t quite remember. Everything seemed murky and out of focus. Only one fact was clearly imprinted on her mind. Mark was gone, as she had known he would be.

  The next day, the newspaper had this to say:

  Well, Dear Readers, the fuss over one itsy-bitsy column! We’ve been taken to task for implying that Dominique Parker’s Affairs to Remember owes its success to… well… an Affair to Remember. Socialite Grace Filmore, owner of Capital Events, tells us that Dear Dominique is one of the most capable event planners who ever worked for her. And she called from Italy to tell us so!

  Says the très distinguée Mrs. Filmore, “Everyone in this field has social connections. One can’t get along without them. Dominique’s friendship with Senator Patout doesn’t account for her success. She has almost twenty years’ experience in event planning and she’s just wonderful at what she does.” So there.

  As for the cause of the brouhaha, Mrs. Parker shrugs off nasty innuendo. “Whoever made those remarks to you was trying to damage my reputation, but lacked the courage to do it in public. I pity anyone who feels that kind of jealousy. In any event, I question the validity of sources who want to remain anonymous and you should, too.”

  Dominique could barely muster a feeling of satisfaction at the column. Yesterday, it was all she could focus on. Today, it seemed unimportant in light of her break with Mark.

  Her heart was too heavy to explain to her family what had transpired with him. Instead, she invented a Senate fact-finding mission to Australia, confident that neither Gabrielle nor Solange would discover the truth for some time.

  As the days wore on, Gabrielle and Solange both noticed that Dominique seemed glum and edgy, but they attributed the mood to Mark’s absence and—unknowingly cruel—teased Dominique about it. It took all Dominique’s will to smile weakly at their jokes. She felt instead like bursting into tears. A hundred times a day her hand reached for the phone. Her fingers had learned the touch of Mark’s number and itched to move that way. It required physical effort to restrain herself.

  The only palliative for Dominique’s suffering was work. She immersed herself in it, staying at the office late into the night. And each morning when Dominique entered her suite, she reminded herself, “This is what you wanted. This is why…”

  The ringing phone was torment. It was Carter’s job to answer it, and Dominique had to fight the urge to snatch it up as soon as she heard it. Dominique invariably held her breath and cocked her ear as Carter greeted callers. When she heard Carter laugh and joke, her heart beat faster. Could it be Mark? Then Carter would buzz her and announce Felice or Danielle or another familiar name. Dominique’s stomach would plummet with disappointment and she would have to force herself to be cheerfully welcoming. In truth, she felt like shrieking, “Don’t tie up the line! Mark might be trying to get through!”

  Then, one Sunday morning, Felice called her at home with news that made her both happy and melancholy. Dominique knew at once it was something monumental, because Felice never awakened before eleven on the weekend and it was only nine o’clock. Dominique herself was still in bed.

  “Charles asked me to marry him last night!” Felice chortled.

  Dominique’s spirits soared at the news. “That’s wonderful!”

  “I want you to be a bridesmaid! June first. Please? I promise no ugly flowered dresses.” Her voice turned dreamy. “I’m thinking of doing everything in ivory. The flowers, the attendants, everything. Except”—she sounded a cautionary note—“none of those awful white tuxedoes for the men.” She sighed and bubbled on. “It’s going to be strictly traditional. Very elegant. What do you think?”

  Dominique laughed. “I can’t imagine anything nicer. Where will it be?”

  “We’ve already checked on the National Cathedral. There’s a chapel available that day. And for the reception, Mrs. Filmore’s offered her place.”

  “Good heavens! How elegant.”

  “So you’ll do it? You’ll be a bridesmaid?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Dominique s
aid warmly.

  After she hung up, though, the feeling of good cheer abandoned her. She looked at the empty pillow next to hers and thought of Mark. It had been two weeks since she’d seen him and she missed him to the point of physical pain. When she crawled into bed at night, she was sharply reminded of her loneliness. In the dark silence, she tortured herself with the memory of Mark’s arms about her. And, despite her fatigue, she found it difficult to sleep.

  CHAPTER 29

  MARK Patout wheeled sharply and stared at the woman disappearing down the hall of the Dirksen Senate Office Building. The hair was unmistakably Dominique’s! His heart pounded as he reversed his course and followed the woman’s clicking heels. Then the absurdity of his action struck him. What would Dominique be doing in the senate building? He slowed and watched the woman turn into an office. Her profile was pert, with classic Irish features and a generous sprinkling of freckles. Nothing like Dominique.

  Mark’s face fell. He stood motionless in the hallway as people milled about him. For a moment, he forgot his destination as he thought of Dominique. He kept hoping he’d run into her, but he never did. Soon he would be going home for the holidays and, of course, there’d be no chance of seeing her there. He rubbed his face bemusedly and, with a slow step, turned and headed for his office. No point in hurrying. There was little he looked forward to—the zest was gone from his life. He was still mourning Dominique, though he hated himself for his weakness.

  Mark entered his office through his private door, bypassing the waiting room full of lobbyists and constituents. Normally, Mark made it a point to greet them all, but he didn’t feel like smiling and acting cheerful today. Dammit, seeing that woman had taken it out of him.

  He slumped into his chair and stared at the message slips on his desk. After a few moments of brooding, he picked them up and halfheartedly flipped through them. Lobbyists. The governor of Louisiana. Buffy Coleman, a prominent Washington hostess and fund-raiser. She was trying to introduce him to new women, now that she no longer saw Mark with Dominique. What a social coup if her matchmaking succeeded!

  With a noise of disgust Mark threw the pile of papers back on the desk. He wondered if he would ever see Dominique’s name on one of the little pink slips. He was tempted to call her. Always tempted. But what was the use? He wanted one thing, Dominique another. The next move had to be hers, no matter how much it cost him to hold back. But would she ever make that move? Did she miss him? Or was she already seeing other people? Was she so afraid of marriage that she would remain single for the rest of her life? Mark’s heart twisted at the thought.

  If only he could get over the pain and longing, he could live without her love. He had lived all his life without it and had been reasonably content. He had enjoyed women, felt deeply affectionate toward some, been wildly attracted to others. There had been no depth to his feelings, and that had been supportable—even desirable—for a man who wished to devote his life to politics. But now there was the pain. Eventually, he knew, it would have to stop. But when?

  Mark fingered the pile of message slips on his desk, fretfully tearing at the corner of one of them. He had almost destroyed the top third of the paper when he realized he needed it to return the call. He looked at the name on the slip. Buffy Coleman. Probably calling to invite him to a dinner party. With Christmas just two weeks away, the social season was at its peak. Buffy would want to introduce him to yet another attractive woman. Mark predicted that she would be too young for him, but avidly interested nonetheless. A U.S. Senator had that effect, he thought cynically. Then he sighed. Maybe a flirtation, some friendly companionship, would help him fight his way out of the blue murk of depression. He was tired of being lonely. Tired of longing for something he couldn’t have.

  He picked up the phone and, with a desultory tap of his index finger, dialed Buffy’s number.

  Carter beamed as Dominique walked into the office, a container of yogurt and a plastic spoon in her hand.

  “You won’t believe it!” the younger woman said breathlessly. “Just after you left for lunch, the Corcoran called.”

  Dominique halted just inside the door. Her heart thudded so hard that she felt it in her throat. “Cecilia Bernhardt?”

  “Yes, and she asked you to call as soon as possible. She said she has a one o’clock lunch.”

  Dominique automatically glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s already twelve thirty-five!”

  Without bothering to remove her coat, she hurried into her own office. She sat down at her desk and dialed the number. As she listened to the ring of the telephone, she nervously bit her lip. She was relieved when Cecilia answered her own line.

  The other woman greeted her warmly. “I’m glad you caught me,” she said.

  Dominique beamed at her tone. She would enjoy working with Cecilia. They’d hit it off right from the start. She waited expectantly for the other woman to continue.

  “Dominique, I can’t tell you how impressed we were with your proposal. Everyone on the committee thought it was exceptionally well thought out.” There was a silence that seemed endless to Dominique. She gripped the telephone receiver tightly.

  Cecilia continued. “But I’m sorry to tell you that the committee decided to go with our public relations firm instead.”

  Dominique stopped breathing. Her mouth went dry. How could it be? The public relations firm had just opened its event planning division—they had almost no experience! And Cecilia had loved Dominique’s ideas—had understood immediately what Dominique was trying to accomplish. For her part, Dominique had done everything she could to keep the plan’s cost down, to make her proposal the most attractive. She thought of the long, wearying evenings she and Carter had spent in the office. What had gone wrong? Struggling for calm, Dominique said, “Can you tell me why?”

  “Well… I…” There was an uncomfortable pause. “It was a variety of factors.”

  Suddenly, Dominique understood. Sylvia! That damned newspaper column! Crimson rage flooded her vision. She closed her eyes and clasped her free hand to her forehead. The pulse at her temple throbbed against her fingers. Dominique wanted to scream at the hapless Cecilia, How could you believe that trash! Instead, her throat tight, she asked, “Did the rumors about me and Senator Patout have anything to do with it?”

  Cecilia answered with her usual serene deliberation. “We know your capabilities are genuine.”

  What the hell did that mean? Dominique pressed the phone to her ear and sat very still, concentrating hard on Cecilia’s words.

  “Certainly, we don’t lend credence to malicious gossip. But…” Cecilia faltered. “You see, our artists often rely on government grants. I’m sure you understand that even the appearance of undue influence—”

  “Yes,” Dominique cut her off. She couldn’t listen anymore. It was nauseating, infuriating, outrageous. But the worst part was, she couldn’t blame the Corcoran for its stance. Had she been on their board, she might have reached the same decision.

  Cecilia’s voice dropped. In a soothing tone, she said, “Personally, Dominique, I’d have liked to see you get the contract. And I hope you’ll compete in the future. People have such short memories. But this thing was so recent…. You see what I mean?”

  Dominique could sense her genuine sympathy. But what good did it do, she wondered bitterly? On the other hand, why burn her bridges? In truth, this woman regarded her kindly. In an even voice, Dominique replied, “I understand. Of course, I’d be honored to compete again. Perhaps I can call you in a few months to discuss your plans for the future?”

  “That would be wonderful.” Cecilia sounded relieved.

  As soon as she hung up, Carter, her step tentative, appeared in the doorway.

  Dominique shifted her gaze to the young woman.

  Carter’s expression fell. “You don’t need to say anything. I can read it on your face.”

  Dominique stared at Carter, not really seeing her. “I didn’t realize quite how much I’d been counting on that job.�
�� She thought of the new staffer she’d wanted to hire, the coat she’d wanted to buy Gabrielle for Christmas, the bonus for Carter.

  “Dominique, you look absolutely frazzled. Maybe you should take the afternoon off.” The younger woman’s brow creased with worry.

  “No!” Dominique said sharply. She shook her head. Then in a weary voice, “We have a million things to do.” There was the opening of the new boutique next week, just in time to capitalize on Christmas shopping. There was the fund-raiser for Congresswoman Parnell at the beginning of February. They were small jobs. Little money. But enough to keep her business afloat. She couldn’t afford to let things slide just because she was disappointed.

  Carter watched her with a look of deep concern. Dominique gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s discouraging, but I suppose it’s all part of doing business.”

  Carter smiled back. “Anyhow, we have plenty to keep us busy.”

  “But”—Dominique scowled—“we still need more business.”

  “More business but not more work!” Carter laughed. Dominique joined in her laughter. She was beginning to feel a little better. Work energized her. And she liked the feeling of control it gave her to be her own boss. Even with the disappointments and stress, she was glad she had started her own business. Now if only she could turn it into a living!

  “Lunch tomorrow? That would be delightful.” Dominique smiled into the phone at Michelle de la Croix. Over the course of their relationship, the Frenchwoman had become as much friend as client. But today, the ambassador’s wife was all business.

  “I have a proposal for you. I’ve been thinking about it for some time, but I was waiting for the holidays to be over.”

  Dominique’s curiosity was piqued. Another assignment? Her heart beat faster. Aside from the pleasure of working with Michelle, she could use the money. Congress wouldn’t be back in session for another two weeks, stores were caught in the January doldrums, and everyone was tired from holiday entertaining. She didn’t expect any new contracts until February, at the earliest.