No More Lonely Nights (23 page)

“It would be too crowded. If you don’t mind, I’ll put Lana in the middle with you and I’ll keep Monique.”

Solange expressed delight with this arrangement. She reached into her pocketbook and found lemon drops to give the children, then helped Lana into the seat. The little girl held her grandmother’s hand and obeyed her as though she had known her all her life.

A few seconds later, Ron got in. “All set?” he asked, a barely concealed edge to his voice. Without waiting for an answer, he started the car. Solange, cooing over her granddaughter, seemed not to notice him. But a few moments later, she turned to Danielle and said, in French, “He’s not happy to have me, I gather.”

Danielle shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

“Of course Americans don’t look after their families the way Europeans do,” Solange said derisively. She shrugged, then glanced again at the man beside her. “He’s changed. He doesn’t have that dash anymore. And he’s put on weight, hasn’t he?” she asked in the same tone.

Danielle sighed,
“Oui, Maman.
”

Solange shifted her gaze to Dominique. “You’ve lost some.” She was silent as she assessed her younger daughter. Finally, she announced. “It suits you, I think. You had a tendency to plumpness.”

“I was never overweight!” Dominique snapped.

“No…” Solange conceded calmly, “but you had a
tendency
…”

Dominique was about to reply sharply when she felt Danielle nudge her. She clamped her mouth shut and stared out the window. Why did her mother always have this effect on her?

“Danielle, you look wonderful,” Dominique heard Solange say. “You’ve grown even prettier than when you were eighteen.” Solange sighed and turned to face forward again. “Maybe Dominique will, too.”

Dominique swiveled her head to face her mother, her posture one of outrage. She stared at the back of Solange’s head, a retort burning on her tongue. Again, Danielle nudged her. Dominique looked at her sister. Danielle smiled sympathetically and murmured in English, “Ignore her.”

“What?” Solange asked from the front seat.

“Nothing, Mother,” Danielle answered in French. “I was just talking to Monique.”

“Oh.” Solange turned again toward the back seat. “As soon as we get home, remind me to show you the jewelry I brought from Cairo.”

“I thought you couldn’t take jewelry,” Danielle said.

“I hid it in my brassiere and under my hat. I couldn’t get much out because I knew they would search all the trunks.” Solange said this so casually that Dominique wondered if the older woman fully grasped the danger she had been in. She shuddered as she remembered the experience with the customs police. After that, how could Solange have been so reckless?

Danielle asked, “Did they let you bring any money?”

“None.” She turned and fixed her gaze on Dominique and said seriously, “I wanted to help you, you know. I would have sent money if I could. I was”—she seemed momentarily at a loss for words—“very distressed,” she concluded.

Dominique was surprised. “You don’t think I was wrong to leave Anton?”

“After all… no.” Solange said thoughtfully. She turned back around as though to end the conversation.

Dominique looked at Danielle. The sisters mirrored each other’s expressions of comic disbelief.

After a few moments, Danielle leaned forward in her seat and pointed out the windshield. “Mother, this is Central Park.”

“My heavens, but it’s huge!” Golden hills and forest stretched into the distance. Walking paths wound charmingly through the vista. “This is lovely!” Solange exclaimed. She tilted her head and looked out the windshield, taking in the skyline. “I’ve never seen buildings so high in my life!”

“Look! Horsies!” cried Lana, bouncing with excitement.

Solange didn’t understand the word, but she looked where Lana was pointing and exclaimed in delight at the horse-drawn buggy. “Just like Egypt!”

Dominique laughed. “That’s the first thing I said when I arrived. Probably we’re the only two people in the world who think that Cairo and New York are similar.”

“It’s certainly as crowded. And as noisy,” Solange observed. Then a delighted smile lit her features. “Ah, look at the beautiful houses!” she said, pointing at the old Italianate mansions on Fifth Avenue, opposite the park.

“These are mostly clubs and apartments now, Mother. Individual families used to own them though,” Danielle said.

Solange fell quiet. After a moment, she sighed heavily. “Things don’t always change for the better, do they?”

Dominique’s heart went out to her mother. To start over with nothing at age fifty-three! She put a hand on Solange’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you again,” she said softly.

Solange half turned and covered Dominique’s hand with her own. “It’s good to see you, too, darling.” She looked at Danielle. “All of you.”

Seconds later, Ronald smoothly pulled the car into the space in front of their building. The doorman hurried out to help them with the bags.

Just as Dominique emerged from the car, another man sauntered up to the group. He wore a cheap business suit and dark glasses. “Dominique Renard?” he said.

Automatically, Dominique answered, “Yes?” She was puzzled by the use of Anton’s last name. She used her maiden name now.

He handed her a folded sheath of papers and walked away.

“What the hell…” Ron said. He came from his side of the car to stand protectively beside the women. “What is it?”

Dominique couldn’t imagine. Her heart pounding, she unfolded the document and scanned it in silence. Then she threw back her head and burst out laughing.

“What?” Danielle demanded to know.

Dominique waved the papers victoriously above her head. “Sometimes it pays to be poor! Anton must have found out that they took Mother’s plantation,” she chortled, “because
he’s
suing
me
for divorce!”

DOMINIQUE was one of three secretaries in Orman’s public relations department, and she had quickly made friends with the other two. Lucinda Marsh was a pretty blonde of twenty-two who had recently graduated from Vassar. She was actually more than a secretary, for her social connections made her a valuable aide to Bruce when he organized store events.

The other secretary, Maude Frazier, was a forty-year-old war widow. The attractive brunette efficiently processed mountains of paper each day. She typed one hundred words a minute, took excellent shorthand, and after two years with Bruce anticipated his needs before he even knew them.

Hank Benson, the store’s press secretary, was an affable fellow in his mid-thirties—a string bean of a man with a shock of thick black hair and an easy laugh.

All three welcomed Dominique with genuine pleasure. The women were so sure of their own skills that they felt not in the least threatened by her. Dominique, in turn, was ecstatic to have found friends to stave off her loneliness. On Friday of her second week, the two women invited her to join them for dinner at a nearby restaurant. Afterward, they all went to a movie. Dominique felt that her life was finally falling into place.

Meanwhile, Orman’s was preparing for its Christmas gala, where lavish, one-of-a-kind gifts would be auctioned for charity. Many were donated by Orman’s, but several corporations and individuals had also contributed. Auction items were so extravagant that talk of them filled the society columns as well as the trade bible,
Women’s Wear Daily.
The costliest gift was a trip around the world provided by Pan American Airlines. A close second was the week’s stay at the fully-staffed villa of Noel Coward in Jamaica, with transportation provided by Larry Orman’s private plane.

Dominique was kept busy translating cables that flew back and forth from Paris and Rome. In addition, she assisted Maude in selecting menus and wines, interviewing caterers, and bargaining for discounts. Bruce, though, would sign the contracts. There was no better negotiator than he.

Orman’s interior decorating department was to transform the store’s restaurant into a glittering gold, silver, and white fairyland for the evening. Dominique, Maude, and Lucinda had happily agreed to work as hostesses for the event. They exclaimed with delight when they saw the drawings of the gowns they were to wear: pure white velvet, with extravagant, wide skirts.

But one week before the gala on December 20, Lucinda became seriously ill with the flu. “I can’t believe this,” she rasped over the phone to Dominique. “I’ve been looking forward to the gala for six months and I won’t even be there to make sure the last minute details are taken care of.”

“Don’t worry,” Dominique reassured her. “I’ll make sure nothing slips through the cracks. Take good care of yourself and maybe you’ll feel well enough to come to the gala.” Dominique added that she would stop by Lucinda’s that evening with some groceries and chicken soup from the deli.

“No!” Lucinda croaked. “You might get sick, too, and Maude can’t possibly handle the gala alone.”

“I’m coming and that’s that,” Dominique declared. “Besides, I have to go to the grocery. My family is coming to dinner this weekend. It’ll be the first time they see my new place.”

“All the more reason you don’t want to get sick. Please don’t come. If you do, and you get sick, I’ll never forgive myself. Anyhow, I spend most of the time sleeping.”

Dominique thought for a moment. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll bring the package up, ring your doorbell, and go away.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I
want
to. You’re my friend.” Dominique liked the sound of the words.

Dominique’s new apartment, a Greenwich Village efficiency, was larger and far more agreeable than her room at Mrs. Parsons’. It had a kitchenette, a patio garden, and a spacious, old-fashioned bathroom with a claw-footed tub. Like Mrs. Parsons’, the room came furnished, though sparsely. There was a plump camelback sofa-bed covered in a cheerful flowered print and, near the kitchenette, a round cherry table and four ladder-back chairs. Two lamps and a coffee table were the only other pieces, but, with careful bargain hunting, Dominique added a few items that made the apartment feel like home. From a Village flea market, she bought a set of four country print cushions, which she placed on the dining chairs. In a neighbor’s trash pile, she found a beautiful, but scarred, mahogany end table. She draped it with a simple cloth of white linen trimmed in lace—fifty cents with her Orman’s discount. As a final touch, she filled her windowsills with geraniums and the corners of the room with larger plants.

Dominique loved the cozy, residential streets of the Village, in contrast to the more bustling, urban character of the East Side. And she thought her apartment, with its little brick fireplace and generous windows, was welcoming and cheerful.

Solange, however, seemed to disapprove. “I don’t know why everyone here lives in one room,” she remarked, taking off her hat. As it had been impossible to find parking nearby, the Markses had dropped Solange in front of Dominique’s apartment while they attended to the car.

“Because, Mother,” Dominique sighed, “rents are high in New York.” Dominique gestured around the room. “Do you like what I’ve done with it?”

Solange sniffed as she looked around. “Well… it seems clean enough.”

Dominique felt her irritation rising. Was it impossible for her mother to praise her? She pressed her lips together and frowned.

“Oh, don’t look so sour,” Solange said casually. “Why don’t you get us some drinks?”

“What would you like?” Dominique asked evenly.

“Do you have champagne?”

Dominique almost laughed out loud. “Is that what Danielle serves?” she asked dryly.

“Danielle is one of a family of four. Five, now that I’m with them. They are not in the practice of buying champagne.” Solange removed her gloves and coat and looked around for a place to put them.

Dominique went to her and took the garments. As she hung them in her closet, she said over her shoulder, “I have some white wine or some red wine. I have gin and vermouth for martinis and I have scotch. Which would you like?”

“White wine, I suppose.” Solange pulled out one of the ladder-back chairs and sat down in it gingerly, as though afraid it would dirty her dress. After a few moments, she asked, “What’s that smell?”

“Spaghetti sauce, Mother. One of the few dishes I’ve mastered.”

“Hmmm.”

Dominique was saved from trying to interpret the sound by the arrival of the Marks family.

Dominique went to Danielle and hugged her, then Lana and Monique. She wasn’t sure how to welcome Ron, so she settled for taking his coat with a smile and a greeting.

“I’m glad you could come.” She diplomatically directed her remark to him. “I poured your scotch. It’s on the counter.”

Ron looked pleased at the attention. “Thanks,” he said with a smile. Maybe, Dominique speculated, he had gotten over his annoyance at having Solange with them.

“Mother”—Dominique turned to Solange—“have you learned any English?” She felt bad that she and Danielle would be forced to exclude either Ron or Solange from the conversation, depending on the language they spoke.

“Yes,” Solange answered in English. “My name eez Solange Avallon,” she said haltingly. “I leev wiz my daughter.”

“That’s good!” Dominique laughed as she poured the drinks.

Solange struggled on. “I don’t speak English.”

Danielle put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “She’s doing well. She knows even more words than that.”

“Do you ever speak in English at home?” Dominique asked, leading the group over to the couch. She didn’t sit, but instead went back to the kitchen to make the salad dressing. Lana, now five, followed her, while three year-old Monique played on the floor with a rubber ball.

“They never speak English!” Ron complained. But he said it with humor.

“Poor you!” Dominique smiled at her brother-in-law. He smiled back and, for a moment, his eyes held the sparkle of the young soldier Dominique had met a decade ago. With a start, she realized that he was only thirty. Only thirty and yet so changed from the youth she had known! Only thirty and, in the space of a few months, he had had to cope with the loss of his job and the burden of two in-laws.