No More Lonely Nights (50 page)

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 flowers 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.”

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!”

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.

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 subdued
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.”