No More Lonely Nights (48 page)

She sat in her kitchen and watched the shadows grow longer in the garden outside. It was a lovely, romantic evening. The petunias gave forth a sweet aroma that wafted in through the screened windows. Dominique got up and went outside. The slate of the terrace, shaded by a giant live oak, was cool, though the air was still hot. Dominique looked at the swimming pool that Clay had so desired. She walked to its edge, noting that, in just two days, many leaves and petals had fallen into the water. Gabrielle had cleaned it on Friday before her departure. It was amazing how quickly things deteriorated if they weren’t given attention. Dominique knew she ought to clean the pool, but she didn’t care.

She sighed and walked to one of the nearby lounge chairs. The beauty of the evening, of the setting, made her think of a similar courtyard that she and Clay had visited on their honeymoon. It had been in a restaurant in the walled city of Eze. As they approached the town, the setting sun had turned the buildings a glowing amber. The entire city had appeared as an enchanted citadel high atop the Côte d’Azur. Clay had stopped the car to savor the view, his arm around Dominique, her head on his shoulder. Thinking of it, Dominique was filled with terrible longing, terrible regret.

When had things begun to go wrong in her life? Had she missed a clue that she should have seen? Had she, as Solange intimated, been partly responsible for Clay’s betrayal? And what of Gabrielle? Why was she so fascinated by the woman who had supplanted her own mother in her father’s life? What was lacking in Dominique to cause her husband and her child to turn to Marie?

Dominique shook her head to clear it. Stop brooding, she told herself. You’ve faced hard times before and you’ve overcome them. Yes, she argued, but this is different. I was younger. Now I have to start over after eleven years of not working. I’m competing for jobs with girls of twenty!

Dominique couldn’t even face the thought of what it would be like to date again. She wasn’t interested. She’d had three serious relationships and all had ended in disaster. What was wrong with her?

Dominique slumped in the chair, her arms crossed, hugging herself. Her chin dropped to her chest. She knew her thoughts were making her unbearably depressed, yet she couldn’t stop herself from dwelling on them. She was sinking in a quicksand of defeat, powerless to break free. What was the use of struggling? No matter what she did, she ended up in the same place. It was like a nightmare in which she tried to run only to find that her legs wouldn’t carry her forward.

As night fell, mosquitoes began to bite her, leaving red welts on her skin. Halfheartedly, she brushed away the creatures, too despondent to move into the house. She realized that she could sit all night by the pool and no one would care. No one would worry or insist that she come in. No one would even know. Even if she died, no one would know.

The thought struck Dominique like a blow. She raised her hand to her cheek and cradled it in the sort of comforting gesture she would have wished to receive—if another person had been there. But no one was.

Dominique clamped her eyes shut and dropped her head back against the cushion of the chair. She turned her face to the sky and the warm night breeze. A dry sob rose in her. From the bottom of her stomach it came up, gathering force as it passed through her diaphragm, through her throat. The cry resounded in the stillness. Even to Dominique’s ears, it sounded inhuman. Then came the tears. Choking her, catching in her throat. Dominique heaved and shook with them. They ran unchecked down her face. Oh, she hurt! Her heart pushed against her ribs—a hard, stabbing beat. Maybe it would kill her, she thought wildly. If she died, she would finally escape the hurt—and self-hatred—that had tormented her since Clay had told her that he loved another woman. In her mind, distorted by agony, Dominique began to consider what it would be like to die.

It would be sweet oblivion. It would be like sleep. She would be rid of her problems. She would be rid of that horrible fog that hung over her like a cloud of doom. A strange longing pulled at Dominique. She gazed at the water, so calming, so still. It would be warm and comforting. It would enfold her in benign silence. She found herself mentally drifting to the dark, quiet place. How easy it would be to go there!

Then her thoughts began to wander in a more pernicious direction. A perverse, vengeful side of her, a side she had not known existed, considered with grim satisfaction the guilt she would leave behind. Clay would be sorry. He would have it on his conscience. He would have to live with it. Dominique wondered how deeply it would affect him. Gabrielle would surely blame him. Would it ruin his love for Marie? Would he realize that he had made a terrible mistake, that he had loved Dominique all along?

Solange would be sorry, too. Sorry she had found fault with Dominique. Sorry she had never shown her the same affection she had shown Danielle. Dominique’s mouth turned down and her lips trembled. Why had Solange continued to regard Clay as a friend? Why did she find it so hard to blame him and so easy to blame Dominique?

And what about Gabrielle? She would find out that Marie was no substitute for her own mother. She would realize how much Dominique meant to her. She would be shattered, for Dominique knew that, despite her recent infatuation with Marie, Gabrielle loved her more than anyone else.

Then the horror of Dominique’s ruminations hit her. She clutched her hands to her chest and drew in her breath sharply. How could she have allowed her thoughts to take her to such depths? Self-loathing filled her. That she should consider hurting her own child, the person she loved most in the world, was evil! How could she have considered leaving her that way!

Dominique sprang to her feet as though she were about to flee. But she didn’t move from the spot. She began to shiver and wrapped her arms around herself. She hung her head in shame. How could she have allowed her self-pity to eclipse her will to live? Gabrielle had never needed her more than she did now, whether the girl knew it or not.

Dominique raised her head sharply, as though someone had called her name. She stared at the glassy surface of the pool. Now her problem seemed clear to her. Since Clay had said he was leaving, she had become like a child, without will or initiative. She had blindly relied on Clay and repeatedly given in to him. Where was her defiance, her backbone? She had spent the last few weeks questioning her judgment, reliving perceived mistakes, worrying about who was to blame. No more!

Dominique clenched her fists as she felt a surge of energy course through her. She was tired of being Clay’s victim. It was time to regain control. She didn’t need him! In her life, she had gone through worse, much worse, than this divorce. She had to move on, create a new life for herself. One that depended on no man—no one but herself. But that didn’t mean she was willing to give up what was due her from her years with Clay. She would fight for it!

Dominique stared at the dark pool in front of her. Suddenly she—who was not much of a swimmer—felt an overwhelming impulse to plunge in. She stripped out of her clothes. The feeling of the night air on her skin was liberating. What difference did it make that she had grown plump? That her breasts weren’t as high as they had once been? There was no one around to criticize. No one to make hurtful remarks. With a feeling of exultation, she raised her arms above her head and dove in.

DOMINIQUE was like a convalescent who had been bedridden for a long time: shaky but eager to resume living.

Her first call was to the only divorced friend she had—a fellow committeewoman who, Dominique had noticed, lived as well as she had before her husband had married his secretary. The sleek brunette, it was said, had already found a new beau: her ex-husband’s accountant.

“Lilah,” Dominique asked, after exchanging pleasantries, “do you mind telling me the name of your divorce lawyer?”

The other woman expelled a throaty chortle. “Larry Beausoleil, love. Who else?”

Dominique’s heart sank. “Oh,” she said in a gloomy voice, “that’s Clay’s attorney.”

“Hmmm… I know only one other person as good. But she’s a woman. Do you have a problem with that?”

A woman lawyer? Dominique knew there were a few—a very few—in New Orleans, but it hadn’t occurred to her to hire one. “She’s supposed to be good?”

Her friend laughed. “You’re still buried in the fifties, love. It’s a new era. Believe me, she’s the best. Probably because all the men underestimate her.”

For the first time in days, Dominique laughed. Lilah was right. She needed to change with the times! Come to think of it, she liked the idea of having a woman, rather than a man, speak for her.

Patricia Masterson turned out to be all that Lilah had promised, though not what Dominique had expected. The attorney’s office was located in an elegantly restored French Quarter townhouse. To be admitted, Dominique pressed a buzzer on a brick wall next to an elaborate wrought iron gate. An intercom hidden in wisteria vines crackled to life. A second later, the gate clicked. Dominique pushed it open and stepped into a courtyard shaded by yet more wisteria vines. It was like entering a cool refuge.

As directed, she stopped in front of a set of double doors painted glossy black, where a young, neatly dressed woman with a friendly face was waiting to greet her. The woman led her into a reception area furnished in a harmonious mixture of European antiques; it had a spare, almost Oriental aspect emphasized by several exquisite Japanese prints.

With a loud rattle, the receptionist opened an old-fashioned brass elevator door. “Miss Masterson’s on the top floor,” she said with a smile.

When the elevator doors reopened, Dominique found herself facing a more serious-looking older woman behind a carved rosewood desk.

The woman immediately stood. “Mrs. Parker, Miss Masterson is expecting you.” Behind her, an open door revealed a bright, airy space. Dominique saw a bank of long windows and an expanse of rich, Oriental carpeting. Then Patricia Masterson stepped to the threshold.

The attorney, though clearly in her forties, had the statuesque, fluffy appearance of a former beauty queen. Her shoulder-length, ash blond hair was stylishly set. Her makeup was understated but expertly applied to enhance her high cheekbones and wide blue eyes. The skirt of her pink wool suit was by no means a fashionable mini, but it was above the knee. However, all impressions of demure frivolity disappeared when Dominique met the woman’s gaze. It was powerful, measured, and determined.

“Mrs. Parker,” she said in a throaty southern drawl. Not a New Orleans accent, but something more pronounced, Georgia or Alabama. The kind of honeysuckle purr that made men melt. With a confident glide that bespoke expensive private schools, Masterson walked into the hall and extended her hand.

Dominique liked her firm grip, and met it with one of her own. She accepted the offer of coffee and was led into the attorney’s office. Masterson graciously indicated a down-filled sofa, then went to her desk to fetch a yellow legal pad.

“Now,” she said, settling on the cushions a few feet away from Dominique, “tell me everything you can about the circumstances leading up to your separation.”

At the end of Dominique’s story, which took twenty minutes to relate, Masterson shook her head, her expression thoughtful. She leaned forward, lifted the top of an inlaid box on the coffee table, and drew out a cigarette. As she lit it with a gold lighter, her long, manicured nails flashed. She inhaled, then slowly let the smoke drift out her nose. Finally she fixed Dominique with an even gaze. “How much we can obtain will depend on whether your husband transferred his—and your—personal assets to his business.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, his are family assets. If he were a doctor, and you’d helped put him through medical school, we’d have a stronger case. But he inherited his money. It’ll be difficult to argue that you contributed to his earnings, and that’s what judges are looking for.” She rested her cigarette in a crystal ashtray, then turned to face Dominique squarely. “Of course, you’ll sue him for desertion, and it’s clear he’s committing adultery.” She shrugged. “But times are changing. Those used to be grounds enough to force a man to pay through the nose. Now”—she turned her palms up—“it depends on the judge. And, if your husband has managed to make it look as though he has no personal assets, the judge’s outrage won’t matter.” She picked up her cigarette again, took a puff, then put it out in the ashtray.

Dominique clenched her fists, trying to control her alarm. “But what about our daughter and my mother? I have to support them!”

Masterson gave her a sympathetic look. “The fact that you have a daughter helps, of course. We’ll get you fair child support.” She looked down at the notepad in her lap. “This offer of your husband’s is ridiculous and I intend to tell Larry Beausoleil just that.” She paused. “But as for your mother, I’m afraid that it will appear to the judge that your husband has been very generous in supporting her all these years. Besides, you mentioned a sister in New York? Your mother lives there part time?”

Dominique nodded. It was hard not to feel downcast, but she liked Masterson for being frank.

Masterson said in a comforting voice, “Try not to worry. At least, you came to me before you signed this outrageous agreement.” She smiled to soften her words. Then her regard turned serious. “I’ve been in the same situation as you. That’s why I decided to become an attorney,” she said grimly. “We’ll start investigating Mr. Parker’s financial situation immediately. Who knows? He may have left some loose ends lying about.”

“Let’s hope so,” Dominique said ruefully. She stood up. Despite the depressing picture Masterson had painted, Dominique felt better for having taken positive action. She felt better still when Masterson proposed a fee structure based on the settlement. She wouldn’t have to start paying until the case had been resolved.

Masterson rode in the elevator with Dominique to the ground floor. Before the door opened, she put a hand on Dominique’s arm and said gently, “I know all this is difficult, and I’ll do the best I can, but if your husband’s been smart, I may not be able to do much better than your previous attorney.” She paused. “Have you thought of returning to work?”