Regret Not a Moment

by Nicole McGehee

  Sitting up straighter in bed, Devon placed the mirror facedown on her lap. Turning to her sister, she simply said, “Grace, thank you so much for coming.” Then, in a gesture of the most delicate tenderness, she took her sister’s hand, raised it to her lips, and kissed it.

  CHAPTER 10

  JOHN Alexander heaved a sigh of relief as he signed the last letter in the pile his secretary had left on his desk. It had taken him almost two weeks to clear up the work that had accumulated while he was in Virginia, and he was finally finished. He pulled out his gold pocket watch and grunted in irritation as he saw the time. Eight o’clock. It was not difficult to lose track of time when the sun set so early, as it did in late November in New York. But that was not normally John’s habit, because although he liked his work, he was not compulsive about it. As an extremely wealthy man, he felt that his work was neither a means to prove himself nor a way to earn money; he regarded it simply as useful and interesting.

  Normally, John would bid his secretary a cheery good evening at no later than six o’clock. From there he would go to his men’s club for a drink, or possibly a game of squash. Afterward, he would stop at his Park Avenue duplex to change for supper or the theater. Most often such evenings would end at Loretta’s, but of course he had not been to Loretta’s in almost two weeks and had not been inclined to find someone new.

  He still felt guilty about the way things had ended, but he had convinced himself that Loretta was tough enough, and selfish enough, to find herself a replacement for him in short order. After all, the tantrum she had thrown had probably just been a bit of theatrics. Actresses were high-strung and they seemed to enjoy such scenes. He would never forget the time the actress lover of his friend Charles Wittingham had emptied an entire bottle of vintage champagne in poor Charlie’s lap. In front of everyone at “21.” And that quarrel had been about whether she and Charlie should take the train to the mountains for the weekend or drive instead. He tried to picture Devon doing such a thing. She was high-spirited certainly, outspoken even, but he could not imagine her doing anything undignified.

  Devon. Always Devon. John sat back in the tufted leather chair and rubbed his weary eyes as he conjured up her image. He could see her face clearly, radiant and laughing as it had been on the day they had gone riding. He savored the memory of her soft lips, so sweet, so caressing as they brushed against his. And her body. So pliant, so expectant, so… willing. In his mind, he followed the curves of her full breasts, her small waist, her gently swelling hips. He imagined the smoothness of her skin in the palm of his hand. He remembered her arousal at his touch, and teased himself with the thought of arousing her further. Following the graceful lines of her neck with his lips. Making a hot trail to her inviting breasts. Taking her nipples in his mouth and, ever so delicately, running his tongue over the hard points. He could envision her, head thrown back in sensuous abandon, ebony hair spread on white linen sheets. He grew unbearably excited at the thought of seeing her again.

  Now that he was finished with his work he could go back to Virginia. He picked up the telephone to call Hamilton Magrath, then remembered, with irritation, that Magrath refused to have a telephone. “I won t let that confounded contraption destroy the peace of my home,” Magrath had declared.

  John decided the quickest way to get in touch with Magrath was by wire. He lit a Havana cigar and sat back to compose the telegram.

  HAVE LOOKED INTO PURCHASE WE DISCUSSED STOP WOULD LIKE TO DISCUSS OFFER IN PERSON STOP MAY I IMPOSE ON YOUR HOSPITALITY AGAIN STOP PLEASE ADVISE CONVENIENT TIME STOP ALSO INTERESTED IN HARTWICK PROPERTY STOP BEST REGARDS TO YOU AND FAMILY STOP

  It would be at least the tomorrow before he received a reply, he calculated. He was impatient to be off, but knew he could not visit Magrath without an invitation. Well, he would just have to wait. He wondered if he should contact Devon before his arrival, but then remembered that she did not have a phone either. He chuckled to himself as he reflected that some of the wealthiest people he knew lived without telephones. He couldn’t imagine not having one, but he knew that many people considered them invasions of privacy, especially the conservative old Southern aristocracy.

  No, he would surprise Devon. But what would he do when he saw her? he asked himself. Would he ask her to marry him? He did not feel quite ready for such a step, yet he could not escape the conviction that she was the perfect woman for him. He was confused. Confused by the ease with which he had fallen in love with her. Confused by his inability to get her out of his mind. He wondered if, when he saw her again, she would appear as ideal to him as she did in his imagination.

  John gathered up his papers and left the room. As he waited for the elevator, it occurred to him that he felt in the mood for a bit of fun. Normally, that would mean female companionship, but he realized that he had no desire for any woman… except Devon.

  “You’ve got it bad, boy,” he said to himself, but he said it cheerfully, with all the hope and confidence of a handsome, wealthy, somewhat spoiled young man.

  Devon blew out the candles on the huge chocolate cake alight with twenty-five tiny flames. It was the day after her conversation with Grace and, restored by her sister’s no-nonsense talk, Devon had been determined to make her way downstairs for her birthday celebration. She had chosen to wear a floor-length, full-sleeved burgundy satin brocade dress for the occasion, thus mostly concealing both her casts. The opulent cloth set off her shimmering hair beautifully in the candlelight, but she still bore several black-and-blue marks on her face. Nonetheless, her friends—most of whom had been prevented by the doctor from seeing her since her accident—were jubilant that Devon was up and about and in her usual high spirits. All but Grace were unaware of the depression that Devon had succumbed to, then conquered.

  “Devon’s indomitable,” said Brent Hartwick with admiration as he helped her father ease her from a chair at the dining room table to a soft armchair in the main salon.

  Devon glanced quickly at Helena to see if she was bothered by Brent’s remark, but Helena gave her a humorous look of commiseration. Devon gave her a dazzling smile in return, glowing with the warmth of finally having made a friend of her insecure, defensive neighbor. Good, Devon thought, I’m glad she’s decided not to let things like that bother her. Indeed, Brent’s manner toward Devon was one of joking bonhomie rather than yearning romance.

  Devon felt happy as she sat forward and glanced around the room. How foolish she had been, she thought, to be so depressed. She was surrounded by the love of her friends and family and she had her whole life to look forward to. Her best girlhood friend, Leticia Brooks, placed a small, round pillow behind Devon and gently urged the convalescent back in the chair.

  “You know, this accident has been a horrible influence on Marianne,” joked Leticia, referring to her six-year-old daughter.

  “Now she wants to start jumping more than ever so she can he a romantic figure like her godmother.”

  Devon chuckled as she glanced over at the little girl. Marianne was a special favorite of Devon’s, more because of the child’s lively personality than because she was Devon’s godchild.

  “Well, I was going to offer to teach her, but I suppose you’re not going to want me to now,” replied Devon with a laugh.

  “Oh, I don’t think Marianne would have it any other way,” said Leticia. “At least you can show her how to take a serious fall and survive,” she kidded as she patted Devon’s shoulder.

  “Time to open your presents!” said Grace merrily as she wheeled over the bar cart piled high with gay packages.

  Devon exclaimed in delight as she opened present after lovely present. Marianne had insisted upon a present of her own to Devon, rather than a family effort. She had made, with the help of Leticia’s cook, a batch of deep chocolate fudge.

  “Marianne, this is my absolute favorite!” said Devon, hugging the little blonde girl to her with her good arm. How sweet the child was, Devon thought. For a moment, she reflected on how wonderful it would be
to have a little girl of her own. She would have one, she told herself, she knew she would one day. Glancing over at Grace, Devon once again silently thanked her for helping her through her dejected mood. Now, all her old optimism, all her faith in the future was back.

  “Grace’s present next, please,” Devon said. Grace silently handed her a large box wrapped in flowered cotton material and adorned with pink satin ribbons. Inside was a gleaming box bearing the name of the great couturiere Vionnet. The women who were gathered around Devon let out a uniform “Aah!” of recognition and admiration even before she opened the box. To a one, they admired the famous French designer who had pioneered the bias cut and brought women out of corsets. And even the men gasped when Devon pulled out the dress that was couched in white tissue paper. The gown was of heavy, luxurious satin lined with silk crepe de chine. But the gown’s most striking feature was its dramatic silver color. It shimmered like mercury in the glow of the fireplace. The dress bore two of Vionnet’s trademarks: the bias cut and the halter top, plunging to a daringly low back. The expert eyes of the on looking women could see that the dress would cling provocatively from the high neck to the bottom of Devon’s torso, then softly flare to fall in soft, Grecian folds to the floor. The neck was fastened in the back with three natural pearls.

  “I don’t know what to say, Grace. It’s so beautiful!” said Devon. Tears came to her eyes as she realized the thought and planning that must have gone into so beautiful a gift. It was custom-made, of course, so Grace must have contrived to obtain one of Devon’s dresses or her measurements from her seamstress in New York.

  “Well, you’ll be craving something to show off in once you’re back on your feet and your bruises have gone,” said Grace, laughing.

  “I can’t wait to wear it,” said Devon fervently. Indeed, the better she felt, the more she chafed at her confinement.

  Devon continued to open her gifts: a new riding habit from her parents to replace the one torn and bloodied in her accident, a beautiful pair of kid evening gloves from Leticia, the racy Chanel No. 5 perfume from her friends Ted and Suellen Willis, and a variety of books, scarves, and handkerchiefs from the many other neighbors and relatives who had flocked to the Richmonds’ to celebrate Devon’s birthday. Finally, from Helena and Brent Hartwick there was a pair of beautiful leather riding boots. From the way Helena shyly presented the gift, Devon could tell that the gift was a peace offering from the heart.

  “I know the ones you were wearing… that day… I know they had to be cut off. I’m so sorry,” said Helena, baring her soul in front of the crowd.

  “Oh, Helena, they’re exquisite. I can’t wait to break them in,” Devon’s heart went out to the young redhead, who was blushing profusely at the awkwardness of the situation. Devon, anxious to let those assembled know that she had forgiven Helena, pulled her down for a hug. “I’ll treasure them, Helena… and Brent,” she said, bestowing her friend’s husband with a warm smile.

  Devon observed the many happy couples that sprinkled the room. Her parents, of course, bustling around to see that everyone was cared for, Hamilton and Rosalind Magrath, the Hartwicks, her college roommate Margaret Larson and her husband, Mark—they all seemed comfortable and in love. Devon noticed Ted Willis lean toward his wife Suellen and whisper to her. As he did so, he put his arm around her and caressed her neck in a gesture of intimate knowledge. Suellen looked up at Ted with a loving smile. In an unconscious movement of acceptance, she leaned against him, then reached up and pulled his face closer to hers so she could whisper her reply. There was something so heartbreakingly lovely about the tableau that it caused a small ache in Devon’s throat. It was not an ache of envy, though, but one of impatience, for she knew that she would one day have what they had. That she would one day make just such a gesture to a man she loved.

  CHAPTER 11

  “MISS Devon, you have a gentleman caller,” said Alice.

  Devon was reading in the plant-filled conservatory in a fat yellow and white-striped armchair, her cast resting on an equally plump matching hassock. The winter sun pouring in the floor-to-ceiling French doors cast gleaming reflections on her hair as she looked up, startled.

  “I’m not expecting anyone,” said Devon. She looked down at her lavender-sprigged woolen lounging dress trimmed with frothy lace at the throat, hem, and sleeves. A wide lavender satin ribbon drew in the waist, but the garment was otherwise full and floor-length, worn to cover her casts. She found that by keeping the cumbersome objects concealed she was less likely to dwell on the discomfort they caused her. Although she knew she looked fresh and feminine, she felt she was too informally dressed to receive guests.

  “Who is it?” Devon asked Alice.

  “A Mr. John Alexander,” said Alice, with a twinkle in her eye.

  “John? I mean, Mr. Alexander?” she corrected herself, blushing. “Alice, I can’t receive him like this. I have to go upstairs and change!” In distress, Devon closed her book and tried to lift herself out of her chair with the aid of her crutches.

  “Now Miss Devon, you just sit right there,” Alice ordered calmly. “You look perfectly proper to receive guests. Everyone knows you’ve had an accident. And with those casts, it will take a good half hour to get you changed. You don’t want to keep Mr. Alexander waiting all that time, do you?”

  “I suppose not,” said Devon reluctantly. “But, oh! I just look so awful. And my face still has bruises…. Oh, Alice, bring me that mirror there,” Devon commanded.

  “Miss Devon, it’s hanging on the wall!” Alice protested, but she moved toward it just the same. Struggling with the old hook and wire—the mirror had hung in the spot for over a century—Alice finally freed the antique looking glass and brought it to her mistress.

  Devon looked at her reflection in despair. “Thank heavens the bruises on my jaw are gone, but look… oh no… I still have a black eye!” moaned Devon.

  “It’s not black, exactly, Miss Devon. More like yellow and green.”

  Devon looked up at her maid and saw that she was quite serious in thinking those words comforting. Looking at Alice’s earnest expression, Devon burst out laughing. “Alice! You should see your face!” said Devon, gasping for breath as she laughed and talked at the same time. “I suppose you think that green and yellow is an improvement over black and blue!”

  Alice, realizing the absurdity of her own remark, also succumbed to the hilarity of the moment. “Well…” she gasped. “It is really… I mean… you don’t look as bad… oh never mind!” she said, trying to compose herself.

  “I suppose I’ll just have to do,” said Devon, regaining her calm. “Tell Mr. Alexander that I will see him. Oh, and Alice? Ask Meg to bring us some tea and cakes, please.”

  Alice nodded her assent and turned to go.

  “Alice… one more thing?”

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Would you please hang the mirror again?”

  Alice looked at the heavy gilt-edged object propped against the armchair, reflecting light from around the room. “Why? Do you think Mr. Alexander would notice it there?” asked Alice facetiously.

  “Oh, Alice, you’re awful!” said Devon, breaking into giggles again.

  Devon smoothed her hair as she waited for John’s arrival. Why was he back in Virginia? she wondered. Could it be because of her or was it simply business? Should she be angry at him for not showing up at the hunt or should she pretend that she did not remember that he was supposed to be there that day? Really, she did not feel angry at him. Anger seemed petty in light of all that had happened since. Yet she knew that his failure to appear had been rude. Rude or not, though, her heart was pounding violently at the thought of seeing him again.

  “Devon!” John’s voice startled Devon out of her reverie. Devon looked into his eyes, even bluer than she remembered because of the strong sunlight in the conservatory. She felt a flush of heat rise in her at the sight of him. He was so handsome, so… male!

  Devon quickly cast down her eyes, not out
of modesty, but because the intensity of feeling when she looked at him was almost too overwhelming.

  “Its so nice to see you again,” Devon said. She hesitated to use his first name. She did not feel as familiar toward him as she had before his departure. “Please sit down,” she said calmly. She resolved not to let him see that he disturbed her.

  John sat in the armchair opposite Devon and studied her closely, saying nothing for a few seconds. He noted the injuries that Hamilton Magrath had told him about. But even with her bruises, she glowed with life and intelligence. Her quality, her vivid beauty, shined through the surface disfigurement. Devon wanted to squirm at his intense scrutiny, but forced herself to remain still and to meet his eyes.

  Feeling the need to break the silence, Devon finally spoke. “I’m quite a mess, aren’t I?” she said with a forced laugh.

  “I was just thinking how lovely you are. I’ve thought of you so often. Now I see that my memory did you an injustice.”

  Devon fought not to appear flustered. Although he sat a few feet away from her, she could feel the heat of his body. She could smell the subtle aroma of his cologne, a scent that reminded her of a crisp morning in the mountains. Her senses vibrated in his presence. And his magnetism made her painfully aware of how unlike her usual self she looked. “I… I’m surely not beautiful now… with all these bruises.”

  None of that mattered to John. He leaned forward in his chair. “Devon,” he said hoarsely, “I’ve been a fool.”

  Devon, startled, simply stared at him.

  “Are you angry with me?” he asked sheepishly.

  “Should I be?" asked Devon, trying to buy time with the question. She knew exactly what he was referring to, but she did not want to admit that his absence at the hunt—and his subsequent silence—had been of great importance to her.