Regret Not a Moment

by Nicole McGehee

  Devon smiled nervously, glad to have the support of the lovely woman. She was not quite satisfied with the outcome of Willy O’Neill’s search for a jockey to rival the great Linus “Pony” McAtee, who worked for the Whitneys. She looked at the number-six position at the starting line—Firefly’s position—trying to reassure herself that the less experienced Slim Bocaso would serve her as well. Willy had hired him just two weeks before, but with reservations at his comparative lack of experience. He was comparing him, though, to McAtee, who had worked for Willowbrook before being wooed away by the Whitneys.

  Picking Bocaso out of the crowd on the track, Devon was glad she had redesigned the Willowbrook silks so that they were now her own choice of colors. She had debated with herself the wisdom of tampering with a respected, if somewhat faded, image, but she had ultimately decided that a signal of change and progress would be good to send to the racing world. As a result, she had discarded the blue and green colors that had been the Hartwicks’ and designed a bolder uniform—scarlet torso and sleeves with a black diamond on the front and back, rather like a playing card. The jockey’s cap had scarlet and black quadrants and a scarlet bill.

  The start of the race came almost too soon, despite Devon’s impatience. Like a shot she was out of her seat, silently praying as she held the binoculars glued to her face. She was oblivious to John as he came behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Oblivious to the noise of the crowd. For a moment she could not find Firefly, then she saw her.

  The filly had started quickly—often the case with fillies. The question now was whether she would maintain her lead once the colts pulled alongside of her. It went against every instinct of a filly to do so, but there were exceptions to the rule.

  Firefly was holding her lead, Devon observed excitedly. Now it was Firefly and the Whitney’s colt, Dance With Me. Bocaso was maneuvering Firefly toward the inside of the track, leaning to the left to bring her in—and away from Dance With Me. That was a good move, Devon thought with approval, but she was dismayed to see the Vanderbilts’ Hip Hip Hurrah gaining from behind.

  Suddenly, Dance With Me surged ahead until he caught up to Firefly. McAtee tried to move his horse closer to Firefly in a perfectly legal attempt to intimidate the filly and cause her to slow down. Meanwhile a fourth horse, a gray with the name of Court Order, had pulled past Hip Hip Hurrah and seemed to be gathering strength for a final surge ahead. His jockey, too, was trying to ease closer to Firefly.

  With jubilation, Devon saw that Firefly refused to be cowed. On the contrary! “Look, she’s pulling ahead!” Devon cried to no one in particular. She could hear the roar of the crowd, now caught up in the drama of the little-known Willowbrook filly winning a race that offered a good-sized, if not impressive, purse.

  With only an eighth of a mile to go, Firefly was holding her lead. Holding it, but not by any significant distance. Then, in a split second, Dance With Me took the lead. He was ahead by a nose. Devon heard John groan behind her as his grip tightened on her shoulders. But Firefly stubbornly refused to be defeated and, with one length to go, she reached her legs as far as she could, edging past the colt.

  In a blur, Devon saw the filly cross the finish line. Cross it first.

  “We won!” John hugged Devon from behind and lifted her off her feet. In a dizzy rush, Devon felt herself being led out of the box. Shouted congratulations bombarded her and John as they made their way through the crowd. She felt her heart bursting with pride; her mind stunned with disbelief. It had been so easy! Her first race! And a filly! Devon thanked the endless stream of well-wishers in her path.

  Finally, she saw Willy. He was holding the reins of a lathered Firefly, Slim still astride. A reporter was shouting questions at the trainer, who answered them in his usual monosyllabic fashion. Devon rushed toward the group, ignoring the photographers’ requests for a picture. She wanted to hug Willy and jump up and down with him in celebration over their victory but as she drew nearer to him, his habitual dour expression inhibited her.

  Devon approached Willy quietly and stood facing him. “Well?” she said, unable to restrain an elated smile.

  “Well what?” he asked brusquely, ignoring the questions shouted at him by the reporters.

  “Well, what do you think?” Devon asked, a wide smile still on her face.

  Willy lifted his Brooklyn Dodgers hat off his head, then replaced it. He looked down at the ground and, scratching his cheek, mumbled, “It’s a start.”

  Devon put out her hand for Willy to shake, almost afraid that he would ignore it. But he didn’t. He raised his eyes to her and shook her hand firmly, the clicking of cameras accompanying the action.

  “We did okay,” he added.

  Devon wanted to lean over and kiss his weatherbeaten cheek. She thought seriously about it, then decided that Willy had made enough concessions for one day. Instead, she turned to congratulate the grinning Slim Bocaso, relieved that she had found a jockey for Willowbrook Farm.

  CHAPTER 19

  LA CUESTA ENCANTADA rose like a fairy-tale castle out of the sun-browned California hills, its white stucco walls and tile roofs providing the only textural variation in the endless fields of parched grass that surrounded it. But as amazing as the apparition was, what always hypnotized Devon was the breathtaking panorama of the Pacific Ocean from the vantage point of the ranch itself.

  Though it was Devon and John’s fifth visit to the ranch, and many of the other visitors in the convoy to the hilltop were either too jaded or too engrossed in conversation to remark on the view, Devon turned all the way around in her seat to gaze out the back window of Hearst’s chauffeur-driven Packard at the dawn light glimmering on the sea.

  The entire party of thirty-six, including Marion Davies and Hearst, had left Los Angeles in his private railroad cars at 8:15 the previous evening. The train had arrived in San Luis Obispo at approximately 4 A.M., where a fleet of cars awaited them for the drive to the ranch. From San Luis Obispo to San Simeon, the tiny village where the Hearst ranch lay, was a drive of a little under two hours. But to travel from the entrance of the ranch to the top of the hill where the houses stood took about another half hour. Sometimes more, depending on whether wild animals were blocking the road.

  Devon thought that some of the most fascinating features of the ranch were the exotic animals that Hearst had imported from obscure corners of the earth. Many of the herd animals, such as the zebra, were allowed to roam free. The apes and big cats, however, were kept in Hearst’s private zoo. Devon always felt sorry for the magnificent felines who paced back and forth in the small spaces, their tails twitching restlessly at the confinement.

  Devon and John enjoyed their visits to La Cuesta Encantada. They were times of uncharacteristic abandon, where it seemed that every fantasy could be fulfilled. The gay Hollywood group that made up the majority of the guests always seemed to loosen the inhibitions of the smaller coterie of East Coast society folk and politicians. Devon and John found themselves dancing more, drinking more, and relaxing more than they usually did at gatherings closer to home. It was not a lifestyle Devon coveted on a permanent basis, but she relished the interludes. John, on the other hand, seemed most relaxed in California, and often spoke of buying a home there.

  The limousines discharged their passengers at the bottom of a set of curving marble stairs that led around the Neptune Pool to the main house and the three equally lavish guest houses.

  “Devon and John, you’ll share Casa del Mar with Sydney and Bart,” Marion announced with a warm smile, referring to one of the elaborate guest cottages that stood apart from the main building. “I know how you love the view of the ocean,” she murmured in an aside to Devon. It was one of Marion Davies’s most endearing traits that she tried hard to accommodate the likes and dislikes of her favorite guests while never being overbearing.

  Illicit lovers, however, were never assigned the same bedroom, for Hearst was quite prudish, despite his own situation.

  “Breakfast in
half an hour,” Marion called after her departing guests.

  “I think we should skip breakfast and take a nap,” John said to Devon, with a yawn and a stretch. Like most of the other guests on the train, he and Devon had spent the evening drinking champagne and playing cards.

  Devon hesitated, tempted to agree. “Well… W.R. wants to show me his new colt after breakfast,” she said. Devon was one of the few female guests that Hearst actually sought out. He found her quiet intelligence a pleasant contrast to the frivolity of most of his other guests and he respected her knowledge of horses.

  “All right, but don’t blame me if you collapse of exhaustion,” John teased.

  “Are you going to have breakfast or take a nap?” Devon asked, opening the door to the magnificently furnished cottage. Casa del Mar was Hearst’s favorite cottage and the most ornate. Devon and John had been given one of the upper suites, notable for its carved ceiling decorated with gold leaf imported from a palazzo in Venice, its red silk walls, and the Italian marble pilasters at each entranceway.

  As they climbed to their room, Devon could feel the weariness creep into her body. A nap would be wonderful, she thought, entering the bedroom. The bed had been turned down in anticipation of just such needs, and Devon stared hungrily at the crisp linen sheets.

  “Sleepy?” John wheedled, following her gaze.

  Devon nodded.

  “More sleepy than hungry?”

  “Well… they always have the best waffles…”

  John turned the key in the door and began undressing. Despite her fatigue, Devon could not help but admire the play of his muscles as he removed his clothes. My husband is deliciously attractive, she thought to herself. As though of their own will, her hands moved to the collar of her traveling suit and began to undo the buttons.

  John, naked, slipped between the cool sheets, but left the corner of the bed turned down invitingly.

  “Ahhh,” he sighed, snuggling into the soft bed, “this feels wonderful.” His eyes, full of mischief, met Devon’s. “Are you sure you don’t want a nap?”

  Devon felt irresistibly drawn to the bed, to her husband in it, to the idea of cool linens on her body. Removing her underclothes, she walked toward the bed and slid into the warm cup into which John had curled his body. The comforting feeling of his arms around her combined with the clean, lavender-scented freshness of the sheets lulled her almost immediately into a deep, dream-free sleep.

  Devon awoke to the sun streaming full strength through the large picture window overlooking the ocean. She stretched languorously, then turned to face John, rubbing her body against his in a catlike fashion. She looked down at him, still fast asleep. His long eyelashes curled against his sun-browned cheek. His strong profile silhouetted against the pure white pillowcase aroused in her tenderness, admiration, desire—all the ingredients that added up to love. She felt very lucky to be so in love with her husband—and so sure of his love for her—when she considered the number of divorced people she knew.

  With a smile, she eased her way out of the bed so as not to awaken John. She used the bell pull to signal Alice that she wanted her bath drawn. Alice always traveled with her to the Hearst ranch, for a lady’s maid was necessary for all the clothing and hairstyle changes required of those who sojourned there.

  By the time Devon had bathed and dressed in riding clothes, it was noon. Lunch would not be served until two-thirty, so Devon decided to go for a ride.

  Hearst always had a fine selection of mounts, and Devon found that her favorite, a huge white gelding named Eskimo, was available. Eskimo was far more calm and gentle than the mounts she was accustomed to at home, but it was not uncommon for the roars and screeches of Hearst’s wild animals to cause the horses to shy or bolt, so Devon preferred the stolid Eskimo to more easily spooked mounts when she was riding solo. Although riding was prohibited in the area where wild animals roamed free, the roars from the zoo could be heard for miles around. On one occasion, Devon and Sydney while horseback riding had encountered a rattlesnake baking in the heat of the afternoon sun. Eskimo, in the lead, had stopped, then slowly backed away from the deadly creature, but he had not panicked.

  Since then, however, Devon always rode with a revolver in a hip holster. She would have preferred a shotgun, but had ultimately decided that the revolver, while less lethal, would be easier to handle in an emergency.

  As she had foreseen, Devon could hear the screeching of the big apes that Hearst kept not too far from the human residences. The caged animals were accessible by horseback and by foot, and the small zoo was a favorite stop for Hearst’s guests. On this particular morning, the apes seemed to be screeching even more than usual, and Devon found the noise disturbing. As she drew closer, she also heard the sound of human laughter, but a curve in the trail prevented her from seeing what was happening.

  Then another round of earsplitting shrieks from the apes pierced the air, followed by the sound of clanging metal. The people laughed even more loudly. Devon wondered what the noise was about. As she rounded the bend in the trail, the cages came into view. In front of a family of chimpanzees—male, female, and a baby—she saw several people she had met on the previous evening’s train ride: four men, two of them actors, one of them a studio head, and one of them a director. With them was an alluring young woman whom Devon did not recall meeting. She showed off her marvelous figure with a pair of white shorts and a white halter top. All her companions seemed enthralled with her. None of the group was aware of Devon’s presence behind them.

  The five revelers were standing directly in front of the chimpanzee cage, close enough to disturb the animals but too far away to endanger themselves. On the ground were two empty bottles of champagne and an ice bucket containing a third bottle.

  “More champagne, Bebe?” yelled one of the actors, reaching for the bottle in the ice bucket.

  The young woman held out her glass for the refill. The other actor slid his hand around the girl’s waist, then down to her firm buttocks. She did not acknowledge the contact but went on pointing to the animals and talking.

  Bebe. The nickname was familiar to Devon. She wondered if the girl was Bebe Henley. If so, Devon was slightly acquainted with the girl’s family in New York and recalled the girl’s debut two years before. Since then, she knew the girl had been classified as “wild” by New York society. As though to confirm this, Bebe turned to the director and gave him a long kiss, rubbing her body against his invitingly. The actor who had been holding her did not show annoyance but simply leaned against her rear, resting his head on the back of her shoulders and rubbing the backs of her thighs and buttocks.

  Devon started to urge her horse onward, not wishing to intrude on the boozy, wanton scene. Suddenly, the sound of agonized screeches from the chimpanzees stopped Eskimo in his tracks. Devon turned to face the group. The studio head, probably annoyed at being ignored by Bebe, was picking up a stone and preparing to throw it at the cage. Apparently a previous stone—the cause of the screams—had hit its mark, because the baby chimpanzee had a cut above its left ear and the mother was frantically screaming while the father rattled the cage with his strong arms.

  Bebe pointed at a sign affixed to the cage. DO NOT TEASE THE ANIMALS, it said. She laughed and threw her champagne glass at the sign, but it missed its mark and shattered against the iron bars. Most of the glass fell harmlessly on the ground outside the cage, but some fell inside. The furious male chimpanzee picked up a handful of the stuff and threw it at his tormentors, who raised their arms to shield themselves. Now the ape screamed in pain at the cuts on his palm, jumping up and down as he vocalized.

  At first the entire group, unhurt by the flying glass, stared in stupefaction at the ape, then Bebe let out a peal of laughter that seemed to act as a signal for the others. Appalled, Devon watched as one of the actors mimicked the movements of the injured animal. The other actor, wanting to go him one better, approached the cage and kicked it, backing away quickly as the chimpanzee rushed toward him.<
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  Fury and disgust took hold of Devon. Charging on Eskimo into the middle of the drunken group, she yelled, “Stop it!”

  The group scattered at the vision of the avenging woman, black hair gleaming around her shoulders as she flew at them astride the big white horse. She brought the animal to a halt so abrupt that he reared up on his hind legs before settling down in a cyclone of dust.

  “You are disgusting!” Devon spat at no one person in particular. “How dare you torment an innocent animal.”

  The shocked group was silent for a few moments. Bebe regained her composure first and, glaring up at Devon, said challengingly, “How dare you tell us what to do?”

  Devon turned toward her, contempt radiating from her aquamarine eyes. “I dare because I’m right! You should be ashamed to torment something that can’t defend itself!” Devon let her eyes travel from one member of the group to the other as she said this, forcing them to meet her eyes. One by one, the men dropped their gazes before Devon’s implacable one. She could see that they were indeed ashamed of their behavior, or at least ashamed at being caught.

  Bebe, on the other hand, refused to drop her gaze. “I don’t have to do what you say,” she taunted childishly. She picked up another rock and turned toward the animal cage.

  Devon turned to the men, each of whom was staring at the ground.

  “Gentlemen,” she commanded in a tone that brooked no contradiction, “either you control your companion or I will.”

  The men looked up at Devon. They saw her gun. They saw her riding crop. Devon made no move to use either, but something in her attitude convinced the men that she would do whatever was necessary to stop the destructive girl. They had no doubt that she would win this battle, one way or the other.

  The studio head gently took Bebe’s arm. “C’mon, honey, let’s cool off with a swim.” The young woman started to shake him off in irritation, but the director came to the other side of her and grasped her elbow forcefully, leading her toward the dirt path.