Here was the perfect opening for Devon to tell John her news, she thought. But how would he react?
“Actually, John, about that…”
John kicked open the bathroom door and set Devon down on the fluffy white area rug adjacent to the bathtub. He leaned over to put in the stopper while Devon turned the brass fixtures until she had achieved just the right mix of hot and cold water.
“Yes?” he queried absentmindedly. “About that…you were saying?”
Devon sat down on a small tuffet covered in black-and-white-striped polished cotton. She wound her hair into a bun, using hairpins from a crystal box on a shelf near the tub.
“You look beautiful with your hair that way,” John said softly, looking down at his wife. “In fact, you look particularly beautiful today,” he said, really examining her for the first time since his homecoming.
Devon smiled back, but feeling a sudden urge to cover herself, she went to the mirrored closet next to the pedestal sink and put on one of the monogrammed terrycloth bathrobes she found there.
She turned abruptly back to John and blurted out, “John, I love you.”
“And I love you,” he said automatically, leaning down to test the water in the bathtub. He sat on the tuffet and swirled the water about to mix the hot with the cold. Devon came toward John and stopped directly in front of him. She put one hand on his shoulder, causing him to look from the water up to her.
“What is it?” he asked, reading the serious expression on Devon’s face.
“I have some good news,” Devon said in a voice so quiet that it was difficult to hear her over the running water.
John turned the brass knobs and stepped into the tub, motioning for Devon to join him. Instead, she sat on the tuffet. Trailing one hand in the water near John, she looked into his eyes. He was so dear to her. And she knew that he felt the same way about her. Yet he had been so disappointed at the idea that she had been pregnant two years ago. Since then, she had faithfully used the device her New York doctor had given her. Except on a few occasions, the most recent one being the evening of John’s birthday. Sometimes their passion had been too great, sometimes the moment too precious for Devon to interrupt.
Now she wondered if John would berate her for her carelessness—berate himself for his impatience. If he would regret those unions.
He was looking questioningly at Devon now. Wondering what her news could possibly be. His first thought was of the racing operation. Devon had been completely enthralled by it for the past several months. Surely her news pertained to that.
“What is it?” he urged.
Devon raised her head and looked John straight in the eye. She tried to brace herself for any reaction, hoping for the best but expecting the worst. Always forthright, she could think of no way to cushion the shock she knew he would feel.
“John, we’re going to have a baby.” She said the words evenly, but with a touch of defiance. She wanted this child. And, though she would be disappointed if John did not feel the same way, she would not let his attitude spoil her joy in her pregnancy.
John’s face was transformed. With a huge grin of delight and surprise, he leapt to his feet and, though soaking wet, engulfed Devon in his arms. “What wonderful news!” His voice resounded in the huge marble bathroom.
Devon, giddy with relief, hugged John’s slippery body to her. No response could have made her more ecstatic. A rush of love for him filled her heart. “Then, you’re happy?” she asked breathlessly.
“Happy. Proud. Overcome. Oh, Devon, this is wonderful!” He squeezed his wife even more tightly to him, then suddenly pulled away as he reached to her waist to untie the robe. Slipping it off her shoulders, he pulled her into the tub with him.
It had come off just as he had practiced it. She had been convinced. Now, lying beside his wife in the dark, listening to her deep, regular breathing, he could allow himself for the first time to reflect on his true reaction to the news.
It had not been as unexpected as he had let on. Each time that he and Devon had made love without contraception, he had worried afterward that this might be the result. And, inevitably, their carelessness had caught up with them. As he had known it would.
He could recall one occasion when he had been alone at their New York town house on a quiet Monday evening. There hadn’t been anything of interest on his social calendar. He had found himself thinking about the possibility of Devon being pregnant. He knew that he could not, absolutely could not, react as he had the first time. Two such reactions would seriously damage their marriage, he had concluded. So, he had put his book down, gone into his dressing room with its full-length cheval glass, and practiced assuming a surprised and delighted expression to such news.
He would hug her first, in order to give himself time to compose his features. He would then grin broadly. Like this, he practiced. No, too phony—like this. Yes, just like this, he said to himself, as a charming dimple played around the right side of his mouth. He would raise his eyebrows, widen his eyes, and grin. He would hug her and appear to be overcome with joy. Like this, he demonstrated to himself in the looking glass.
He practiced for some time because he knew that it was vital to his marriage that he do so. He knew Devon would be apprehensive about telling him she was pregnant, and he could not bear the thought of hurting her as he once had done. Even more frightening was the thought of losing her.
But, he thought to himself, he had, in effect, lost her now.
“She won’t be the same.” He was surprised to hear the words actually come out of his mouth. Quickly, he looked at Devon to see if she stirred in her sleep. No, she slept the deep, addictive sleep of the mother-to-be.
She wouldn’t be at all the same. She would grow heavier and heavier. He could already feel his physical attraction to her waning. He turned once more to look at her. His eyes, wide open for more than two hours in the dark, could easily see her features. She was beautiful. Still beautiful.
I’m being absurd, he said to himself. She’ll always be beautiful. Why should she change? He could think of many wives of friends who had remained alluring after childbirth.
Our child. Hers and mine. A product of our love. I should be happy. It’s perfectly normal. Everyone wants children, don’t they?
He pulled down the crisp linen sheet just far enough to expose her breasts as she lay on her back.
“Beautiful,” he murmured almost soundlessly. He leaned toward her and put the tip of his warm tongue on one of Devon’s exposed pink nipples. Although she remained unconscious, the nipple hardened at the contact. He took more of her breast into his mouth. He felt simultaneously comforted and stimulated.
Soon her breasts would flow with milk, he thought. Soon there would be no place for him there. They would belong to the infant.
Suddenly he felt ashamed of himself, as though he were furtively doing something wrong. As though he were sinning. His hardening member at once lost its rigidity and he drew away from his wife.
He wondered if his lust for her would ever rise again.
CHAPTER 23
“COME with me to Kentucky,” Devon begged, “it’s just for a few weeks.”
“Darling, I can’t. I’m negotiating the sale of the Thirty-sixth Street development and I have to be in New York.”
Devon paced back and forth in front of John’s huge Chippendale writing table. Sometimes she felt that his study was the only room in which John felt truly at home at Willowbrook. It was a typical man’s room, with deep green leather furniture, and bookcases lining two walls.
“But Firefly and Fearless Leader are going to run in the Blue Grass Stakes. And we’re going to the Keeneland auctions. This farm is your business too.”
Devon stopped directly in front of John and turned to face him, her hands on her hips, her entire posture one of frustration. “Everyone will be in Kentucky until the Derby. The Whitneys, the Coopers… everyone.”
John smiled indulgently. “Some people will be there, I gra
nt you. The horsey set.”
“That’s everyone we know,” Devon said emphatically, resuming her pacing.
“Do sit down, dear. It’s very distracting for you to be shuttling back and forth like a wooden duck at a shooting range.”
Devon and John both laughed at the comparison, easing the tension between them.
“You say the funniest things sometimes,” Devon said, sinking into a leather chair in front of her husband’s desk.
John picked up a cigarette and put it to his mouth.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that in here, John. It’s such a filthy habit and it leaves an odor in the room,” Devon said with exasperation.
“I won’t smoke in any other room then, Devon, but this is my study and I choose to smoke here,” John said firmly.
“Oh, fine. It doesn’t matter anyhow. What we were discussing was more important than smoking. I don’t understand how you can always have time to go off and visit one of your friends in Oyster Bay or some such place, but when it comes to devoting some time to the racing operation, you never seem to be available.”
“You know the racing operation is really yours,” John said.
“By default! You don’t show an interest.” Devon sat on the edge of her seat, leaning toward John as she made her point.
“To be frank, my interest is not as keen as yours,” he said, sitting back and exhaling a stream of blue smoke. Devon watched the smoke break apart into curly wisps then waft toward an open window.
Fixing her eyes on John again, she said, “I’ll be in Kentucky almost six weeks if Firefly does well at the Blue Grass Stakes.”
“Then you’ll be busy training her every day, so my presence will just be a burden, won’t it?” John challenged.
“How can you say that?” cried Devon, coming to her feet and moving around the desk to sit on John’s lap. Once settled there, she put her arms around his neck and murmured, “Your presence could never be a burden. I miss you so much when we’re apart.” Then, pulling back a little, she added, “Besides, you know all about racing. I could use your advice.”
John threw back his head and laughed. “What a romantic argument!”
Devon studied John. There was something wrong between them and she did not know what it was. He was withdrawn, preoccupied most of the time. On some occasions he was as affectionate as ever, but he had not initiated sex since she had told him about the baby. Yet he had seemed so happy about the news.
Devon wanted to ask him what the matter was, but she was afraid to broach the subject. Afraid to discover something that would upset her. It was easier to just gloss over the matter and hope it would go away.
CHAPTER 24
JOHN studied Devon beside him in the owner’s box. For the Blue Grass Stakes she had dressed with special care, and John realized that it had been some time since he had seen her clad so formally. Usually she wore riding breeches or dungarees. Her concession to the dinner meal was to change into a clean pair of slacks or a simple frock. No more dressing for dinner as they once had. Now, however, she wore a splendidly cut white silk dress that flowed around her legs thanks to a myriad of tiny pleats. A fitted navy bodice emphasized her still-tiny waist and full bosom. She wore pale silk stockings and strappy sandals of white kid with heels so high that she gained three inches in stature. An extravagant picture hat of navy straw lined in white organza and trailing two long white streamers of the same material made Devon’s aqua eyes appear to be a shade of celestial azure.
“What are you staring at?” Devon asked with a grin.
“You look wonderful,” John murmured softly.
Devon, happy, returned to her conversation with Marion Davies. Their other guests in the box included W. R. Hearst, Sydney and Bart, and John’s and Devon’s parents.
John studied his mother. She looked as she always had for as long as he could remember. Serene. Poised. Matronly. Utterly sexless. He turned his gaze to his father. Strict. Judgmental. Unaffectionate. Also utterly sexless. He shifted his scope of vision to encompass Devon’s father, Chase. Portly, kindly, but a bit pompous. Boring.
John realized that he had probably always been afraid of what age and maturity might bring. Perhaps that was why he had remained single until his thirties, and why also he had been so reluctant to admit to himself that he wanted to marry Devon. Growing older meant commitment and responsibility to others. Had those burdens sapped his parents of their vitality?
Is that what’s bothering me so much about this pregnancy? he asked himself. The idea of encumbrance? A child was a fearsome responsibility. More so than a wife. With a wife, mistakes could be ameliorated. Many of his friends were divorced, though his family would be horrified if John did any such thing.
1 don’t want a divorce, of course, he emphasized to himself. At the same time, the option was there, wasn’t it? That was the difference. Even if divorce were not an option, he knew many married couples who led lives completely independent of each other. They took lovers. They stayed together for the sake of convenience. Or for the children.
That was it. A child was an immovable, unavoidable, irrevocable burden. And try though he might, illogical though it was, John could not forgive Devon for imposing it upon him.
Just at the moment that this strong wave of resentment engulfed John, Devon took his hand and squeezed it with anticipation.
“Let’s go down to the paddock and check on the horses, John,” she whispered. “I have a few things I want to go over with McClintock.”
It had been a concession of Devon’s to allow Fearless Leader to have their house jockey, Slim Bocaso. On the other hand, McClintock, though younger and less experienced, raced only in Kentucky and knew the track better than Bocaso. It was difficult to say which was the greater advantage. Often in a tight situation the older jockey with responsibilities would try to avoid danger, while a younger jockey still making a name for himself would take the kind of daredevil chances that could result in a spectacular win—or a tragic loss. Devon felt that with the odds stacked against her as they were, she wanted her filly to be ridden as aggressively as possible.
Devon and John made their way through beautifully dressed well-wishers and rivals in the owners’ boxes, then down to the seedier back side, the part of the racetrack where the work really took place. John observed that almost every male that Devon passed interrupted his work to stare at the lovely vision she created, her white dress wafting around her on the light breeze.
Devon’s gasp of surprise brought John out of his reverie. And he also gasped when he saw the cause of his wife’s distress. Fearless Leader was standing by his stall, his front leg buried in a bucket of ice.
“What’s wrong?” Devon demanded of Willy, who remained staring down at the leg, a look of disgust on his face.
“Not sure. Track doc says cannon bone’s swelled up. He was favoring it this morning.”
“Oh, no!” Devon cried. The cure for an inflamed lower leg was rest and lots of it. To force Fearless Leader to run with the discomfort, as some owners would, might cause a severe injury that could spell the end of his racing career.
“You’re going to have to scratch him from the race?” Devon asked. She was close to tears at the thought of all the time and effort they had put into preparations for this race. It was their first chance to show the blue bloods of the racing world that Willowbrook’s three-year-olds were prime stock. It was important to the future of the stable to feature as many of their horses as possible. Firefly and Fearless Leader had performed well as two-year-olds, but the secret was to demonstrate staying power. The potential for long racing careers was what brought high stud fees and what sold brood mares from a particular farm.
“If we don’t scratch him, he may not be able to run again this season. Then we’d have to train him all over again next year,” Willy grumbled. “It’s just better to sit this one out.”
Devon’s shoulders slumped in dejection. John put his arm around her. But no sooner had he made the gesture than he
felt her straighten her spine smartly and raise her head.
“It’s a good decision, Willy,” she said firmly. “We’ll just have to count on Firefly to make a good showing for us.”
Without a backward look, she strode down the long center aisle of the paddock to the section where the fillies were stabled. Rick McClintock, wearing Willowbrook’s scarlet and black silks, was engrossed in conversation with Jeremiah.
“Gentlemen,” Devon said crisply, nodding to the two young men.
“Ma’am,” said Rick, removing his cap.
“How’s she doing?” she asked, indicating Firefly with a gesture of her chin.
“Top form, Miss Devon,” said Jeremiah, with a broad grin.
“You heard about Fearless Leader, I suppose?”
Both men looked down and shifted their feet. It was a blow to everyone who worked for Willowbrook to have Fearless Leader scratched from the race. Although Jeremiah and Devon had faith in Firefly, they both knew that racehorses were unpredictable. It was possible that she would fare badly. It would have been better to have had two chances to show off their new operation.
John drew alongside his wife and watched the exchange. He was amused to hear Devon discussing the upcoming race in the peculiar slang of the racetrack. She had learned it quickly and it seemed like second nature to her now. Still, it was always a surprise to hear the vulgar trainer-to-jockey lingo enunciated in Devon’s impeccably well-bred accent. The surprise effect was compounded by her delicate looks. But Devon used the slang for none of those reasons. She used it because it saved time and because it was most effective for communicating with the men who worked at the track.
“Okay, McClintock,” said Devon in a commanding voice, now fully recovered from the news of Fearless Leader, “I want you to come out shooting ducks.” That meant that Firefly should be started at top speed rather than held back until the end of the race.
“Yes, ma’am,” said McClintock respectfully. He had no resentment of owners, and no hesitancy to accept orders from Devon. He had seen her in training sessions with Firefly. She could ride like a jockey and she was completely fearless. And she had a special rapport with the filly that was impressive.
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