Regret Not a Moment

by Nicole McGehee

  “Ah, Mrs. Alexander, how lovely you look today,” said McClintock as he invited her into his quarters.

  Devon gave him a dazzling smile. Jockeys always amused her, with their mammoth egos crammed into pint-sized bodies. But she had to admit that McClintock was attractive. His roguish grin and dancing eyes always lit up flatteringly at the sight of her.

  Devon walked to a rickety wooden chair and sat down. Rick sat in a second chair that did not match the first. Track housing was rustic, at best.

  “All right.” Devon got right to the point, oblivious to her surroundings. “Is there anything we haven’t gone over?” Since the Blue Grass Stakes, she had hired Rick McClintock to ride Firefly regularly. Because McClintock did not work for Devon at Willowbrook, he had not known Firefly well prior to the Blue Grass Stakes. But by now he knew her almost as well as Jeremiah and Devon did.

  “She’s been doing great with the blinkers on,” Rick replied. “They were a good idea. Otherwise, it’s like you already said. The strategy that works with Firefly is to start out at top speed and just keep at it.”

  “Well, then, I guess there’s not much else to say,” said Devon with a shrug and a smile, “except good luck.”

  They put out their hands simultaneously for a handshake.

  “Get ready for the winner’s circle, Mrs. Alexander. I am,” said McClintock with his reckless grin.

  She was. Oh, she was.

  Devon felt tears come to her eyes as the crowd sang “My Old Kentucky Home”—a Derby tradition. She was overcome with emotion, not from the song, but from the occasion itself.

  Devon’s nerves were stretched so taut that she could barely speak. She watched through her binoculars as Firefly was led to the starting line. Fearless Leader was already in. They both had decent post positions, which were assigned through a blind drawing.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Sydney reassured her. But Sydney did not know how much was at stake. No one but John did.

  Sooner than Devon expected, the signal to run sounded and Firefly, as at the Blue Grass Stakes, was one of the first to shoot forward.

  “It’s the filly Firefly in the lead, followed by Battering Ram, Snowball, Sensation, One for the Money, Young Turk, and Boisterous. Fearless Leader breaks behind the field, but recovers and sneaks past Starlight and Henry’s Boy to overtake Mother lode and Lollapalooza going neck and neck,” said the announcer.

  Devon sprang to her feet and leaned as far as she could over the rail of her box, her binoculars glued to Firefly. She focused on McClintock, who looked well in control. Firefly wasn’t even running at top speed yet! Devon was so proud of her.

  “McClintock’s fighting off a challenge from One for the Money, trying to hold Firefly’s lead. Fearless Leader now on the inside overtakes One for the Money. It’s Firefly, Sensation, One for the Money, and Fearless Leader nose to nose, with the rest of the field a length behind. Bringing up the rear is Henry’s Boy.

  “Fearless Leader surges ahead now, past One for the Money, Firefly still in the lead by half a length.”

  Devon saw McClintock hunker as close as he could to Firefly’s neck and urge her forward with his crop. She sprang forward like a fury, lather streaming off her neck as she flew down the track. McClintock edged her to the inside of the track. Devon stopped breathing. The turns were tighter at the inside, but also shorter. There was more danger, but it could be the best position on the field if well ridden.

  The blinkers seemed to be working. Firefly looked neither right nor left, despite Fearless Leader pounding almost nose to nose with her.

  “And it’s Fearless Leader losing some ground to One for the Money, Firefly still in the lead,” said the announcer.

  The gray One for the Money had indeed moved between Fearless Leader and Firefly. He pushed forward. Slim Bocaso, Fearless Leader’s jockey, fought the maneuver.

  “Bocaso fights back, but he’s trapped by Sensation. And One for the Money breaks through the traffic jam and puts the pressure on Firefly. The filly’s still leading. She won’t give up! It looks like she may set a new track record!”

  Firefly was galloping, galloping with all her might; Devon could see the veins standing out on her neck. She was almost a blur, she was going so fast. Her tail was a horizontal line behind her.

  Suddenly a horrified gasp went up from the crowd.

  “What’s happening? Firefly’s tumbling! She’s collapsing and McClintock can’t hold on to her! McClintock’s down! He’s hit by Sensation. It’s a collision and Sensation rolls over McClintock!” the announcer said, the words spilling out of him in an excited torrent.

  “My God!” screamed Devon. She pushed past her friends and out of the box, tripping over stairs, people, handbags to reach the field.

  Somewhere in the distance, Devon heard, “And One for the Money wins the race, with Fearless Leader in second place, and Young Turk in third. Firefly can’t get up. Sensation is up now. She’s limping but her leg doesn’t appear broken. McClintock’s still down, but he’s moving. Now he’s getting up. He’s limping over to Firefly! Firefly is still motionless.”

  As though in a nightmare, Devon saw the white ambulance roar through the crowd toward the track, the moan of its siren an eerie portent of the hopeless disaster she knew awaited her on the field.

  The track veterinarian was beside Firefly now. He was leaning over her, his stethoscope on her chest. Devon ran, ran as hard as she could, to the field, a small figure in red and black.

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, you can’t go down there.” An arm on her. She brushed it off as though it were no more than a fly.

  Sweat poured down Devon’s back. She was wet all over. Her silk stockings were in tatters, her legs cut from bumping into people and objects. She kicked off her shoes because her heels sank into the turf, slowing her down. Unnoticed, her hat was lifted off her head by the breeze. For a moment it floated on the air like a red beacon of distress.

  “Firefly, Firefly, Firefly,” Devon repeated aloud to herself in a singsong chant. “Please, God. Please, God! Let her be all right,” she begged.

  She was almost on top of them now. Two white-coated men were urging McClintock to get onto the stretcher. His scarlet and black uniform was torn; blood mingled with the red cloth. He was carried away just as Devon reached the field.

  Devon saw a cluster of bodies surrounding her filly. Shoving through the group, she reached the horse’s side and sank to her knees in the dirt.

  “Firefly!” Devon gasped. The filly’s beautiful brown eyes stared unseeingly at her.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Alexander,” said a man in black, folding his metal stethoscope into his bag. “I’m afraid…”

  “No!” Devon cried.

  “It was a heart attack, ma’am,” he insisted gently. He stood up, his arm reaching down to help Devon up. He wanted to pull her away from Firefly.

  Devon refused. She stretched an arm out toward the filly. “I just want to touch her.”

  “I don’t think that would—” began the vet.

  “Fuck off! She’s got to pay her last respects.” Willy’s gruff voice dismissed the veterinarian.

  Devon put her hand on the filly’s silky neck. “She’s still lathered,” she said to no one in particular, tears streaming down her face.

  Willy knelt down beside her. “She gave you everything she had. She ran a good race. She would have won,” he said.

  “She gave me her heart. She had so much heart,” Devon put her head against Willy’s rough denim shirt and sobbed. His arm encircled her and he patted her on the back.

  “She had heart,” he agreed. “And that’s the best compliment you can pay a racehorse… she had heart.”

  CHAPTER 27

  DEVON had never before felt such pain, but when the doctor laid the tiny warm creature upon her chest, all pain was forgotten.

  “John?” Devon called weakly, eager to share the moment with her husband.

  “Here, darling.” He came toward them, mother and daught
er, and enfolded them in his arms.

  Devon was filled with a sense of perfect love, of renewal, of happiness so overwhelming she thought it would burst from her body like a waterfall. She sighed, cradling her daughter in her arms, “A Christmas baby… the best present of all.”

  “Have you finally picked out the name you prefer?” John teased. They had discussed several names—had settled on names several times—only to have Devon change her mind.

  Devon smiled sheepishly. “Morgan, I think. And her middle name will be Victoria, after your mother.”

  “Morgan Victoria Alexander. I like it. But what about your mother?”

  “I’ll save that for our next daughter.” Devon grinned.

  John looked at the wrinkled little body in Devon’s arms and was surprised by the feeling of protectiveness that came over him. The helpless little baby had depended for nine months on Devon; now she was his responsibility also.

  “May I hold her?” he asked, almost shyly.

  Devon looked up at her husband and laughed. “Of course! She’s your daughter, you know.”

  Ever so gently, John lifted the squirming creature into his arms. Her hands, so tiny, were just visible above the clean white swaddling cloth. Little tufts of dark hair—ebony, like Devon’s—stood almost straight up on her head. Her small mouth looked like a juicy raspberry, round and red and sweet. John lowered his cheek to hers, and promptly fell in love with her.

  “Morgan,” he whispered, “I’ll always take care of you. I promise.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “IT’S a surprise for you!” John said, placing the large satin-ribboned box on Devon’s vanity with a flourish.

  “What’s the occasion?” She laughed.

  “Valentine’s Day and your getting your figure back.” John grinned with the excitement of a little boy, his blue eyes sparkling.

  “Well… almost…” Devon said ruefully, pinching an extra inch of skin around her waist. She slid the huge pink ribbon off the box and lifted the glossy white cardboard lid. Inside lay a gown of scarlet velvet, absolutely devoid of adornment except for luxuriant black mink cuffs.

  “It’s gorgeous!” Devon breathed.

  “You’ll wear it to the ball this evening?” John held it up to Devon, admiring the blush the rich red cloth brought to her cheeks.

  “This evening?” Devon looked questioningly at her husband.

  John looked crestfallen. “You haven’t forgotten!”

  Devon looked down in embarrassment. “Well, I wasn’t sure we would attend. You know Morgan’s been a bit fractious today. She’s—”

  “Now look here, Devon,” John declared, pacing back and forth across the pastel Aubusson carpet in frustration, “we have people to look after Morgan. We haven’t been out together since before Christmas.”

  “That’s not so!” Devon protested. “Just last night we went to your parents’ house for dinner. And last week we went to Delmonico’s with Sydney and Bart.”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it,” John replied impatiently. “I’m talking about social events. Of course, that was natural for a time, but there’s no reason to go on behaving as though we live in a cloister!”

  “John, I know you enjoy parties. Why don’t you go without me,” Devon ventured. She had lost her taste for such occasions. First, in the summer, there had been the death of Firefly. It had taken something out of her, had left her bereft for weeks. Despite that, she had dutifully attended all the social engagements she had promised John she would.

  They had sailed in Newport, partied in Saratoga Springs, and gone hunting at the Whitney estate in Thomasville, Georgia. She had looked forward to the final days of her pregnancy with relief at the respite from the constant social whirl. Now John wanted to resume their former life as though they had no new daughter at home.

  “I don’t want to go anywhere without you!” John exploded. “I want you to remember that you have a husband and that you owe me some time and attention, too.”

  Devon turned away from him guiltily. He was not the only one to sound that lament. Grace, home for a New Year’s visit, had warned her not to neglect her husband. Grace had returned to Europe in the first week of February, but her words lingered behind to haunt Devon.

  “Remember, you have an extremely attractive husband. And you have neglected him—no, don’t argue—just close your mouth and listen,” Grace had said in her usual blunt fashion. “You’ll recall that I warned you at the beginning of your marriage to remember your duty is to him first—not your parents, not your children, but your husband. Now it turns out that you’ve had long separations while you’ve pursued this racing thing.”

  Devon protested, “But John gave me Willowbrook to make it what it once was!”

  “And I understand you have a trainer capable of doing just that—”

  “But—”

  “Hush! Listen to your big sister. There’s something wrong between you and John. I see it. I wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t love you, but I can’t sit by and watch you throw a wonderful marriage down the drain.”

  “He loves me and he’s absolutely crazy about Morgan!” Devon denied her sister’s words, but deep inside she feared they were true.

  Sensing she had struck a chord, Grace relented. “That’s right. Now you have a chance to make everything right between you again. Don’t throw it away or you’ll regret it the rest of your life!”

  “I have no regrets,” Devon said coldly, “I haven’t regretted one moment that I’ve spent on the racing, and certainly not one moment that I’ve spent with Morgan!”

  “You’re being foolishly stubborn,” Grace replied with equal coldness, “and you may not regret it yet, but you will one day if you continue like this. John is admired by many women. I’ve only been here one month, and I’ve already heard rumors—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! Just because we were apart a lot this spring. John’s never been unfaith—”

  “Probably not,” Grace said in a maddeningly skeptical voice.

  “You don’t think—” Devon exploded, outraged.

  “No,” Grace admitted, “but I think he’s on the verge and I think that if he does you have no one to blame but yourself.”

  Stung, Devon argued, “Each person is responsible for his own behavior, and there is no excuse for adultery!”

  “There may be no excuse, but there’s usually a rationale. And, sometimes, it’s a fairly good one.”

  “Well, I never thought I’d hear you express such old-fashioned views,” Devon huffed. “You always went on so about the freedom of Frenchwomen. What about me? What about the things that interest me? Why shouldn’t I be free to pursue them? And why should I have to give up everything I enjoy for fear of losing my husband.”

  Grace looked levelly into her sister’s eyes. “I’m not old-fashioned. I’m realistic. Of course, you’re free to do as you wish. And it may be that Willowbrook is more important to you than your husband is. Or that Morgan is. If so, then that is your choice. But don’t be surprised if that choice offends John. And don’t be surprised if you lose him to another woman.”

  “But that’s not fair!” Devon protested like a child railing against the inevitable.

  “No,” Grace said grimly.

  “You can’t agree that it’s right!”

  “No.” Grace shrugged.

  “Then why should I go along? John works. He spends all day at the office. He could spend more time at Willowbrook, but instead he’s always trying to persuade me to come to New York. Well, here I am and you’re saying it’s still not enough.” Devon cut herself short, surprised at her own resentment and hostility. Was her husband less important to her than her own pursuits? How had it happened? There had to be a way to resolve the situation.

  As though reading her thoughts, Grace said, “I’m surprised that you seem to care so little for his happiness. For your happiness as a couple. You seem completely absorbed in your own separate world.”

  “Morgan is
his daughter, too!”

  “Morgan doesn’t need you by her side every minute. I think you’re using these things as an excuse to hold John at arm’s length. And for the life of me, I can’t understand why. But thinking back, even as early as your engagement, it seemed you were reluctant to make the kind of concessions a wife usually makes for her husband. Remember when you didn’t want to spend Christmas in New York with him that first year?” Grace asked.

  “That has nothing to do with—”

  “You’re too stubborn,” Grace said with finality. “That’s fine, of course, if you want to spend your life alone, but if you want to share it with a man—”

  “But this is 1935! Women work. We have the vote. We aren’t supposed to just be our husbands’ appendages!”

  Grace burst out laughing—cynical laughter that was devoid of mirth. “Oh, you poor naive child! Where in the world did you ever get such ideas? No wonder you’re unhappy. You haven’t accepted the truth.”

  “Which is?” Devon said angrily.

  “That no matter how ‘modern’ our society becomes, a man will always expect to be the number-one priority for his woman. Try it any other way and you’re doomed to fail. You can fight it. You can resent it. But if you don’t give in to it, you’ll lose the man. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Well, I do resist it. I have things I want to do with my life—my life, independent of John’s, and I intend to do them,” Devon said defiantly. She could make it work, she told herself. She would spend more time with John. They would go out more. She would show him that she loved him. But she would not give up her racing. She would not turn over the upbringing of her child to servants. And she would not deny herself the pleasure of achieving something apart from her family.