Regret Not a Moment

by Nicole McGehee

  “It’s none of your business,” Francesca cried, “but I’m here to buy a surprise for my mother, so she couldn’t come with me!”

  “How dare you speak to me in that tone!” the young woman breathed.

  “Calm down,” the man commanded both, with a gesture of his hand. In his other hand, Francesca saw what had hurt her shin—an ebony walking stick with a brass eagle head as the handle.

  The man turned back to Francesca, and for the first time, she noticed the deep, deep blue of his eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she could not place him. Yet she was certain she would have remembered meeting him. “You’re looking for a Christmas gift for your mother?” he asked gently.

  “Yes, thank you, I am,” Francesca said in her most adult manner.

  The man suppressed a smile at the child’s pompous tone. It did not fit with her helter-skelter hair and pointed wool cap.

  “Tiffany is a big place. Do you need any help?”

  “Oh, please!” the redhead began sarcastically.

  The man turned to her in exasperation, the expression on his face silencing her.

  Francesca looked at the beautiful young woman, then back at the man. She dimpled and said, “I really do need some help.”

  “Well, come along then,” said the man. To the redhead, he turned and said, “Why don’t you take the car back to your place. I’ll catch a cab.” And with a peck on her cheek, he left her standing in the middle of the aisle, her coral-painted mouth open in astonishment.

  “Won’t she be mad?” asked Francesca, giggling.

  “Briefly,” replied the man, with a dismissive gesture of his walking stick.

  “You’re nice to help me. I hadn’t expected this place to be so big.”

  “Well, then, let’s get on with it. What’s your budget?” he asked with a smile.

  “My budget?”

  “How much do you want to spend?”

  “I have a hundred dollars,” Francesca said proudly, “but my grandmother said she could lend me more if I see something I really love.”

  “Why don’t we start over here. Pens and stationery. For a hundred dollars, you can probably buy something very beautiful.”

  “My mother would like a pen. She’s a businesswoman,” Francesca said proudly.

  “Well, then, let’s have a look.”

  Francesca looked behind the counter where busy clerks hurried back and forth. They all seemed to be waiting on customers. Francesca was afraid she would be humiliated in front of the man if another clerk ignored her, but as soon as he placed his gloved hand on the display case, a smiling clerk seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

  “Sir, may I be of assistance?” the clerk asked with an obsequious little half bow.

  “This young lady would like to buy a Christmas present for her mother,” he said, indicating Francesca with a hand on her shoulder.

  “Ah,” said the clerk, turning to Francesca deferentially, “and what did we have in mind?”

  “A pen?” she said uncertainly, looking up at her new friend.

  The clerk reached into the display case and pulled out a gray velvet box filled with pens neatly aligned on a satin-covered rack within. “We have some sterling silver pens here. They’re very fine.”

  Francesca immediately saw the one she wanted. It was silver like the others, but had an inlay of mother-of-pearl that added a delicate femininity to it. “This one looks like something Mother would like. How much is it?”

  “That is eighty-five dollars, young lady.”

  Francesca clapped her hands together with delight. “I’ll take it!” she cried.

  “Very good, miss. I’ll have it wrapped for you.”

  Once payment had been made, the clerk handed Francesca her change, ceremoniously counting out the money. “Thank you, miss. And sir, I’m sure your wife will be very pleased with her gift.”

  Francesca opened her mouth to protest, but a squeeze on the shoulder silenced her. And for a moment Francesca wished so much that the clerk’s words were true. She wished this kind stranger were her father and would always be there to help her.

  “Well, can I drop you somewhere?” asked the man.

  But Francesca didn’t want to lose her new friend so quickly. Seeing her downcast expression, the man looked at his wristwatch. “It’s a bit early for lunch. But… if we walk very slowly and look in all the shop windows, I suppose we could delay our arrival at the Plaza until eleven-thirty. That is, it you would he so kind as to join me for lunch.”

  “Oh… yes… I’d love that!” Francesca cried. Then, suddenly, she stopped short. “But… but I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers. My mother told me never to—”

  “And she’s absolutely right,” the man interrupted. “Well, then, I shall be getting along.”

  “Oh, no, please!” said Francesca. After all, she knew she could trust this man. He wasn’t the kind of person her mother had warned her about. He was obviously someone very much like her mother’s friends. He was expensively clad in a navy blue cashmere coat, and Francesca could tell he was a man of substance. Besides, she would be fourteen in just a few days. She wasn’t a child any longer!

  As they left Tiffany, Francesca noticed that the man limped slightly. She wanted to ask him what had happened, but her mother had told her that such questions were impolite.

  After a lingering walk around the block, the two proceeded up the stairs and through the huge brass doors of the Plaza Hotel. The man, knowing what would appeal to the youngster at his side, chose to lunch at the airy Palm Court rather than the more masculine Oak Room at the rear of the hotel.

  After they sat down, Francesca removed her hat and woolen coat with its high collar. Now the man studied her carefully.

  “Have I done something wrong?” the girl asked, puzzled by his intense scrutiny.

  “No… no,” said the man, shaking his head. “You remind me of someone. Just a bit.” His voice was wistful.

  “Who?”

  “Oh,” said the man, staring beyond Francesca into the distance, “someone I knew twenty years ago. Someone who meant a great deal to me.”

  “When you were young?”

  The man threw back his head and laughed, revealing straight white teeth. “Yes,” he said good-naturedly, “when I was young.”

  Francesca blushed, without quite knowing why.

  “What would you like?” the man asked, studying the menu.

  “Oh, the tea sandwiches and watercress salad!” Francesca said, barely looking at her own menu. “That’s what I always have. I love the way they cut the crusts off the little sandwiches,” she said in a confidential tone. “And, if you don’t mind, I’d like strawberry shortcake for dessert.”

  Again, the man studied the girl carefully. Suddenly he said, “I don’t believe I’ve asked your name. Would you tell it to me?”

  “Frankie,” she said crisply.

  “Odd name for a girl.”

  “It’s not my real name,” she confessed, “but it’s what I like to be called.”

  “Well, Frankie, my name is John. John Alexander.”

  Frankie’s mouth opened in shock. “You’re the one!” she breathed, staring at her companion with new fascination.

  The man tilted his head and lifted one eyebrow in inquiry, waiting for her to go on.

  “You were married to my mother!”

  John was stunned. He searched the girl’s face, a face that seemed strangely familiar to him, though he could not isolate the traits that reminded him of Devon. Yet she did remind him of—no, wait. It was not so much a resemblance to Devon as to Morgan. Yes, that was it. Morgan. A fist clutched his heart and squeezed it until he could not breathe. His only child. And now, this child. Devon’s child. With the same dark hair, the same laughing features. For a moment, Morgan was not dead at all. It had all been a cruel hoax. How often he had awakened in the dark of night thinking that Morgan’s death had been a nightmare. Only to be bitterly disappointed. To re
alize that the nightmare was reality.

  And now, this… this was like a wonderful dream. He blinked his eyes rapidly to suppress the mistiness that threatened. Morgan, still young enough to be a child—his child—was sitting before him. His eyes drank in her features. Her beloved features. But… they were not the same. His stomach plummeted in disappointment. No, it was not Morgan. A child like Morgan. A child like his and Devon’s. Only she wasn’t his. That was the heartbreak of it.

  “You’re Francesca, then,” he murmured. Of course, he had read the columns announcing her birth. “I should have recognized you immediately.”

  “I look like Mother?” she asked, delighted.

  “Well…” He saw the hope in her eyes and did not want to disappoint her. “There is a definite family resemblance.” John took a silent inventory of her features. Yes, he was beginning to see it. Morgan, too, had been different from Devon, and yet had resembled her in much the same way this child did. “Your eyes are green, not aqua, your skin is darker, but the shape of your face, your bones, your mouth—all that is the same. Yes, there is definitely a strong resemblance.”

  “But… but Mother’s beautiful, and I’m not,” Francesca said, hoping for contradiction.

  Her words tugged at his emotions. She was so vulnerable. He wanted to protect her, encourage her. Give her all the confidence he would have done a daughter of his own. “Give it a year. You will be,” John replied honestly. Then, seeing the disappointment on her face, he added, “Its already there, your beauty, you just need to realize it yourself. Once you have confidence, you will be beautiful.” And it was true, he thought.

  “Mother’s the most beautiful woman I know,” said Francesca.

  “I haven’t seen her in so many years,” John said, thinking aloud, “I wonder if she’s changed a great deal. Of course, I’ve seen photographs, but that’s not the same.”

  “Oh, Mother’s much more beautiful than her photographs,” said Francesca breezily. “Everyone says so.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Well…” said Francesca, pausing discreetly while a waiter placed their food in front of them. When he had left, she continued, “Mr. Wilder says so.”

  “Mr. Wilder?” asked John, taking a bite of his London broil in mushroom sauce.

  “Mother’s gentleman friend, as she calls him.” Francesca picked up a tea sandwich, saw that it contained egg salad, and replaced it, choosing one filled with smoked turkey instead.

  Suddenly Francesca saw an opportunity to learn things her mother would not tell her. “Why did you and Mother get a divorce?” she asked abruptly.

  John drew in his breath, surprised by the question and the pain it caused. But, of course, this girl couldn’t know that. She meant no harm. And he could tell that she needed to know these things. He shook his head. “There’s no easy answer to that. It was a lot of things.”

  “Didn’t you love her anymore?”

  “Oh, yes…” he said, looking down at the table, “we just wanted different things out of life.”

  Francesca nodded knowingly. “That’s what she told me, too.”

  John raised his eyes to Francesca’s and searched her face. “Is she happy?” John asked softly.

  Now it was Francesca’s turn to look puzzled. Happy? It never occurred to her that adults could suffer from a general state of unhappiness. None of them seemed to go through the roller coaster of emotions she felt every day. “I… think Mother’s happy. I’ve never seen her cry, except when Grandfather died.”

  Focusing on John now, Francesca asked, “Did you get married again?”

  “Yes, but I’m not married now.”

  “Do you have children?”

  John paused. He felt his throat constrict with pain. With difficulty, he replied, “I had a child, but she died.”

  Francesca gave him a sad little nod of sympathy. “Morgan, you mean. We put flowers on her grave every week when we’re at Willowbrook. You’ve sent flowers, too, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, yes,” John said, his voice melancholy, “I’ve sent flowers.” He had so many regrets, so much guilt where Morgan was concerned. Though, he’d been over thirty when Devon had given birth, he realized now that he had been too immature, too self-centered to be a proper father. The war, his injuries, his work now – these things had changed him profoundly. If he had possessed even half the maturity that he had now…he wondered…no, he knew he would have been a better father and husband.

  “I didn’t know Morgan, but I wish she hadn’t died.” Suddenly a thought occurred to Francesca. “If she had lived, you might have been my father. A lot of my friends’ parents stay married just because they have children. You hear them talk about it sometimes.”

  “But then you wouldn’t be you.” John couldn’t help but smile at the eager young face before him. He signaled for the waiter to clear their table. After they had ordered Francesca’s strawberry shortcake and John’s coffee, he asked, “Do you miss having a father very much?”

  “Mother’s wonderful,” Francesca said loyally. “And there’s Mason and Willy and Jeremiah.”

  “But?” John probed.

  “But, yes… yes… I wish I had a father.”

  “Well, maybe we can be friends,” John said warmly.

  “That would be great!” Then Francesca’s face fell. “But don’t you live abroad?”

  “Not anymore. I’m in New York to stay,” John said.

  The waiter brought a six-inch-high confection of whipped cream and strawberries and placed it in front of Francesca with a flourish. Then he poured John’s coffee from a silver pot, and placed the pot beside John.

  “But…” John hesitated. “Do you think your mother would mind our being friends?” he asked.

  “Oh no,” said Francesca casually. “I asked her if she hated you and she said no.”

  CHAPTER 52

  DEVON’S sound sleep was pierced by the telephone ringing on the bedside table. She groggily lowered the thick eiderdown comforter and reached for the instrument, not alert enough yet to feel a sense of apprehension.

  “Hello?” She yawned.

  “Devon, I’m sorry to wake you, but we’ve had an emergency here.” The familiar drawl of Jeremiah’s voice on the other end brought Devon instantly to her senses.

  “What’s wrong?” Devon asked, alarmed. She pushed herself into a sitting position and turned on the bedside light, shivering in the cold night air.

  “It’s Willy…” Jeremiah hesitated.

  “Oh, God, no!” Devon cried, fear gripping her.

  “Devon, I don’t know how to tell you…” Jeremiah’s desperate sense of loss was evident in his tone. “I… I’m afraid he’s had a heart attack.”

  “Please, Jeremiah, don’t say he’s dead,” Devon pleaded.

  “I’m sorry, Devon. He’s gone,” Jeremiah said gently.

  “I just can’t believe it! He was fine last time I saw him.” Devon flung back the comforter and leapt from the bed. She felt like she couldn’t catch her breath. Then, when she managed to inhale, tears began to stream from her eyes.

  “Not according to the doctor, Devon. He told me tonight that he’d warned Willy to cut back on work.”

  “But Willy never said a word! He worked the same amount as always.” She knew Willy’s age, but he had seemed immortal.

  “Yeah,” Jeremiah acknowledged softly, “that was the problem. His work was his whole life.”

  “Willowbrook was, yes.” Devon’s voice broke as she said the words.

  “And you, too, Devon. He loved you very much, you know.”

  Devon smiled through her tears, the smile turning into a grimace of sorrow. “I never thought that he would get used to me, but one day we were just the best of friends. I don’t exactly know when it happened.”

  “He left a letter tor you,” Jeremiah said. “I don’t know if it’s his will or what.”

  Devon looked up as the door to her bedroom opened. A worried-looking Francesca was standing there, her st
riped pajamas rumpled from sleep.

  Instinctively lowering her voice and wiping away her tears, Devon said to Jeremiah, “I’ll be down in a few hours. I’ll leave right away.” She replaced the telephone receiver, using the few seconds to mull over how to tell her daughter the news. Francesca regarded Willy as family. She would be heartbroken.

  “Come here, Francesca,” Devon said, sitting down and gesturing to the empty place on the bed beside her. “Snuggle up next to me, Frankie, I have something to tell you.”

  Devon’s use of the nickname startled Francesca, for she knew her mother disliked it. Devon almost never used this form of address, even though Francesca tried to insist on it. But instead of being gratified by its use now, Francesca felt worried. She drew close to her mother’s warmth, curling up against her. Devon put her arm around her daughter so that Francesca’s head rested on her shoulder.

  “You’re getting so big,” Devon murmured.

  Now that she was accustomed to the light and fully awake, Francesca saw her mother had been crying, so she knew something bad had happened. “What’s wrong, Mom?” she asked, frightened.

  “Darling, I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s about Willy.”

  Francesca squirmed out of her mother’s arms and sat up so that she was directly facing her. “What’s wrong?” she repeated, panic evident in her voice.

  Devon deliberately made her voice calm. “He’s been ill.”

  “No, he hasn’t!” Francesca cried.

  Devon took her daughter’s hands and enfolded them in her own. “None of us knew about it. He didn’t tell anyone. And now, I have to go back to Willowbrook. Tonight.”

  “I want to go too! I want to see him!”

  “Frankie, Willy had a heart attack tonight.”

  “Oh no! Is he going to die?” the girl sobbed.

  “Oh, Frankie.” Tears streamed from Devon’s eyes as she reached forward and wrapped her daughter in her arms. She needed the comfort of a warm body as much as Francesca did.

  “Mommy,” said Francesca, reverting to the childhood appellation in her distress, “is he dead?”