Regret Not a Moment

by Nicole McGehee

  Her movements were as elegant and fluid as a fashion model’s, even when she was pacing. Dressed for the cocktail hour, she wore a figure-skimming lavender silk dress. Her new short, wavy haircut emphasized her eyes and bone structure. It was hard to believe that she was in her fifties.

  “For God’s sake, Devon, you’re exhausting me with your pacing! Sit down, have a glass of wine, and stop worrying!” said John companionably.

  The two men looked at each other and nodded almost imperceptibly. Mason stood and went over to Devon, gently taking her arm and guiding her to a fat, flowered armchair. Holding her by her shoulders, he pushed down slightly, indicating that she should be seated. Meanwhile, John went over to the bar cart, took an open bottle of Chablis from the ice bucket, and poured Devon a glass. He brought it over to her.

  “Here,” he said. “Don’t say another word until you’ve drunk everything in this glass.”

  Devon gave the two men a look of mock exasperation, but then she dimpled. They were so silly when it came to Francesca!

  John turned away abruptly and went back to his place on the couch. There were moments when John found it almost impossible to conceal his love for Devon and he had to turn away from her immediately for fear he would blurt out something inappropriate. He always treated her in a genial, fraternal manner, even when he felt like taking her in his arms instead. Two years before, when he had first become reacquainted with her, he had thought of trying to rekindle their romance. But his quick friendship with Mason and the older man’s obvious love for Devon prevented him from making such an attempt. He sometimes wondered with amusement if Mason had deliberately co-opted him with his charm and kindness.

  At the time of their reunion, John had not been in love with Devon; rather, he had been deeply attracted to her. The love had come later, so many things making it grow. Her confrontation with the Ku Klux Klan had filled him with respect and pride for her. He admired her bold, authoritative style of managing her business, kicking himself for his former objections to it. He envied her ability to inspire loyalty from her employees—they were happy, it seemed, a rare feat in the business world. She accomplished so much—and appeared to do it effortlessly. But most of all, when he watched her loving relationship with her mother, her daughter, and Alice, he regretted that he was no longer part of her family. It was an impossible situation, yet he enjoyed the company of his two friends—and Francesca—so much that he resigned himself to it.

  “Devon,” Mason said, his deep voice adding weight to his words, “there will come a time when you will no longer have the right to control what Francesca does. Why let your actions now foster a rift then? If she wants to become a jockey badly enough, she will do it over your objections. But maybe this is just a phase. All young girls love horses.”

  Devon’s eyes met John’s for a split second. She knew that he was thinking of Morgan. Even in that brief moment, the pain took her breath away.

  At once, she turned back to Mason. “This… this obsession of hers has lasted twelve years. It’s not just a phase.”

  “It’s not an obsession, Devon,” John countered, “it’s a dream. Not many people have the talent and opportunity to fulfill their dreams. Why deny your child a chance that is unique?”

  Devon looked angrily at her former husband. “That’s easy for you to say; she’s not your daughter!” She regretted the words the moment she uttered them. She knew it was wrong to strike out at John when they were both remembering the most painful episode of their marriage.

  John averted his eyes, hurt apparent on his face. Mason came to his friend’s defense. “Devon! John cares as much about Francesca as if she were his daughter. So do I! We don’t want any harm to come to her. How can a woman as God-blasted independent as you deny your own daughter a chance to have what you have—a career doing something she loves!”

  “Well, women aren’t jockeys!” Devon cried, slapping the arm of her chair for emphasis.

  “Hah! That’s rich coming from you.” John’s tone accused her. “When you took over Willowbrook, there were no professional women trainers. You broke every boundary, every tradition that ever existed. Now your picture’s hanging in the racing museum! But you won’t let Francesca have the same chance. Devon, she’s just like you. She’s a survivor, a winner! She’ll be fine!”

  “No!” Devon argued, close to tears. Like a boil bursting, Devon’s deepest fears spilled out. She said the words they’d all been thinking. “What about Morgan? Things might have been different…” She choked on her rising tears. For a moment she was too overcome to speak. Both men stared at her in stunned silence. Haltingly, she continued, “I… I could have… protected her, but I didn’t. I can’t let that happen twice!”

  Mason got up from the couch and started toward Devon, but then he stopped short. John and Devon were staring at each other, mesmerized. It was as though a camera lens was focusing on only the two of them, blocking out their surroundings—and blocking out Mason. They were reliving a tragedy the depth of which no one around them could comprehend. It was a moment of such deep intimacy, such naked pain, that Mason felt like a voyeur intruding on the privacy of others.

  Slowly, John rose from the couch. He went to Devon and took her hands, rubbing them a moment in his. Then he knelt beside the chair and wrapped his arms around her, comforting her. Oblivious to Mason, John crooned to Devon as she sobbed into his shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, almost incoherent, “it’s just been eating at me. What if the same thing happens to Francesca?”

  “It wouldn’t be the same thing,” John said softly. “The circumstances were completely different. Francesca is strong, used to taking tumbles. And she’s a talented rider.”

  “But jockeys can get killed!”

  “So can bus drivers or maids or doctors or housewives. Anybody can get killed, Devon.”

  “It’s not the same,” Devon said, pushing John away for a moment and giving him a look of exasperation. “I could stop Francesca from doing something so dangerous!”

  “No, you couldn’t. Not forever. Just like you couldn’t have stopped what happened to Morgan. Not really. And that’s what’s been eating you all these years. You believe that you did something wrong. But at the time, you thought it was right,” John said gently, taking his handkerchief from his pocket and wiping away her tears. “You’re not God, and you couldn’t have known how it would turn out. You don’t have the power to protect your children from death, as much as you would like to.” John remembered with shame how he had secretly blamed Devon for contributing to Morgan’s death. He had been so foolish, he realized. He was thankful that he had never spoken aloud the words of blame that were in his mind during that period.

  Devon took the handkerchief from John’s hands and blew her nose, recovering some of her composure.

  “I’m so frightened for her, John.”

  “I am, too. If she truly does become a jockey, my heart will be in my throat every time she rides. But I’ll be proud of her, too. And I’ll be happy for her. People have to take risks to get what they want, Devon. Sometimes they have to give things up. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I?” John’s eyes looked deeply into Devon’s, and for a brief moment she saw in them the hurt she had inflicted upon him so long ago. Then a veil went down, and all she saw was sympathy.

  “I suppose I’ve been overly protective,” Devon said, looking down at her hands as she twisted the handkerchief nervously.

  “You’ve been a wonderful mother,” John said warmly, lifting her chin with his index finger and looking into her eyes with a smile.

  “Well, I guess I’ll tell Francesca the good news at dinner tonight,” Devon said, readjusting her skirt and sitting straighter in her chair.

  “Good.”

  “Mason, why don’t we—” Devon looked around the room for her friend, then back at John. “Where’s Mason?”

  “I don’t know.” John looked around, puzzled, as though he would discover Mason in some corner of
the room Devon had overlooked. “I didn’t even hear him go.”

  CHAPTER 58

  “CAN you believe it? Mom says I can start as soon as finals are over next week,” Francesca called to Jesse. Their horses were traveling single file along the path through the woods, Jesse in front of Francesca. Soon they would arrive at their swimming spot.

  “That’s great!” Jesse said over his shoulder. “Congratulations! How’d you talk her into it?”

  “Like I told you. Uncle John did it.”

  “Spoiled!” Jesse teased. As they reached the clearing, he dismounted, tethering his horse to a tree. Francesca did the same, taking their food from the saddle pack.

  “Swim first?” she asked.

  Jesse remembered his discomfiture of the weekend before, and a wash of rose touched his light-coffee-colored features. “Sure. I wore a bathing suit though. Mom gave me one for my birthday,” he added offhandedly. He didn’t want to explain that he felt somehow more exposed sitting opposite her in his wet clothes than he would in a bathing suit. He could not explain why exactly, but it seemed somehow less… abandoned… to wear a swimsuit. He felt safer in it. More in control.

  Francesca looked puzzled. “Didn’t feel like getting your clothes wet?” she asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “We always dry so quickly, it never seems like a problem. Maybe I should wear one too.”

  “Maybe.” Jesse shrugged, not meeting her eyes as he spread the picnic blanket on the ground.

  “Are you going to change into your dry clothes when you get out?” Francesca asked.

  “Frankie, I don’t know!” Jesse said in irritation. “It’s not like I’ve got some big plan. I’m just wearing a gift my mom gave me.”

  “Okay, okay! Don’t get hot under the collar,” Francesca said, returning Jesse’s look of irritation. “Maybe I won’t even go swimming.”

  “So don’t.” Jesse shrugged in feigned nonchalance. He turned and ambled to the water’s edge. Soon, Francesca followed him.

  “Cold?” she asked. Francesca bent over the water and dipped a hand in. Suddenly, Jesse had the urge to push her in. Stealthily, he backed away from the water’s edge and toward her. Francesca spun around, eyes wide. “Jesse, don’t you dare!” she cried as he gave her a shove strong enough to send her into the icy brook tail first.

  “Oh!” she screamed, laughing and gasping for breath as her head bobbed to the surface, “it’s freezing!” She slapped her hand across the surface of the water in an attempt to splash Jesse.

  All at once, the tension between them melted away. Jesse jumped into the water, making as huge a splash as he could. Then the water fight began in earnest, both teenagers laughing uproariously as they splashed each other.

  After about fifteen minutes, Francesca, gasping for air, said, “I’m getting too cold. I’ve got to get out.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Francesca hoisted herself from the brook, sheets of water raining down from her and muddying the bank. Jesse followed. “I’ve got towels,” he said, running toward his horse.

  “You do? You really came prepared today.”

  “Well, you always bring the food.”

  Jesse grabbed two towels from his saddlebag and came toward Francesca. She was still standing by the bank of the river. Her cutoffs clung to her, but were thick enough to be no more revealing than when dry. On top, Francesca wore a sleeveless cotton top under a plaid cotton blouse. The outfit was modest, more modest than a bathing suit. Jesse was relieved she was not wearing only a T-shirt.

  But, as if reading his mind, Francesca said, “As long as you have a towel, I may as well hang this up to dry.” She removed the plaid shirt and, for one brief moment, Jesse saw the outline of her sturdy white bra through the sleeveless top. The wet cloth sank into her cleavage, now as full as a woman’s, and Jesse could not help but stare.

  Francesca’s face turned crimson as she followed his gaze. Snatching the towel from Jesse, she hurriedly wrapped it around her.

  Together they went to the picnic blanket and sat down. To cover their confusion, they occupied themselves with unloading the contents of the saddlebag.

  “Mmmm, chicken salad sandwiches, sweet pickles, olives, potato chips… Hey! My favorite! Roast beef!” said Jesse, happily absorbed in the feast.

  “Jesse,” said Francesca, ignoring the food, “can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “How come you don’t have a girlfriend?”

  Jesse gave her a bold stare. “What makes you think I don’t?”

  “Well… you never talk about one. And you spend every Saturday and Sunday with me.”

  “Just days,” Jesse said mysteriously.

  Francesca’s eyes widened. “Who’s your girlfriend?”

  “Rosie Hammersmith.”

  Francesca felt a sudden stab of jealousy as she thought of Jesse spending time with another girl. “Reverend Hammersmith’s daughter?”

  “Yep.”

  “She’s pretty,” Francesca admitted. She waited a beat before continuing. “Don’t you want to know if I have a boyfriend?”

  “Nope,” said Jesse with feigned indifference. He reached for a roast beef sandwich and bit into it.

  Francesca tossed her glossy black curls and pushed out her lip in a pout. She was annoyed that Jesse didn’t seem to want to know whether she was attractive to boys. “Well, are you going out with your girlfriend tonight?”

  “She goes to Bible camp in summer.” Jesse chewed his sandwich, wishing that Francesca would stop staring at him. “Listen, would you stop asking questions and just eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Hah, that’s a first for you!”

  Francesca ignored the remark and continued her line of questioning. “Jesse… did you and Rosie ever do it?”

  Jesse’s eyes widened in outrage. “Frankie! That’s none of your business.” Guiltily he thought of his trysts with Rosie behind her father’s church. Jesse had been troubled by the locale, but that had only seemed to excite Rosie more. “We’ll move back fifty feet if you’re going to be so prissy about this,” she had mocked him, “so we won’t be on hallowed ground.” But she had been so hot and willing that he would have been unable to resist her no matter what the circumstances. He had not known that women could be so eager.

  Rosie, though, had departed ten days before, and immediately afterward Jesse had become aware of Francesca’s blossoming womanhood. The dreams that left him wet and tormented at night were no longer about Rosie. And the guilt he had experienced with Rosie was nothing compared to the taboo attached to his lust for Francesca—which only made it all the more excruciating.

  Francesca thought that Jesse looked as though he’d been caught doing something wrong, and once again her jealousy flared. She thought of Jesse kissing another girl, touching her, and she suddenly had the urge to show him that she, Francesca, could arouse him if she wanted to. If she wanted to.

  “Well,” she said casually. “I don’t think I’m ever going to get dry if I keep this towel around me,” she said, dropping it around her waist. Jesse immediately averted his eyes, but not before he noticed her nipples poking through the wet cloth. Against his will, he felt himself stir. He dropped his sandwich on his paper plate and rolled onto his stomach, cradling his head in his arms.

  “I’m not hungry anymore,” he announced. “I’m going to take a little nap. And I don’t want you to bother me for at least a half hour.”

  “Fine!” she said pettishly, annoyed that he would literally turn his back on what she considered a most intriguing conversation. She glared daggers at the fuzzy curls on the back of his head, willing him to turn around and face her. But Jesse remained immobile, as though he were already asleep. His pose reminded her of summers past when they had dozed for hours in the hot sun, not saying a word all afternoon. In all that time, there had never been the tension between them that existed now. It must be my fault, Francesca chided herself. Suddenly,
she was ashamed of her behavior. What was I trying to do? she asked herself. Jesse’s my friend. Do I want him to kiss me, to touch me? Of course not! Jesse’s like a brother. But, of course, he was not her brother.

  CHAPTER 59

  DEVON‘S sporty Jaguar pulled up in front of the glossy black double doors of Mason Wilder’s Georgetown mansion. The neoclassical structure occupied two acres of a neighborhood in which most of the houses were no more than twenty feet wide. The town on the outer boundaries of the District of Columbia had once been the most sought-after residential area of Washington, had tumbled into a period of decrepitude, then had been resurrected into the high-style real estate that it would remain. Wilder’s family had been there from the beginning, his house a sightseer’s landmark in a town filled with landmarks.

  Devon emerged from her racing green convertible, brushing her full-skirted dress in a vain attempt to smooth out some of the wrinkles that had formed during the drive. She fluffed her hair with her fingers as she climbed the wide brick staircase that stretched across the entire facade of the house. With its massive white pillars and twenty-foot ceilings, the house was a monumental structure.

  Before she could reach the front door it was thrown open by Mason, who wrapped Devon into his huge embrace. He kissed her on the lips with fervor, unwilling to release her until he heard the footsteps of his butler behind him.

  “Owens, would you please take the bags to the ivory room,” he said with a conspiratorial wink at Devon. The ivory room was connected to his by a door. As always, he was certain that they fooled no one. Still, appearances had to be maintained.

  “Devon, I’m so glad you could make it,” Mason said, ushering her into the house. “It will be good to have you by my side as hostess tonight. Entertaining is always more gracious with a hostess present, don’t you agree?”

  “Of course,” murmured Devon, avoiding yet another of Mason’s broad hints.

  “Would you care for tea, a cocktail?” Mason asked, leading her to the terrace at the rear of the house. Terrace, perhaps, was too modest a word for the multilevel expanse of herringbone-patterned brick that stretched for two hundred feet in either direction. It was interspersed with fountains and specimen trees, a pergola and an orangerie; all of it constructed in a formal style that perfectly suited the palatial lines of the home. At the outer reaches of the structure stood a pristine Olympic-sized swimming pool surrounded by black wrought-iron tables and chairs sporting red and white umbrellas.