“No!” Jesse hastily snatched his hand back, frustrated that Francesca refused to understand what he was saying. “Our families would kill us if they knew about this!”
“But… we could keep it secret.” Francesca’s green eyes were wide with the faith of the innocent. “And as soon as I’m old enough, we can be married!” She wanted to make him understand that she could face anything—for him.
Jesse gasped in disbelief. “Married! We could never be married!” How could she even talk about something so outrageous! Didn’t she understand that people would hate them just for being together? In a sudden panic, he looked over each shoulder, petrified lest they be observed.
“Oh, Jesse!” said Francesca, pleading. “Don’t you see that the world is changing? One day, no one will even look twice at a marriage between a Negro and a white woman.”
But his face was closed, unapproachable.
“Changing! It’s not changing fast enough to do us any good,” he insisted fiercely. “Do you remember the night those men came for my father because he fired that white jockey?”
“That’s just it, though. They didn’t do anything to him. They came to Mother first. And she sent them all home,” Francesca said, certain that happy endings were real.
“Francesca, you just don’t get it! If anyone knew that I’d touched you—that I’d even had these thoughts about you—nobody could stop them from lynching me! And your mother might be leading the pack!”
Francesca drew back from him, bristling. “That’s vile of you to say. You know it’s not true!”
“The hell I do!” Jesse argued heatedly.
But the hurt look on Francesca’s face melted his heart. “Look,” he explained more gently, “this can never work. We wouldn’t fit in anywhere in the world, you know.”
Tears streamed down Francesca’s face as she said, “There must be someplace…”
Jesse ached to pull Francesca back into his arms, but didn’t dare. He smiled sadly. “Heaven. Only in heaven.”
Francesca hung her head, trying to control her tears. Jesse watched her helplessly. He started to lift his hand. No, he couldn’t. Because if he touched her again, he might not have the strength to let her go. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Look at me, Frankie,” he said, his voice thick with longing.
Slowly, she raised her head. He stared at her, drinking in every detail of her face and body so that he could savor the memory of it later. Her lashes were wet with tears, her lips moist and swollen from his kisses, and her eyes… her eyes brimmed over with love for him.
Seeing her this way, so vulnerable yet so inviting, he knew he could never allow himself to be alone with her again. He took one step backward, then another. Tears stung his eyelids. “I’ve got to go,” he said, almost choking on the words.
“Jesse,” Francesca cried, her voice broken, “wait!” Jesse turned away from her. Then he looked back. “Don’t go!” she pleaded, reaching out for him.
But she grasped at air. All that was left of Jesse was the sound of his feet pounding as he fled into the night.
CHAPTER 64
“DAD, I need to talk to you,” said Jesse, letting the flimsy screen door slam shut behind him as he entered his father’s racetrack shed row.
Jeremiah looked up from the condition book he was studying at the table of the kitchenette and indicated with a nod of his head that his son should be seated.
Jesse pulled out a worn chair and sat down. “I’ve been thinking…” said the younger man.
Jeremiah, curious, leaned forward and waited for Jesse to continue.
“About college. If you’d still like me to go, then I’m going to apply to Howard University.”
Jeremiah raised his eyebrows. This was the last thing he’d expected to hear from Jesse. “That would certainly make your mother proud,” Jeremiah said cautiously, “but why this change of heart?”
Jesse dropped his eyes, unable to meet the probing gaze of his father. He was afraid his eyes would betray the story of the night before. He shrugged. “I’d like to get my degree as soon as possible,” Jesse said. “Maybe start this fall.”
“But that’s only a couple of weeks away. You haven’t even applied.”
“I could go home today. Maybe drive into Washington tomorrow. Try to talk them into taking me. I’ve got good grades. And… well, it wouldn’t hurt that I’m your son.”
“But I thought you wanted to work at Willowbrook,” said Jeremiah, puzzled.
“I’d rather go to college. After I graduate, I’ll have my whole life to work at Willowbrook,” said Jesse.
Jeremiah sat back in his seat and studied Jesse. Still, the younger man did not lift his gaze to his father’s. Finally, Jeremiah spoke. “What’s troubling you, son?”
Jesse jumped up from his chair and slapped his hands against his thighs in exasperation. “Why does something have to be wrong? This is what you’ve been wanting. Well, now you’ve got it. I thought it would make you happy!”
“Sit down, Jesse,” said Jeremiah coolly. When his son had obeyed, Jeremiah continued. “This sudden interest in college must mean that you’ve taken an interest in a particular field. What will your major be?”
Jesse looked at his father in confusion. “My… major?”
“Yes. Your main interest at college. Most people have an idea of what they’d like to study when they decide to apply to college, though I’ll admit that most people also probably change their minds.”
“I’m not sure,” Jesse mumbled.
“Well, then, why Howard University? Why not Tuskegee or some other place?”
“I don’t know. Howard’s close.”
Jeremiah was silent. Jesse shifted on the noisy plastic of the chair as the silence grew uncomfortably long.
“I have a feeling…” Jeremiah began, then let the sentence drift away as he became lost in thought.
“What?” Jesse asked apprehensively.
“You’re not going to college to try to find something, you’re just trying to get away from something. I’d like to know what that something is.”
Jesse’s head shot up and his lips tightened in an attitude of determination. His brown eyes met his father’s unflinchingly. The awkward boy seemed transformed into an adult. “I can’t say any more than I have. I’m leaving no trouble. You have a right to know that. If you’re willing to help me with college, I’d like for you to do it. I’ll do my best to see that your money’s not wasted. If you don’t want to pay for it then…” Jesse shrugged in such a way as to indicate that he was prepared to find his own solutions.
Jeremiah could see that Jesse meant what he said about offering no further explanations. And he realized that this was a crucial moment in their relationship. Would he trust his son’s judgment, or would he refuse to give him what he was asking for without more insight into the reasons for the request? No, he decided, he trusted his son to do the right thing. And though he would have liked his son to confide in him, he admired his strength in keeping his troubles—if troubles they were—to himself.
“Well, like I said, your mother will be very happy to hear this. And I guess that I’m pleased, too. If going to college is what you want, then I’m proud to be able to send you.”
CHAPTER 65
“JOHN, stop nagging me, I don’t know what’s wrong with her!” cried Devon in exasperation.
John, lost in thought, jabbed at logs in the fireplace. It was the first fire of the season, it being slightly brisk this October evening. It was also John’s first fire in his newly purchased Georgetown home, a charming New Orleans—style town house tucked into a cobblestoned mew. He and Mason were neighbors now. More important, John could keep in closer touch with Francesca, who had chosen for her senior year to board at her girl’s school in Washington rather than commute more than an hour in each direction. The decision had puzzled Devon somewhat, as she could not believe that Francesca would voluntarily give up the opportunity to ride each afternoon. Nor had the girl ever befo
re shown a willingness to board at her school. In fact, the contrary was true. But Francesca had used two compelling arguments to persuade her mother. First, that the commute was tiring. Second, that it was easier to study at school, away from the distractions of Willowbrook and with all the resources of the library, teachers, and study partners close at hand. Devon could think of no reason not to give in, though she knew she would miss her daughter.
“Francesca hasn’t been the same since Saratoga,” commented Mason. Despite his preoccupation with Francesca, he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander about the room, admiring the decor of John’s cozy library. Everything about the little house was harmonious, yet more stylish than one might have expected of a man living alone. The walls of the room were painted the color of whipped butter—cheerful but soft—and accented with bright white chair rails and ceiling molding. Four cleverly situated alcoves housed bookshelves and window seats built into bay windows. A huge mahogany desk with leather insets dominated one end of the room, while a pleasant sitting area dominated the other.
Mason and Devon were comfortably ensconced in a down-filled sofa while John paced in front of the white marble fireplace, taking occasional pokes at the smoldering logs.
“She won’t tell me what’s wrong! She keeps saying it’s nothing, but I can’t believe that,” said John, shaking his head.
“Maybe she has her mind on a boy,” Mason chuckled.
“Its not a boy,” Devon said dismissively. “She’s never been quite like this before. She seems depressed and preoccupied. Even Mother can’t get anything out of her, and you know how close they are.”
“Well, she’ll be visiting this weekend,” said John. “I’ll try again to get to the bottom of this.”
“If that doesn’t work, I don’t know what will,” murmured Devon. It was surprising to realize that Francesca confided more in John than in any other adult, including herself. When had John developed a paternal nature? How was it that a sixteen-year-old girl felt more comfortable discussing her life with a man not her father than with her own mother? Devon sighed and stared into the fire. After a few seconds, she shifted her gaze back to John.
His face wore a pensive, worried expression. Had anyone told her twenty years before that John would be so preoccupied by the depression of a sixteen-year-old, she would not have believed it. His main priority had been to enjoy life. He had shown little concern for the worries of others. What had changed him? Devon wondered. The war? Francesca?
Then suddenly she thought of the photograph she had seen of him the week before in a gossip column. John leaning over a beautiful blonde thirty years his junior at a New York night spot. The caption had read “Statesman John Alexander not so neutral on Swiss beauty.” The piece had gone on to disclose rumors of an affair between John and the Swiss actress, who was in the process of divorcing her second husband.
Devon could see how the Swiss beauty, though so much younger than John, would find him attractive. Terribly attractive. He was sixty-two years old, yet he was as handsome and vigorous as ever. As is Mason, Devon hastily added, feeling disloyal.
“Devon! Didn’t you hear me? Time to go in to dinner,” Mason said, the loudness of his tone indicating that this was not the first time he had addressed her.
Devon looked up with a start to see both men standing above her, hands outstretched, ready to escort her in to dinner. You’re a lucky old girl, Devon thought to herself.
She gathered up her black taffeta skirt and walked with the men into the dining room. “You’ve done a beautiful job with this house, John,” she complimented him.
As John held her chair for her, Devon looked about the dramatic dining room. Its most prominent feature was a black and white marble floor set in a diagonal checkerboard pattern. The walls were painted a gunmetal gray marbled with subtle hints silver. A massive burled walnut table in the style of Charles X was centered under an exquisitely wrought crystal chandelier. Fluted white columns marked the entry to the room. Devon wondered with a stab of jealousy which woman in John’s life had contributed to the house’s imaginative interior design.
She turned her attention back to Mason, who was saying to John, “You don’t think there’ll be any serious opposition to the nomination, do you?”
“I’m just not certain I want it, Mason. I’ve been away from this country enough in the past twenty years. It’s time to settle down,” John said, with an involuntary glance at Devon.
“But a U.S. ambassadorship is a great honor, and Belgium has always been a pivotal country in European politics!” Mason protested. “As far as the newspaper is concerned, we’re prepared to officially back the nomination. You’ve got the personal and professional background to make something of the post, John.”
“All right, all right, I admit that it’s hard to turn down such an honor.” John laughed, elevating his hands palm outward in front of him as though to ward off any further argument from Mason. Then, growing more serious, he said, “But I don’t know if my heart would be in it. I’ve just bought this place. Started to enjoy having a home again. After traveling so much for so many years, it’s nice to do nothing more than go back and forth between New York and Washington.”
“You, tired of travel?” Devon exclaimed. “I never thought I would see the day!”
John looked into Devon’s eyes. For a moment both relived memories of their tense final years together. Years when John had insisted that travel—to Paris, London, Monte Carlo, Newport, San Simeon, Palm Beach—was essential to his happiness. Now John smiled wearily at Devon. “Even the most delightful pastimes can grow tiring if one does them every day,” he said quietly.
Mason broke in. “But you’ve got a great deal to contribute. You’re one of the best negotiators this country has ever had. And, God knows, things have been tense with the Soviets. We need someone in Europe who’s negotiated with them before, like you did during the war.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” John asked in a teasing tone, trying to lighten the conversation. But the remark had the opposite effect. There was a moment of awkward silence in the room as all three realized that the joke might contain some truth.
Devon looked away from the men. Mason, opposite her, let out a great guffaw to hide his embarrassment. John joined in, relieved that the silence had been broken. He had spoken without thinking, and was ashamed for having accused his friend in such a way. After all, even if it was true, Mason had been with Devon when John had re-entered her life. John knew he had no claim on her.
“Seriously, though, I’ve of course told the president that I would accept if that is what he wants.” John went on to clarify his remark. “What he truly wants, not what he feels obliged to offer.”
“I think you fulfill the unique requirements of being both politically acceptable as well as diplomatically experienced,” Mason avowed.
John smiled wryly. “Well, we’ll see what the Senate committee has to say. I think it’s out of my hands at this point.”
“All right, I can take a hint,” Mason said, still laughing. “I’ll drop the subject.”
In bed later, cradling Devon in his arms, Mason confessed, “In a way, I would like him to be out of our lives.”
Devon lifted her head from his shoulder and propped herself on one elbow. It was dark, but the moonlight created stripes of silvery white on their bodies as it filtered through the window. She smiled and kissed him tenderly. She felt relaxed and contented, as she always did when they made love. “We’ve discussed this. He’s no threat to you,” Devon said, not bothering to pretend she did not know of whom he spoke.
“Yes, he is,” Mason said simply. “But, dammit all, I like the man immensely. Respect him, too. The three of us get on so well that it’s always a pleasure to spend an evening together. And yet…”
“I know,” Devon said softly.
“Have you been considering my proposal?” Mason asked, pulling Devon back down so that her head rested on his shoulder.
“Yes. Do you
really intend to end our relationship if I say no?” she asked seriously.
“I have to, Devon. It’s a matter of self-preservation. Self-respect, too. I’m not a young man. I want a wife and, frankly, a companion for my old age. I want the woman I love beside me when I die. But if you won’t marry me, I’ll have to settle for something less.” He was silent for a few seconds, then continued thoughtfully, “Or perhaps not. I used to think a great love only happened once. I no longer believe that. Perhaps there is still time for me to find a woman I love who will also fall in love with me.”
Again Devon lifted her upper body so she could look directly at Mason. “If you truly believe you can find love elsewhere, Mason, you owe it to yourself to do it.”
Devon saw a glint of white as Mason smiled. “I have found love, Devon.”
She looked down at his broad chest, twirling one of his wiry gray hairs around her finger. “You know what I mean. I don’t think I can offer you the kind of love you deserve.”
Mason sighed. “My weakness is that I want you anyhow. Because although I believe I could love somebody else, I don’t think I could ever regard anyone, man or woman, as highly as I do you, Devon.”
“I feel honored that you think of me in that way. I’m not sure I deserve it.”
“If you didn’t, I would know it by now. We’ve been together many years. I’m hardly a pushover. And I’m not blinded by love. My love for you is an outgrowth of my admiration and respect, not the other way around.”
Devon was immeasurably touched by his words. Her eyes filled with tears as she regarded him, so dear to her. “Mason, I can’t marry you.”
Devon saw his eyelids close. He was silent for so long that Devon thought perhaps he had gone to sleep. She wondered if he was deliberately ignoring her, or if he was simply too hurt to speak. Suddenly she felt awkward and out of place in his bed. She felt compelled to return to the guest room, and as quietly as though he were indeed asleep, she pushed back the covers and began to ease out of the bed. But his strong hand slid across the linen sheet and grasped her wrist.
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