Regret Not a Moment (30 page)

Devon studied the man who for so many months had been little better than an enemy. She was beginning to feel a certain amount of respect from him, and she appreciated it. She decided to put aside her pride and tell Willy what she was thinking. “I appreciate your giving this another chance, Willy.” She put out her hand to him.

He took it without hesitation and shook it firmly, as firmly as he would have shaken the hand of a man.

“CAN’T you sleep?” John asked Devon, who for the fifth time that night had awakened him with her tossing and turning.

“There’s no point now.” Devon sighed in the dark. “It’s almost four-thirty. I have to get to the track soon.”

John rolled toward his wife and moaned. “I don’t think I’ve slept more than two hours tonight.”

“I’m sorry,” Devon said, patting his arm. “I’ll go ahead and get up. Maybe you can go back to sleep.”

“I’ll try,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and tugging the sheet over his head.

Devon slid out of the bed and pulled on her robe, shivering a little as the crisp morning air ruffled the curtains at the open window.

As usual, Devon slid into her breeches and a cotton shirt. She would take an hour in the afternoon to come back to the Lyle’s farm and change for the Derby.

On her way out the door, she made a detour to the small kitchen, where Alice had left her some biscuits from dinner the evening before. Devon didn’t care that they had hardened. Anxiety had killed her appetite; she ate only because she knew she would have no other chance to do so during the hectic day.

She was barely aware of driving to Churchill Downs, of returning the greetings that came out of the purple darkness as she walked to Firefly’s stall.

Firefly snorted softly when she saw Devon.

“There you are, sweetheart,” Devon murmured, caressing the filly’s nose.

Jeremiah seemed to materialize out of nowhere. “Nervous, Miss Devon?”

“Didn’t sleep a wink,” she acknowledged with a rueful smile.

“So’s Firefly. She knows something’s up. She’s been restless.”

Devon automatically looked at the feed bucket and the hay rack. Firefly had eaten everything, she noted to herself, feeling a brief moment of relief. Peeking over the door to Firefly’s stall, she confirmed that the groom had, as instructed, lined the enclosure with bales of straw so that Firefly would not do herself an injury if her nerves caused her to kick the walls around her.

“Everything okay?” Devon asked the exercise rider.

“Fine, ma’am,” he replied in a voice that soothed her with its calm assurance.

Devon bent down and examined Firefly’s legs. Then, taking her time, she checked over the filly’s body from nose to tail. Finally, she turned to Jeremiah. “We’ll give her just a little exercise this morning. Very light. I want to save all her energy for this afternoon.”

Jeremiah nodded approvingly and signaled the groom to saddle Firefly.

Walking behind her horse, Devon felt a sense of unreality. Was she really preparing her own entry for the Kentucky Derby? A year ago, she had known little about racing; now she was blithely risking her most valuable colt, Fearless Leader, and a great deal of money on her conviction that Firefly could win. How could she have thought she knew better than Willy? Oh, she had been a fool. John and Willy had been right!

Her dismal train of thought was interrupted by the sound of Firefly’s whinny. The filly raised her head and snorted, prancing in the morning breeze. How splendid she was, Devon thought. The power of her muscles, her young, sleek body. She had never been injured, never had a day’s illness—extraordinary for a racehorse. She would win! John and Willy had been wrong!

Since their fight several weeks before, he had remained in New York, coming down only two days before the Derby. Oh, he had called her faithfully each day. In addition, he had congratulated her on her successful negotiations with Willy, and had graciously accepted her thanks for the gift of Willowbrook.

“Darling, you know in your heart that Willowbrook should be yours. Always, no matter what,” he had said.

“What do you mean?” Devon asked, alarmed.

“I don’t mean anything,” he said smoothly, “just that Willowbrook is yours and that’s the way it should be. End of discussion.”

All in all, John had behaved as a loving and generous husband. Yet Devon knew that he had not forgiven her for… for what? For insisting that Firefly run in the Derby? For overruling Willy? Why should those things anger her husband to the extent that he seemed to have lost all desire for her company? And why hadn’t he made love to her when he had rejoined her in Kentucky? They had been separated for almost three weeks!

She had asked him during one of their phone calls if he was still angry with her.

“Angry?” He laughed. “If I were angry would I give you a racing operation and a thousand acre farm?”

Yes, she said silently. Yes. Because of your pride. Because I stood up to you and wouldn’t back down. But how could she say such words aloud? They would only deepen the rift between them.

Instead of confronting him, Devon had been unfailingly cheerful and affectionate. Their conversations consisted of small talk—nothing more. On the surface, everything seemed perfect.

Maybe if Firefly wins, Devon thought, he’ll be so happy that things will return to normal. Or maybe if Firefly loses, things will be even better, a wicked voice inside of her said. Devon shook her head to banish the ugly thought.

Looking up at the night sky, now streaked with pink and yellow at the edge of the horizon, Devon hurried up to Jeremiah and said, “Let’s get this over with before it gets too light.”

Many trainers tried to conceal particularly impressive exercise sessions from their competition, and Devon believed in this practice. No need to provide her rivals with clues about what to expect from Firefly. They had learned enough about her from previous races. The exercise timer sat in the grandstand overseeing the morning workouts. The results of his task were printed each day in the
Racing Form.
The fastest workout of the day appeared in this bettors’ Bible with a black dot printed beside it, and was appropriately called a bullet workout. Devon tried to avoid such publicity by exercising her horses most strenuously before it was light when she was at a public track. But this was not always possible, as it was the job of the clocker to record times for every contender.

Once Firefly’s workout was finished and the hot walker had taken her, Jeremiah instructed the groom to give her a bath and a rubdown. Jeremiah himself, however, wanted to oversee the final currying, hoof-polishing, and brushing. He wanted Firefly to shine, both literally and figuratively.

Devon suddenly found herself with nothing more to do. She felt superfluous. She wondered what Willy was doing. Fearless Leader’s stall was not visible from Firefly’s, since the colts were housed in a separate section. With a final pat of Firefly’s muzzle, Devon strolled down the wide aisle of the barn toward Fearless Leader’s stall.

With a peek inside, she determined that he, too, had already been fed, exercised, and bathed, and was now being allowed to rest. She looked into the magnificent horses big brown eyes, then reached up to stroke his neck.

“I hope I don’t lose you,” she whispered to him.

“Sayin’ your good-byes?” A voice behind her made her wheel sharply around.

Willy almost had a smile on his face, Devon noticed with amusement. He had never joked with her, though his manner toward her had been less strained since she had become owner of Willowbrook.

“Pretty sure of yourself,” Devon remarked.

“Only way to be,” he grumbled. “Aren’t you?”

Again Willy startled Devon. She could not recall his ever asking her how she felt about anything.

“I don’t know,” Devon replied honestly. “I think I’ve got the jitters.”

“That’s natural,” Willy said, drawing closer to Fearless Leader and cupping his muzzle in his callused hands. Devon noted the gentle way in which this roughest of men treated the colt.

He loves them, no matter what he says, Devon thought to herself. “Are
you
nervous?” she asked, not really expecting an affirmative answer. Willy would never admit to such an emotion, she was sure.

“Nah,” he replied predictably, looking away from Devon.

“You have a lot riding on this race.”

“Right. But I don’t have nothin to lose. You do.”

“Believe me, I know,” she moaned. She was surprised to note that they were smiling at each other. Willy actually smiling!

As though caught doing something wrong, Willy abruptly turned away from Devon, erasing the smile from his face.

Why, he’s embarrassed by the fact that he actually found me likable for a moment, Devon thought.

“Willy…” Devon hesitated. She was trying to read Willy’s face under the bill of the Dodgers cap, but it was obscured in shadow. “Will it be so bad for you if you lose? I mean, will you look for another position when the year is over?”

Willy was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’d have to see how it works out back at Willowbrook.”

“You mean, how we work together?”

“Whatever,” he mumbled.

“I suppose you’ve always dreamed of a farm of your own?” Devon sighed.

“T’would he sweet,” he said, his voice almost wistful.

“Well… good luck.” Devon put out her hand to the trainer.

“Yeah. You too,” he said with a firm shake.

Devon turned to go.

“Missus Alexander…” Devon did an about-face in surprise. Willy almost never addressed her by name. “You’ll be proud of Firefly today. Of that I’m sure,” he said with a nod of his baseball cap.

“I know,” she said, raising her chin and smiling at Willy, “but thanks for saying so.”

Devon drove home to change, feeling a little less anxious than before her talk with Willy. His assurances meant more to her than she cared to admit. After all, she reminded herself, he knows a good horse when he sees one. Why shouldn’t I feel good about what he said? But she knew it was more than just his expertise about horseflesh that soothed her. His confidence in her, too, was implicit in his remark. And why shouldn’t he respect my abilities? she asked herself with a smile. He’s one of the best trainers in the world—and he trained me. Kicking and screaming all the way, but he
did
train me.

Devon returned home to find John eating breakfast on the patio.

“How’s everything?” John asked, looking up from his newspaper.

“Looks good,” Devon answered, dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

“Would you like some?” he asked, pointing to the bacon on his plate.

“I couldn’t eat a thing.” Devon gave a nervous smile. “I think I’ll just have a hot bath and start getting dressed.”

“You should eat something,” John said absentmindedly, returning to his reading.

Devon stood for a moment looking at him. Dressed in tennis whites, with his tan limbs contrasting handsomely with the starched linen, he looked strikingly attractive. She wondered how many other women envied her for being married to him—how many flirted with him, even tried to seduce him, while she remained hundreds of miles away.

After today, she told herself. After today she had promised to spend the summer with him, going wherever he chose. She wondered if he remembered the promise, or cared whether she fulfilled it. Sometimes it seemed they were complete strangers.

If Firefly won the Derby, Devon would enter her in the Preakness and the Belmont Stakes in a bid for that rarest of all horseracing awards: the Triple Crown. But she knew that no matter how much she wanted to be involved in Firefly’s training, she would have to delegate it to Willy. Her marriage depended on it.

“Darling,” she murmured.

John didn’t look up from his newspaper. “Hmmm?”

“I love you, John,” Devon said, the vehemence in her voice transmitting her suppressed emotions, her worries.

He raised his eyes, gave her a quick smile, said, “I love you too, darling,” then lowered his eyes to the newspaper again.

“No, I mean…”

John looked up at her, a politely attentive expression on his face.

Devon did not know what more to say. Perhaps she was imagining things. Her nerves were raw. She was being silly. “I mean,” she continued more smoothly, “that I’m looking forward to spending the summer with you, with nothing to do but relax and enjoy ourselves.”

“That will be wonderful,” he agreed, his eyes drifting back to the article he was reading.

Devon sighed and went into the cottage. After her bath, she carefully applied her makeup, then donned the striking ensemble she had designed especially for the Derby. She wore the same black and scarlet as her racing silks. The dress was made of black silk shantung with pleats that began at mid-thigh and fell to below her calves. Each pleat was faced in bright scarlet, so that her movements caused the skirt to explode into a dance of black and red. She wore a red straw picture hat piped in black, with a black grosgrain ribbon around the crown. Her open-toed black shoes with red lizard heels had been custom-made in New York for her, and on her hands she wore red gloves of the finest kidskin.

John finished dressing at the same time she did, although he had started forty-five minutes later.

“You look wonderful,” he said, genuine admiration in his voice. “You’ll be the most beautiful woman there.”

Although John had flown his plane to Kentucky, he had also instructed his car and driver to meet him there. The long black Rolls-Royce, gleaming from headlight to tailpipe, transported him and Devon to Churchill Downs in grand style. Once John and Devon were at their box, John’s driver brought from the car a two-bottle ice bucket filled with Cristal and placed it by John’s side. Also spread on a large silver tray that sat upon a bed of ice were pate and small rounds of French bread; caviar surrounded by hard-boiled eggs, sour cream, and minced onions; and huge Gulf shrimp.

John took a small piece of toast and spread some caviar on it, then offered it to Devon.

“No, thank you.” She fidgeted in her seat a few seconds, greeting friends in neighboring boxes. Unable to sit still any longer, she stood up abruptly. “I have to go and see Rick McClintock.”