Regret Not a Moment (37 page)

“There you go! Why do you have to speak in generalities when we’re discussing a specific, isolated incident?” John’s voice rose a decibel and he threw up his hands in frustration. “Don’t tell me about what I ‘always’ do. Let’s just discuss tonight.”

“Tonight wouldn’t be an issue if it were an isolated incident, but it’s not!” Devon replied heatedly. “It’s the kind of thing that
always”
—Devon emphasized the word by placing her hands on her hips and leaning toward John—“seems to happen.”

John, quieter now, said, “If it always seems to happen, that begs the question of why we’re still married.”

Devon stared at him, too stunned to reply. She felt a knife turn in her stomach as she reflected on the bitter truth of his statement. He was right, they never seemed to have civil conversations anymore. Agreed on very little. Had almost nothing in common, now that Morgan was dead. Emotionally exhausted, Devon slumped into her chair.

For the first time, John approached her. He sat down beside her and spoke with more sincerity than he had all evening. His defense mechanisms were gone. What he said came from his soul.

“I love you, Devon. Even now, after all our disagreements. But it’s not working between us. I’m worn out. Too tired to keep fighting. To keep asking for things you seem unable to give.”

“But John, I love you too,” Devon protested.

“I know,” John said, shaking his head in resignation, “but it’s not enough. I need someone beside me all the time. I need to come first with my wife.”

“But you do—” Devon began to protest.

“You know that’s not so. You have become a very successful trainer. And you seldom want to leave Willowbrook. When Morgan was alive, she came before me, too. I’m not saying that’s right or wrong. All I’m saying is that it’s not what I want in a wife.”

“I’ve tried to—”

John interrupted, “I can’t derive pleasure from your unhappiness, Devon. When you try to please me by doing things that you would prefer not to do, I’m uncomfortable. And, of course, I can’t force you to want what I want. You can’t force yourself, either. I think we’re just incompatible.”

“John,” Devon said, studying him carefully, “is there someone else?”

“Of course not,” John said, as though the very notion were ridiculous.

“No… I know that,” Devon said, looking down at her hands. She was surprised to see the tears that had fallen on them. She had not realized that she was crying.

“Devon, please don’t be unhappy… you’ll see that this is for the best.”

“You mean a… divorce?” Devon hardly dared utter the word. Her family would be crushed. So would John’s. And she would feel cast adrift without an anchor.

“I think it’s best,” John said, gently wiping a tear from Devon’s cheek with his thumb. “I truly believe that Morgan was our main reason for staying together these last few years. Without her, we have very little together.”

“Oh, John,” Devon said, sobbing into the handkerchief that her husband placed in her hands.

“I know,” he said soothingly. He drew her to him so that her tears wet the front of his robe.

Oddly, now that the rupture was inevitable, they felt closer to each other than they had in some time. The shadow of their love lingered, a poignant reminder of what they had lost.

CAIRO, EGYPT

1942

CAIRO’S streets teemed with soldiers from every Allied country and every service branch. But Cairo had always been an international crossroads, and the foreigners were absorbed into the frenetic, tightly packed crowd as foreigners in Cairo had been for thousands of years.

Devon, pushing her way through the throng with Grace, thought they would drown in the tide of humanity. Most disturbing to her were the hands that reached out anonymously to touch her. The natives of the city viewed women in Western dress—many of them cosmopolitan Cairenes—as Jezebels sent to entice them, and they pinched the breasts and buttocks of passersby at will. First-time visitors, like Devon, would whirl about in outrage, only to be confronted by a faceless mass of pushing, sweating bodies. Residents, like Grace, knew better than to fight the inevitable.

“Grace,” Devon yelled in order to be heard above the din, “how much farther?”

“Not much.” Grace looked over her shoulder and smiled reassuringly at Devon. They were on their way to the famous souk, the outdoor bazaar. As always, the embassy car, a long black Cadillac, had driven them as far as it could, but the streets leading to the souk were too narrow for automobiles, and the women had had to walk the rest of the way.

Devon’s anxiety turned to excitement as she and her sister emerged into the area that was reserved for the souk. Entranced by the bounty of glittering clothes, jewels, and brass around her, Devon hurried toward a table laden with fancifully decorated caftans.

“Wait, Devon!” Grace hurried after her, grabbing her by the hand. “Don’t let go or you could get lost!”

“You’re right!” Devon laughed. “This makes New York look like an uninhabited desert island.”

“Ah, the beautifool leddy is eentrrrested in a caftan?” A dark-complected man wearing a red fez with a bouncing black tassel lifted a garment of scarlet cloth shot with gold from the table.

Devon was fascinated by the rolling r’s of his speech. Everything said in that musical accent sounded interesting to her.

Devon smiled warmly at the man and took the proffered garment, saying, “This is lovely. How much?”

“I geev you verrry good price.” The man smiled to show a row of gold teeth.

Grace discreetly nudged her sister in the side. “Let me!” she whispered.

Devon looked at her questioningly.

“Thees eez the best seelk you weel find anywhere, I assure you!” said the man. “Eet eez a beautifool drayss.”

“We may be interested,” Grace said.

The rotund little man turned and bowed at Grace, as if sensing her greater experience with the ways of the souk. “Twenty-seven pound eez norrmal price, but for such beautifool leddeez, I geev for twenty pound.”

“That’s only about thirty dollars!” Devon whispered to Grace. “That’s a good price!”

“Excuse us, please,” Grace said to the man, drawing her sister away from the table. “Look, listen, and keep your mouth shut, my dear. You may know horse-trading, but I know bazaars.”

Returning to the table, Grace resumed her bargaining. “Your offer is very kind, sir, but we only just arrived. There are many other tables.”

“Madam weel not find morrr beautifool seelk than thees,” the man argued, lifting his three chins in pride. He laid the voluminous garment on top of all the others in a dramatic gesture that sent the shiny silk floating over the entire table.

“I’m sorry, but it’s very expensive,” Grace argued, running one white-gloved hand over the fabric.

The man looked crestfallen. “Tell me what you weel pay,” he countered.

“Four pounds,” Grace said firmly.

The man’s eyebrows shot up, a look of shock on his face. “Fourrr pound! Eempossible! No, eet eez robbery!” Nonetheless, he fingered the material thoughtfully. With a despairing sigh, he finally said, “ I offerrr seexteen and half pound.”

Grace pretended to consult her sister, but instead whispered, “Don’t get anxious, you’ll get your dress.” Then turning back to the man with a look of sorrow, she said, “It’s just too much. We can’t go higher than four pounds.”

“But madam, you start weeth fourr pound, I start with twenty pound. I say seexteen and half. You can geev a beet morr than fourr, no?”

“I can’t give sixteen and a half,” Grace said ambivalently.

“You arr verrry deefeecult, madam. I offerrr you for seexteen pound. No less.”

Now it was Grace’s turn to sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said shaking her head, “we’ll just have to look elsewhere.”

“You weel not find betterrr!” the man prophesied.

Grace simply smiled and, taking Devon’s arm, slowly turned to go. Devon did not dare say a word, but she glared at her sister in disgust. A moment later, however, her glare turned into a smile as she heard, “Leddeez, pleez!”

Grace and Devon turned back and waited to hear the man’s offer.

“Look how the cloth falls, so supple, so fine,” he said, holding it against his pudgy stomach and letting it hang to his knees in the approximate shape of a skirt. “And thees beautifool caftan, I geev you for fifteen pound. I mek no money,” he declared, “but thees caftan eez med forr thees beautifool leddy.” He smiled and held the cloth in the air in front of Devon so that Grace could admire the color against her sister’s skin.

“Well… it is lovely,” Grace admitted. She put one index finger to her mouth, as though thinking the matter over. “I’ll raise my offer to seven pounds.”

“Rez yourrr offerrr! Thet eez nothing. I cannot tek only seven pound!” The man looked apoplectic.

“I’m sorry, it’s the best I can do,” Grace said.

The man and woman stared at each other in silence, each trying to assess the other’s breaking point. The attractive chestnut-haired woman had a firm, bold stare. She knew how the game was played, the man thought, and he respected her for it.

“Okay,” he conceded, the expression a favorite one picked up from the Americans, “I geev you food frrom my mouth. I geev you cloth frrom my back. You tek forrr seven pound.”

Grace and Devon beamed at the man with such gratitude that he almost forgot that he had let them have the caftan for only one pound more than he would have been willing to sell it for.

“Well done, ladies,” The unmistakable accent of a British aristocrat confronted the sisters as they turned to leave the booth. They looked in confusion at the crowd swarming about them until Grace spotted a familiar face.

“Roland!” Grace cried.

Roland Somerset-Smith, handsome in his Royal Air Force uniform, lifted his cap and bowed to the women. The Earl of Abersham looked like a cinema ideal of a British officer with his slightly receding dark hair, twinkling brown eyes, and classically modeled features.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Grace chided him. The circle to which Grace and Roland belonged in Cairo was small enough that the comings and goings of its members were known to one and all. Cairene society was in some ways a rather democratic one. Prejudices against other nationalities, religions, and races were largely forgotten as the most sophisticated segment of the population congregated in enclaves separate from the great mass that made up the majority of Egypt. Europeans, Americans, Africans, and Cairenes mingled freely so long as they came from a background of wealth and family connections. Aristocratic rank was of little importance as the war had lent an informality to the group of socialites. The privileged classes gathered at Groppi’s for tea and pastries, the Mena House for dinner and dancing, and the Gezira Sporting Club or the Turf Club for cocktails, athletics, and gambling. They summered in Alexandria, ordered custom-made clothes from skilled craftsmen who perfectly copied the latest European fashions, and sent their offspring to the American University in Cairo, the Sorbonne in Paris, or Oxford in England. They spoke French and English with equal fluency. Arabic was hardly needed. Most business transactions were performed in French, and that was the primary language taught in schools, even more commonly than Arabic. Arabic was useful, though certainly not necessary, for bargaining in the souk.

“I’m permanently stationed here now,” Roland said, his eyes irresistibly pulled to Devon, despite the fact that he was addressing Grace. “No more shuttling back and forth to London for me. At least not for a while.” He was a squadron leader—the equivalent of a U.S. major—in the Desert Air Force, a special section of the Royal Air Force assigned to North Africa.

“Devon, this is Roland Somerset-Smith, the Earl of Abersham, a good friend of ours. Roland, this is my sister, Devon Alexander.”

“Grace, I didn’t think it possible that there could be
another
woman in this world as entrancing as you,” he said, bowing over Devon’s hand. “I hope you intend to stay in Cairo for some time.” The expression in his eyes told Devon that this was more than a platitude.

“I do!” Devon said enthusiastically. “As long as Grace and Philip can endure the imposition.”

“We shall have to ensure you have a wonderful time, then. Cairo is an exciting city, as you know.” Roland thoughtfully ran one finger over his jaw. “If you ladies haven’t any other plans, may I invite you to join me for lunch at the Turf Club?” Roland looked at his wristwatch. “It’s almost one o’clock now.”

The two women readily agreed. “We’ll go and dismiss our driver then, if you can give us a lift back to the house,” Grace said.

Lunch under the blue-and-white-striped awning was so delightful that it stretched into tea, then cocktails.

“Why don’t you send my driver with a message for Philip to join us?” Roland asked Grace.

“Wonderful idea!” Grace exclaimed, feeling just a bit giddy from the champagne cocktails.

Roland signaled for their waiter while Grace scribbled a note for the driver, then she settled back quietly in her chair. She studied Roland as he talked to her sister. He was animated as she had never before seen him. It was obvious to her that he was taken with Devon.

And Devon, she noticed, responded to his admiration, happily flirting back. She had not seen her sister so carefree since Morgan’s death, almost three years before. There was a healthy flush to her cheeks and, in the flattering pink light of early evening, she looked as though she were in her twenties.

Indeed, Devon did find Roland attractive. The trait that was most dominant in him—the one that struck both men and women immediately—was his charm. He never seemed to say the wrong thing. He punctuated all his remarks with a dazzling smile. It was the sort of deadly charm that could have been used to ill advantage, but Roland was too kind for that.

At one point, Roland asked Devon, “By the way, are you interested in horseracing? The tracks here in Cairo are quite something.”

Devon and Grace exchanged grins before explaining the joke to Roland. And as it turned out, Roland himself had a breeding operation at his family estate in England.

Later, she learned from Grace that Roland was a widower with no children.