Regret Not a Moment (56 page)

Francesca took one step closer to him. She was so close she could feel the heat rising from his body. So close that, even though it was dark, she could see the fear in his eyes.

Keeping his eyes locked on hers, Jesse backed away from her. “I… can’t…” He enunciated slowly, shaking his head in the negative to underline his words.

But his body was like a magnet pulling her closer. “Why not?” she said hoarsely.

Jesse could smell her perfume, intoxicating as it mixed with the natural scent of her young body. He could see the dark shadow of her cleavage. Could hear the rustling of her petticoats. His senses were assailed and he felt his strength seeping from him. He looked into Francesca’s eyes and saw the desire there. Her lips were moist and waiting. She wanted him. Every fiber of her body was telling Jesse that she wanted him.

Jesse stretched his arm forward as though to touch her, then instantly withdrew it. Francesca could see that he was panting, like a man who had run a long way. A thin sheen of sweat covered his dusky features. She could smell the maleness of him, and it was like an aphrodisiac. She couldn’t stop herself from moving toward him again.

Jesse stood hypnotized, unable even to breathe. His emotions were in chaos. Terror, excruciating desire, love, and loyalty collided in him. He wanted to run, but he stood rooted to the spot. He wanted to touch her, but he didn’t dare. She was so close now, looking straight into his eyes. Her lips just inches from his. Her breasts almost touching his chest.

The two young people stood like statues, frozen in time and space, oblivious to their surroundings. Then, in slow motion, Francesca lifted one trembling hand and placed it on Jesse’s chest.

Her touch seared him. He lost all will, all ability to measure his actions. And with a moan, he surrendered to his furious desire, enclosing her in his arms.

Francesca slid her arms around his small waist. Through the thin cloth of his polo shirt she could feel the muscles of his broad back, the hardness of his torso. He towered over her, engulfed her. She was fused to him and when he kissed her she felt as though she were becoming part of him.

“Oh, God, Frankie!” he said thickly. He buried his face in her hair. “I’ve been dreaming of this,” he said, holding her tighter still. His lips once again sought hers.

Desire surged through Francesca’s body. She was moist and hot, yet she shook with emotion. His kiss was even sweeter than in her fantasies, his body even more enticing, the feel of him even more arousing. She leaned against him for support, dizzy with the feeling that swept her. “I love you, Jesse,” she said huskily.

The words were like a gunshot blasting him back to reality. Alarmed, Jesse dropped his arms and backed away from Francesca. “Don’t say that, Francesca, not ever!” he said vehemently.

Francesca felt as though the wind had been knocked out of her, so surprised was she at his reaction. “Why not?”

Jesse cradled his forehead in his hand. He was shaking with emotion. “This is such a mess. I’m so sorry!”

“Sorry about what?”

Jesse raised his head and stared at Francesca.

The young woman looked at him blankly. “Why are you looking at me so strangely?” she asked.

“Francesca, you don’t seem to understand. We just can’t do this!” Jesse’s voice was filled with despair.

Francesca took a step toward Jesse and took his hand in hers. “But I love—”

“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.

“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.”

“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 before 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.