Regret Not a Moment (6 page)

Marriage, to John, had always meant curtailment of freedom, dull routine. But he knew that Devon would not be a clinging, dependent creature, mindful only of her place in society. She was an interesting, independent woman—one he thought could make him happy. And that scared him. It scared him to know that if he married Devon she would be the most important thing in his life. That he would be devastated if anything happened to her. In loving her, he would give her custody of his heart and his mind. His happiness would come to depend on her. It was a frightening notion, yet one to which he was beginning to surrender.

The evening with Loretta, though a physical release, had convinced him of at least one thing: he no longer wished to continue their affair. The question was when to tell her that. He was too much of a gentleman, and felt too kindly toward Loretta, to sneak away at night immediately after making love to her. But he did not want to delay the unpleasant task. He would tell her in the morning, he resolved. Face to face. Honestly, but tactfully.

Then, in a few weeks, if he still felt the same about Devon… he had not quite decided what he would do.

Loretta, reveling in memories of the night before, thought that perhaps the time was right to broach the subject of marriage. But John was breathing regularly in a deep sleep. Maybe she should let him sleep. Maybe he’d be more willing to discuss marriage if he were fresh and rested. And after they’d made love again.

She slid from the bed and went into the bathroom to furtively reapply her makeup. She wanted to look her best. When she returned, she sidled back under the covers as quietly as she could. She lay on her back and snuggled close to John. She closed her eyes, but found that she couldn’t sleep. Her mind was too busy planning what she would say to him. She silently rehearsed the scene dozens of times. And every one ended with a marriage proposal from John. Loretta convinced herself that no other outcome was possible.

That settled, she opened her eyes. She looked around at the white and gold furnishings of her bedroom. It was a woman’s room, no sign anywhere of a man in residence, she thought with some dissatisfaction. Well, no more, she promised herself.

She turned on her side and put her arm around John, who had his back to her. She lightly ran her fingernails over his torso. He moaned sleepily, but his body responded to her touch. He turned over so that he was flat on his back and looked at Loretta with half-open eyes. She expected him to reach for her. Instead, he stretched, then eased himself to the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, getting his bearings, then hoisted himself up and went toward the closet. He wanted to be dressed when they had their conversation.

“John?” Loretta’s voice registered her surprise.

“Yes…” He stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Are you getting ready to go?”

“Soon. But let’s have a cup of coffee first,” John said, keeping his tone casual. He was not looking forward to the task ahead of him.

Loretta picked up a telephone that connected her with the kitchen and told the maid to bring in coffee and rolls. Placing the phone back in its cradle, she sighed. “Last night was wonderful, don’t you think?”

John emerged from the closet, wearing his slacks. His shirt hung open and his tie was slung around the collar. “Sure… wonderful,” he said, not really paying attention.

Loretta stood up and slowly came toward him, wrapping a shimmering white silk robe around her as she did so. She put her arms under his shirt and softly ran her long nails across his back.

“We spent hours making love. I guess you missed me, didn’t you?” She rubbed her silk-covered breasts on his bare chest.

John patted her arm in reply, then gently released himself from her embrace. He went toward the bed and stooped down to pick up his socks.

“Well… didn’t you miss me? Answer me!” said Loretta impatiently. She planted herself in front of him, arms akimbo.

John stood up. “Loretta, I’ve only been gone a week,” he said, a slight edge in his voice. He sat on the bed and put on his socks.

“You acted like you missed me.” Loretta smiled suggestively and moved closer to him.

John was never intentionally cruel, so he kept silent. He reached for his shoes.

Infuriated, Loretta demanded, “Did you or did you not think of me while you were gone?”

John lifted his head. “Loretta, I was in Virginia on business. There was nothing there to make me think of you.”

“But you told me you didn’t finish your business, that you left early.” Loretta’s voice was accusatory. “Why did you do that if you didn’t miss me?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Loretta,” John said with visible irritation. He stood up and rapidly started to button his shirt. “Why are you asking me all this? What possible difference could it make?”

He turned away from her and headed toward the bathroom.

“It makes a difference because I want to marry you!” Loretta shouted at his back, forgetting herself. John spun around to face her, mouth open in surprise. Loretta saw the shocked look on his face and immediately regretted her words. She had raised the subject of marriage before—in a jocular sort of way—but she knew her shrill, deadly serious tone now was a tactical mistake of immense proportions. She should have known better. Men were always blurting out such things to her. She knew how
she
greeted such admissions: with condescension. How stupid to put herself in the same position.

The shock on John’s face turned to understanding, then pity as he realized that Loretta regretted the admission. Loretta, observing the change, felt a hot fury grip her. Pity! He pitied her! Men begged for a smile from her and John dared to feel sorry for her!

“You!” she screamed. “You should be grateful. You don’t understand how men want me, you don’t—”

“Of course I do, Loretta,” he cut in, trying to placate her and avoid an ugly scene.

How dare he humor me, Loretta fumed. She knew that tone of voice. It was the tone the wardrobe designer used when she demanded changes. Or the hairdresser when she insisted on a more elaborate hairdo. It was the tone of a man who wished to smooth things over so that he could get on with his own life. It was not the voice of a man who loved her, or was even interested in her! He was indifferent to her!

“How dare you use that tone with me!” She was sobbing now. “You think I’ve been sitting around this place waiting for you? Well, I haven’t! Whitney Ross has promised to divorce his wife and marry me,” she lied, wanting to humiliate him as he had humiliated her.

“Loretta,” John cut her off, recognizing the lie and wanting to save her from making a fool of herself. He looked at the wreckage of the beautiful blonde star before him. Her carefully applied makeup was a messy smear, mixing with her tears. She looked older. She looked desperate. Soothingly, John said, “Loretta, I understand that you’re angry. I enjoy being with—”

“Enjoy? What do you think I am, your maiden aunt?” She let out a mirthless laugh. “Don’t you dare patronize me! I’m not waiting around for anyone. I’ve waited around too long for you. Now get out. Get
out!”
she cried. She grabbed his arm and shoved him toward the door. Then sank to the floor in a flood of tears.

John hastily headed for the door—then stopped. He did not want to leave Loretta in this state. Turning, he approached the sobbing woman. “Loretta. Let me help you up,” he said gently.

No words could have inflamed her more. There it was again: pity. Lifting her head, she stopped crying for a moment. She wiped her eyes with the cuff of her robe. Then she looked at John with such pure hatred that he recoiled.

“I hate you, John Alexander,” she said fiercely, in an ominously quiet voice. “I hate you and I’ll never stop hating you.”

The two stared at each other for a few seconds.

“Get out,” she growled in a voice that, in its very quietness, was more threatening than her screams.

John had no choice but to obey.

THE first sensation of Devon’s return to consciousness was not pain but darkness. She tried to open her eyes and realized with horror that they were already open. Then she felt the pain. It was like a mummifying wrap covering every inch of her body, leaving no part of her untouched.

“She’s awake, I think.” Devon heard her mother’s voice, anxious, but at the same time calming because it was her mother. A warm hand covered hers. Her left hand. Her right hand was encased in something. She did not know what. She did not know because she could not see. Her stomach clenched in fear as she tried to speak.

She heard a creaky, guttural sound. Her voice, barely recognizable, whispered brokenly, “I… can’t… see.”

“Devon, I
thought
you were awake!” her mother said with great relief.

“Thank God. Thank God.” Devon heard her father, murmuring hoarsely to himself.

“Don’t try to talk,” said a gruff, firm voice. Dr. Hickock. She had known him since childhood. But she could not obey him. She had to talk. There were things she had to know.

“I… can’t… see.” Even though Devon’s voice rose barely above a whisper, the imploring quality of it was impossible to miss.

“You’ve suffered a severe concussion, Devon,” said the doctor. “Your head is bandaged. We’ve covered your eyes, but it’s just temporary,” he said reassuringly.

“I… hurt,” she said in a fractious voice, stronger now. She was bewildered. She did not remember why she was in such pain.

The doctor smiled in victory at Laurel and Chase when he heard the peeved quality of Devon’s voice. Your daughter is strong, his look told them. She is already fighting. She’ll be fine. He had been reluctant, until now, to be overly encouraging because he had feared the Richmonds would be disappointed by the slowness of Devon’s recovery. And it would be slow, no doubt about it. In addition to the broken bones, she had suffered internal injuries.

He was surprised that she was already awake, since it was only the second day following her accident. That was a good sign. He was relieved. He had treated all the Richmonds since he had been old enough to join his father’s medical practice thirty-five years before, and he felt tremendous affection for the family.

He was also surprised that Laurel had shown so much more strength than her husband throughout the ordeal. Chase Richmond was usually a congenial, back-slapping man’s man; a family man, of course, but not one given to displays of emotion. Yet he had wept like a baby as he waited outside the doctor’s office while his daughter was being treated. Laurel had been much more stoic, her anxiety evident only in the sickly paleness of her face and the handkerchief she had wrung and wrung until it was no more than a tight wrinkled little ball of linen.

Once Devon had been transported home in a makeshift ambulance devised from the Magraths’ Bentley (for the nearest hospital was fifty miles away in Washington, D.C.), Dr. Hickock had expected Chase to return to normal. Instead, the doctor and Laurel had listened, with a feeling of helplessness and sadness, to Chase’s broken-voiced entreaties to God to spare Devon’s life and make her whole again.

Laurel found herself hugging Chase close to her and cradling his head against her shoulder, as she had once done with their children. She murmured soothing words of comfort.

Dr. Hickock could not help but interject his own words of comfort into the highly personal scene. “She won’t die, Chase. She’s strong and she’s young. She’ll recover. It may take a while, but she’ll recover,” he had said quietly.

Laurel and Chase had looked at him gratefully upon hearing those words, but had not for one minute relaxed their vigil since that conversation, almost forty-eight hours ago. Now, as Devon’s eyelids fluttered against the bandages, and her mouth worked to form words, the three bystanders looked at one another with elation.

Devon was unaware of the intensity of emotion in the room, but she heard a long sigh of relief. A sweet smell, like orange blossoms, followed the sigh. Her mother’s scent. Mixed with it was the tweedy, tobacco smell of her father. The familiarity of these things comforted her.

“Do you remember what happened to you, Devon?” asked her mother.

“No,” she croaked.

“You had a hunting accident, darling, but you’re going to be fine. Sirocco fell on you. Not squarely, thank the Lord. But you have a broken arm and leg and several broken ribs/’

Devon was silent for a few seconds, trying to remember the accident. Then an agonizing thought crossed her mind. “Sirocco… ?” She wanted to say more, but didn’t have the strength. Her beautiful Sirocco. Was he dead? She had raised the horse from a foal, then trained him herself. They had a special bond. If anything had happened to him…

“He’s fine,” her father soothed, recovering himself now that he saw that Devon was well enough to talk. “He landed on his side, so he didn’t break any legs. He’s bruised, but the vet says he’ll recover nicely.”

“Laurel, Chase, Devon needs her rest,” said the doctor firmly.

“Go back to sleep now, darling,” said Laurel, lifting Devon’s good hand and kissing it. Devon squeezed her mother’s hand feebly. Her father stroked the blanket over her ankle, as though afraid he would cause her pain if he touched her. She could feel the blanket stir and she moved her foot slightly so as to make contact with his hand. It was the only form of acknowledgment she could muster. She wished she could summon more energy, but the foggy world of sleep beckoned her.

In that indistinct half-conscious world between sleep and wakefulness she lingered for a moment—just long enough to feel a new twinge of pain. It came from inside and she did not know its cause. It had something to do with… she could not remember. A blurred image swam into her consciousness, then dispersed, as though it were smoke blown away by the wind. She fell asleep trying to grasp the image that she knew, somehow, was causing her a pain deeper than that caused by her broken limbs.

Devon hastily put down the silver hand mirror she had picked up only seconds before, shuddering at the reflection she had glimpsed there. Although two weeks had passed since her accident, she was still severely bruised and in considerable discomfort. She had two black eyes and a myriad of cuts and scrapes on her face. But the worst, she thought, was her hair—what was visible of it beneath the gauze that circled her skull. Her head was too tender to allow her hair to be combed, so the once shining black locks hung in a tangled rats’ nest on her shoulders. Her frilly white batiste nightgown provided an incongruous touch of daintiness against which rested the already graying cast on her arm.