Regret Not a Moment (61 page)

Devon searched his eyes, recognizing in them the reassurance she had not had the courage to seek since her operation. His eyes told her that he found her desirable, admirable, a person to be loved.

“Oh, John,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “it’s so ugly. I couldn’t bear for you to see… it.” She couldn’t say the word
scar.

“It doesn’t mean anything to me, Devon. It’s you I love. All of you. Not your left breast or your right eye or your perfect nose.” He smiled, kissing her hands, each one in turn.

“But the women you’re used to. They’re all so beautiful!” Devon said, despairing.

“No more beautiful than you are.”

“Younger
and
more beautiful,” Devon insisted. “And whole.”

“So what? I’m not ‘whole,’ as you put it. Do you find my injury revolting?” John studied Devon carefully as he awaited her response.

“It’s not the same,” Devon said with a dismissive shrug.

“How can you say that? A man’s strength, his mobility, his physical ability are all tied to his masculinity. I used to be an excellent rider and skier. I’m not nearly so good now. Does it make you think less of me as a man?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you being so mulish about your own amputation?” John saw Devon wince at the word, but he went on, refusing to give in to her squeamishness. “You’re not prevented from doing anything you did before. You look the same to me.”

“With clothes on.”

“Are you saying that when I remove my slacks, you’ll find my stump so disgusting that you’ll be unable to stomach being close to me?”

Devon smiled, unable to resist a joke. “You just keep your pants on,” she said in mock warning.

“I’m finding that more and more difficult to do when I’m around you,” he said, leaning toward her and planting a soft kiss on her lips. “Don’t you think I’ve shown amazing strength of character in resisting you for six years?”

“Me too,” Devon murmured, kissing him back. As their lips touched, she felt a warm glow fill her. She longed to draw him nearer, to surround herself with him.

“That’s better,” said John, drawing back to gaze at Devon. He put a hand under her chin and watched her smile at him, basking in the love that shone from her eyes. “Devon, I won’t allow you to hide yourself away from me. Not your heart. Not your body. I love every part of you, and I refuse to allow you to be self-conscious about any of it.”

“John, it’s truly an ugly sight,” she said, her voice wavering again. He was convincing, but how would he feel when he actually saw her scars? If he recoiled, she did not think she could bear it. On the other hand, she knew that she would not recoil—would never have recoiled—at the sight of his amputation.

John did not try to soften what he said with euphemisms. He sensed that Devon needed a straightforward response. “Scars are ugly. That’s a fact of life. If the only flaws we had were our scars, we’d be assured of a successful marriage this time around. Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple. Last time, our physical appearances were perfectly fine, but our personality flaws got in the way of our love. I hope that by now we’ve learned to be more tolerant of the bad and more appreciative of the good in each other. And I guess I’m feeling lucky—willing to take that chance. After all, not many men are lucky enough to get a second chance to marry the love of their lives.”

“I’m
the love of your life, not Bebe Henley?” Devon teased.

“Please!” John said in mock horror. Then his face melted with tenderness. He leaned forward and, ever so gently, gave her a lingering kiss. “Please, Devon. Let’s not waste any more time. Marry me!”

“Well…” Devon felt as breathless and flushed as a young girl. She looked into the eyes she had never really stopped loving, and for a moment her misgivings vanished. “I don’t think I have the strength to say no,” Devon whispered.

John’s face filled with joy. “That’s wonderful!” He pulled Devon as close as the interior of the car allowed and gave her a long, spine-tingling kiss. “Let’s forget about Belmont and elope!”

“We can’t,” Devon objected, “we don’t have a marriage license!”

“We’ll drive down to Maryland!”

“But everyone’s waiting for us at Belmont!” Devon felt flustered and rushed, but at the same time exultant.

“I refuse to give you time to change your mind. We’ll telephone Belmont. Leave word for Francesca. Oh,” he said with a sweeping hand gesture that connoted exasperation, “these are all petty details. We’ve got bigger things at stake here! Our entire futures. Come on, let’s go to Maryland,” he pulled her to him and whispered persuasively.

“Well…”

“Come on,” he wheedled.

“As long as we’re back for the Stakes race the day after tomorrow,” said Devon, heady with excitement but trying to maintain a grasp on practicality.

“I’ll promise anything for tomorrow if it will persuade you to go to Maryland today!” John said. And with that, he leaned over and turned the key in the ignition. “Drive on!” he commanded, and the little green car pulled out of the parking lot, its passengers giggling like teenagers.

Devon was amused to learn that almost everyone who knew her had expected that she and John would remarry.

“Like they say, the wife is always the last to know,” she remarked to her husband as they dressed for the Belmont Stakes, the third race of the Triple Crown series.

John—chin lifted as he knotted his tie in front of the mirror-faced armoire—said with a smile, “Francesca was as pleased as I hoped she’d he.”

John finished his task and turned to face his wife just as she disappeared into the small adjoining room that served as her dressing area. Devon had allowed John to look at her scars and to touch them on their wedding night, but she was still uncomfortable with him watching her dress, particularly when she donned the prosthetic device that regularized her silhouette. John had resolved not to rush her. It had been a major step for her to allow him to see her nude.

Devon emerged from her boudoir a few moments later. They had decided to return to her home until after the Belmont Stakes because he did not want to dislodge her when she was preparing for the most important race of her career. Afterward they would move to John’s house, just a few blocks away, while Francesca would return to Willowbrook. This had been a suggestion of Laurel, who had insisted that the newlyweds needed privacy.

“But, Mother, were not exactly newlyweds. And we’re not exactly youngsters either. Besides, we want Francesca to live with us.”

Laurel had looked at Devon wisely, with a commanding expression that allowed no room for contradiction. “Don’t be foolish, dear. She’s nineteen years old and can manage very well without you for a couple of months. You’ll be back at Willowbrook by Christmas anyhow, and you can resume family life then. But
everyone
needs a honeymoon. And from the way John looks at you I can see that your sexual interest in each other has not abated one iota!”

“Mother!” cried Devon, truly shocked at her mother’s uncharacteristic bluntness. Laurel was usually the most diplomatic of people, employing delicate euphemisms that revealed her upbringing as a Southern gentlewoman.

“What? You thought perhaps I was unaware of sex?”

“It’s not that…” Devon sputtered.

“Well, then, let’s agree that you and John need time to yourselves and that the rest of us will get along fine on our own. We have plenty of help. People to take care of us. And we’ll all be reunited when you return to Virginia, although I should mention that Alice and I have decided we would like to travel to London this fall.”

London! Why, the two old ladies were approaching ninety years of age! She accused her mother of a ruse to grant her and John a more prolonged period of privacy, but Laurel had flatly denied it.

“Certainly not! How like a child to assume that a parent’s plans revolve around them!”

“Mother, I’m far from a child. I’m fifty-seven years old.”

“Nevertheless, you are still my child. And, as such, you have very little to say about my travel plans. I’m not senile yet!”

“I’m only concerned that you’ll tire yourself.”

“Don’t you worry, my dear, Alice and I intend to pamper ourselves to an absolutely scandalous extent. A nice, leisurely cruise is what we’ve decided on. With orchestras and good food and all the other amenities.”

With outward reluctance, but secret joy, Devon had endorsed the plan. She
did
want to be alone with John.

PEOPLE turned to stare at the handsome couple as they made their way to the Belmont paddocks. People looked not because of the man’s well-molded, determined features, and not because of the woman’s petite delicacy and elegant dress, but because they were so clearly moneyed, so clearly accustomed to privilege, and because, without any doubt, they were Negroes. Negroes, they were called in 1963 by those who wished to show respect to the race.

But most of the Negroes that the crowd at Belmont had been exposed to were not as relatively fortunate as Celine and Jesse. The whites at the track didn’t really pay attention to the hawkers and stable hands that were black. They were all part of the workings of the racetrack—hired labor with no identity. But these two young people challenged the crowd’s stereotypical views.

It was early in the day but already approaching eighty-five degrees. Celine was wearing a white linen dress of such perfect simplicity, and so well-cut, that the women who understood such things immediately labeled it a Paris original. Jesse was also dressed in white linen, increasing exponentially the drama of their appearance. Under his suit, he wore a shirt of rich sky blue and a striped tie of slightly darker blue and soft beige.

Jeremiah’s heart filled with pride when he turned to see the couple approaching. They were holding hands, their white teeth flashing as they smiled at each other. They were destined for great things, Jeremiah was certain. He could see it in their faces. He wondered if they knew it themselves.

“Look, Frankie,” said the trainer (he was one of the few people who still called Francesca by her childhood nickname), “here’s Jesse and Celine.”

Francesca wanted to bolt, but she was rooted to the spot. She felt as though a stone were sinking to the bottom of her stomach as Jesse and his new wife came inexorably toward her. She had avoided an encounter with Jesse for years, and she did not know what she would feel when she saw him. But branded in her memory was the knowledge that she had pursued him—foolishly, dangerously. It made her cringe with embarrassment to think of it.

As Jesse approached, he looked from his father to her, and there his eyes lingered. For Francesca was a beautiful sight wearing the bold crimson and black of Willowbrook Farm. The colors seemed to emphasize her bohemian good looks, even though her mass of wavy hair was confined in a single aerodynamic braid that hung almost to her waist.

Several seconds prematurely, Francesca thrust her hand out in front of her, crying in a voice of false enthusiasm, “You must be Celine, how nice to meet you!”

“Francesca, it’s a pleasure,” said the young woman with a gracious smile. Celine hurried to take the proffered hand and shook it.

“Hello, Francesca,” Jesse’s deep voice resounded. Francesca dared not meet his eyes. She did not know whether it was more appropriate to give him a peck on the cheek, take his hand, or avoid contact altogether.

Jesse smoothed over the awkwardness by giving his father a lingering hug. By the time the two men had exchanged a few words of greeting, Celine had already engaged Francesca in conversation.

“Are you racing today?” the black woman asked.

“I’m sort of an understudy. We’ve got four races today, including the Belmont Stakes, of course. If anyone is ill or injured, then I’ll ride. But as of yesterday afternoon, everyone was in good health,” Francesca added gloomily.

Celine chuckled at Francesca’s downcast air. “From what Jesse says, you’ll get your chance soon enough. Kelly Majors will be riding in the big race, right?” asked Celine.

“That’s right,” said Francesca, a little sulkily. She had not expected to be allowed to ride King of Hearts today, of course, but not racing made her feel left out.

“You’ll be doing something a lot more important,” Jeremiah had assured her during a conversation the week before. “You’ll be the pinch hitter if anyone is injured or sick. That means you’ve got to know all the horses and the conditions for each of the races.”

“But the likelihood of my riding is almost nil!” Francesca had protested. “Stakes Day is a great day for jockeys. I could get far more exposure than on a normal day. Why doesn’t anyone ever give me that chance?”

“Why? You looking for a job?” Jeremiah had teased.

“I might be if I don’t get a chance to show what I can do!” Francesca had stomped off then, knowing that she had to obey Willowbrook’s trainer, even if she was the future owner of the farm.

Now, faced with Jesse and his wife, Francesca decided to pull herself together and adopt a more cheerful facade. She did not want Jesse to believe that he was the cause of her mood.

Francesca looked from Celine to Jesse. They were well matched. Handsome, committed, and clearly in love with each other. Then why did Francesca still feel a bond with Jesse? She wondered if he felt the same toward her but didn’t dare search his eyes for the answer.

Celine studied her husband’s old playmate, puzzled by something in the younger woman’s expression. Francesca seemed to studiously avoid meeting Jesse’s eyes, as though she disliked him or had wronged him in some way. And yet, the two of them were involved in an animated discussion of the colt that was King of Hearts’ main competitor in the Belmont Stakes.

“Do you remember how Frankie sized up that French colt in Saratoga, Jesse?” Jeremiah was saying. “None of the rest of us thought he was much of a threat, but Frankie knew.”

Celine saw Jesse fix his gaze on Francesca, as though he were trying to force her to focus on him instead of casting her eyes about nervously. “I remember that. Francesca always had good instincts when it came to things like that.”

Francesca smiled briefly in acknowledgment, a glimmer of regular white teeth, a dimple at her cheek, then it was gone.