Regret Not a Moment (47 page)

“Didn’t you love her anymore?”

“Oh, yes…” he said, looking down at the table, “we just wanted different things out of life.”

Francesca nodded knowingly. “That’s what she told me, too.”

John raised his eyes to Francesca’s and searched her face. “Is she happy?” John asked softly.

Now it was Francesca’s turn to look puzzled. Happy? It never occurred to her that adults could suffer from a general state of unhappiness. None of them seemed to go through the roller coaster of emotions she felt every day. “I… think Mother’s happy. I’ve never seen her cry, except when Grandfather died.”

Focusing on John now, Francesca asked, “Did you get married again?”

“Yes, but I’m not married now.”

“Do you have children?”

John paused. He felt his throat constrict with pain. With difficulty, he replied, “I had a child, but she died.”

Francesca gave him a sad little nod of sympathy. “Morgan, you mean. We put flowers on her grave every week when we’re at Willowbrook. You’ve sent flowers, too, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” John said, his voice melancholy, “I’ve sent flowers.” He had so many regrets, so much guilt where Morgan was concerned. Though, he’d been over thirty when Devon had given birth, he realized now that he had been too immature, too self-centered to be a proper father. The war, his injuries, his work now – these things had changed him profoundly. If he had possessed even half the maturity that he had now…he wondered…no, he
knew
he would have been a better father and husband.

“I didn’t know Morgan, but I wish she hadn’t died.” Suddenly a thought occurred to Francesca. “If she had lived, you might have been my father. A lot of my friends’ parents stay married just because they have children. You hear them talk about it sometimes.”

“But then you wouldn’t be you.” John couldn’t help but smile at the eager young face before him. He signaled for the waiter to clear their table. After they had ordered Francesca’s strawberry shortcake and John’s coffee, he asked, “Do you miss having a father very much?”

“Mother’s wonderful,” Francesca said loyally. “And there’s Mason and Willy and Jeremiah.”

“But?” John probed.

“But, yes… yes… I wish I had a father.”

“Well, maybe we can be friends,” John said warmly.

“That would be great!” Then Francesca’s face fell. “But don’t you live abroad?”

“Not anymore. I’m in New York to stay,” John said.

The waiter brought a six-inch-high confection of whipped cream and strawberries and placed it in front of Francesca with a flourish. Then he poured John’s coffee from a silver pot, and placed the pot beside John.

“But…” John hesitated. “Do you think your mother would mind our being friends?” he asked.

“Oh no,” said Francesca casually. “I asked her if she hated you and she said no.”

DEVON’S sound sleep was pierced by the telephone ringing on the bedside table. She groggily lowered the thick eiderdown comforter and reached for the instrument, not alert enough yet to feel a sense of apprehension.

“Hello?” She yawned.

“Devon, I’m sorry to wake you, but we’ve had an emergency here.” The familiar drawl of Jeremiah’s voice on the other end brought Devon instantly to her senses.

“What’s wrong?” Devon asked, alarmed. She pushed herself into a sitting position and turned on the bedside light, shivering in the cold night air.

“It’s Willy…” Jeremiah hesitated.

“Oh, God, no!” Devon cried, fear gripping her.

“Devon, I don’t know how to tell you…” Jeremiah’s desperate sense of loss was evident in his tone. “I… I’m afraid he’s had a heart attack.”

“Please, Jeremiah, don’t say he’s dead,” Devon pleaded.

“I’m sorry, Devon. He’s gone,” Jeremiah said gently.

“I just can’t believe it! He was fine last time I saw him.” Devon flung back the comforter and leapt from the bed. She felt like she couldn’t catch her breath. Then, when she managed to inhale, tears began to stream from her eyes.

“Not according to the doctor, Devon. He told me tonight that he’d warned Willy to cut back on work.”

“But Willy never said a word! He worked the same amount as always.” She knew Willy’s age, but he had seemed immortal.

“Yeah,” Jeremiah acknowledged softly, “that was the problem. His work was his whole life.”

“Willowbrook was, yes.” Devon’s voice broke as she said the words.

“And you, too, Devon. He loved you very much, you know.”

Devon smiled through her tears, the smile turning into a grimace of sorrow. “I never thought that he would get used to me, but one day we were just the best of friends. I don’t exactly know when it happened.”

“He left a letter tor you,” Jeremiah said. “I don’t know if it’s his will or what.”

Devon looked up as the door to her bedroom opened. A worried-looking Francesca was standing there, her striped pajamas rumpled from sleep.

Instinctively lowering her voice and wiping away her tears, Devon said to Jeremiah, “I’ll be down in a few hours. I’ll leave right away.” She replaced the telephone receiver, using the few seconds to mull over how to tell her daughter the news. Francesca regarded Willy as family. She would be heartbroken.

“Come here, Francesca,” Devon said, sitting down and gesturing to the empty place on the bed beside her. “Snuggle up next to me, Frankie, I have something to tell you.”

Devon’s use of the nickname startled Francesca, for she knew her mother disliked it. Devon almost never used this form of address, even though Francesca tried to insist on it. But instead of being gratified by its use now, Francesca felt worried. She drew close to her mother’s warmth, curling up against her. Devon put her arm around her daughter so that Francesca’s head rested on her shoulder.

“You’re getting so big,” Devon murmured.

Now that she was accustomed to the light and fully awake, Francesca saw her mother had been crying, so she knew something bad had happened. “What’s wrong, Mom?” she asked, frightened.

“Darling, I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s about Willy.”

Francesca squirmed out of her mother’s arms and sat up so that she was directly facing her. “What’s wrong?” she repeated, panic evident in her voice.

Devon deliberately made her voice calm. “He’s been ill.”

“No, he hasn’t!” Francesca cried.

Devon took her daughter’s hands and enfolded them in her own. “None of us knew about it. He didn’t tell anyone. And now, I have to go back to Willowbrook. Tonight.”

“I want to go too! I want to see him!”

“Frankie, Willy had a heart attack tonight.”

“Oh no! Is he going to die?” the girl sobbed.

“Oh, Frankie.” Tears streamed from Devon’s eyes as she reached forward and wrapped her daughter in her arms. She needed the comfort of a warm body as much as Francesca did.

“Mommy,” said Francesca, reverting to the childhood appellation in her distress, “is he dead?”

Devon choked on her words, but she nodded her head against Francesca’s, and the girl had her answer.

Francesca was stunned. She remembered the heartbreak of her grandfather’s death. Now her heart was breaking all over again. Willy, whom she had seen almost every day of her life—more than her grandfather even—would no longer occupy a place in her world. It seemed cruel that she had not even had a chance to say good-bye. A giant sob escaped Francesca once more. “I want to see him one more time. I want to say good-bye!”

Devon studied her daughter’s face and saw the determination there. Yes, Devon thought, she’s old enough for this. Devon and Laurel had thought her too young to attend her grandfather’s funeral. But for Willy, she should be there, Devon decided. She needs to be there.

“Very well,” Devon said, “I’ll ring for Ettie to help you pack. Don’t take a lot. We need to go.”

Francesca and Devon hugged one more time, then Francesca slid out of the bed and walked out of the room, her back erect. Devon was surprised to feel comforted by the fact that Francesca would accompany her to Willowbrook. Devon had been her own source of strength for so long that she thought she had grown accustomed to it. But now, she found she welcomed the support of her daughter. It was a new, somewhat bittersweet sensation.

Dear Devon,

I guess I don’t have much to get rid of. Give my clothes to whoever wants them. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be buried at Willowbrook. Somewhere that looks over the sta
bles. I know I’m not family, so if that’s not okay, cremate me and throw my ashes on Willowbrook’s track. Don’t matter too much which you choose, but I think I’d rather be buried. You’ll find $25,000 under my mattress. Buy me a tombstone and give the rest to a good cause.

You’ve been a good boss, and that’s something I never thought I’d say. You’ve also been a good friend. Thanks.

Willy O’Neill

As his letter requested, Willy was buried at Willowbrook. There was a family graveyard there, but none of Devon’s family was buried in it, only members of the Hartwick family, Willowbrook’s former owners. The Richmond family grave site was at Evergreen. So Devon created a small graveyard just for Willy. It was under a stand of oak trees not far from the big white barn. It was a beautiful site on a hill overlooking all of Willowbrook’s acreage. She was gratified that he had wanted to be buried at Willowbrook.

But now, as she stood gazing over the rolling meadows, brown from the winter cold, she felt only desolation. She looked at the dozens of people around her, their heads bowed as they listened to the priest recite prayers for the dead. Some of the faces she saw were family—Grace and Philip had driven from Washington, where they now lived; Laurel had accompanied her from New York. Some of the faces belonged to friends. But not one among them had been as constant a companion as Willy. Devon and he had achieved a deep friendship that required no words. More important, there had been tremendous mutual respect between them, hard won on both sides. She felt almost as though a part of her was gone.

Devon looked at Francesca’s bowed head. The youngster was trying hard to stifle her sobs, but her body shook with the effort. Devon put an arm on her shoulder, then shivered herself as a cold wind rustled through the bare branches overhead. She felt Mason Wilder’s strong arm draw her closer. It was a comfort to have him there, Devon thought, leaning against him gratefully.

As the priest closed his prayer book, Devon walked toward the grave and picked up a small shovel. She dug into the heavy red clay that stood in a pile beside the gaping hole and threw the contents of the shovel on top of the long, shiny box below. The dull thud of the dense clay hitting the coffin sent another shiver through Devon. She laid the shovel down and turned toward the crowd, wanting only to return to the warmth of her home.

Then, in the back of the crowd, like a ghost from the past, she saw a familiar face.

“WORLD-FAMOUS Horse Trainer Dead at 79,” said the headline of the obituary in the
New York Times.
The headline drew John Alexander’s attention, for he was acquainted with most of the country’s top trainers. Putting down his piece of toast, he drew the newspaper toward him with both hands.

“Oh my God!” he exclaimed, throwing his white linen napkin down on the table and rising to his feet.

“What?” asked the redhead, surprised by the sudden movement. She put down the romance novel she was reading and stared at her lover with a look of inquiry.

“Someone who once worked for me just died. A good man.”

“Oh. Just someone who worked for you,” said the redhead, picking up her book in one hand and taking a sip of coffee with the other.

John looked with exasperation at the beautiful creature in the white satin peignoir. There was no use explaining to her the impact on him of Willy’s death. Ignoring her, John rang for his valet.

“Prepare an overnight bag for me with clothes appropriate for a funeral,” he commanded when the man arrived.

“You’re going to that man’s funeral?” the redhead asked in shock, rising as well.

“Yes,” John said brusquely, “I’m going to my room to change.”

“I’ll come with you!” the redhead announced, already envisioning how fetching she would look in a well-cut black dress and a coquettish black hat.

“No, you won’t,” John replied. He turned and exited into the foyer of the Park Avenue penthouse. He crossed the black marble floor and proceeded down a long hallway leading to the master suite, the redhead trailing him like a puppy.

“Why can’t I come?” Her pretty pout was wasted on the back of John’s head.

John did not reply. He entered the bedroom—clearly a man’s room, with its hunter green walls and tufted leather chairs—and began to dress as his valet packed his bag. He hastily chose a tweed jacket and gray flannel slacks for the drive down. In an instant he was dressed and ready to go.

John gave the redhead a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and headed for the door. “I’ll see you when I get back,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“When will that be?” she asked, hands on hips in annoyance.

John paused. “I don t know. A few days probably.”

“I’ll wait here,” the redhead said, sinking onto the four-poster bed behind her.

“No, don’t,” John said sharply.

“Why not?” she demanded.

For the second time that morning John ignored her. He hurried from the room, leaving her on the bed.

“Williams,” John addressed his butler as the man helped him on with his coat, “I should return in three or four days. Please make certain that the lady is gone by then.”

“Yes sir,” said the butler impassively.

He had never expected that she would still be so beautiful. Francesca had told him that she was, but Francesca had not known her in her youth. Photographs he had seen of Devon had told him she was still lovely. They showed that she had retained her slender figure, that her fine eyes were still full of vitality. But he was unprepared for the attraction that hit him when he spotted her leaning on the arm of the huge white-haired man. Even in the black coat and veil, even with her features rigid with grief, John Alexander found Devon alluring.

She came toward him, mouth slightly open in surprise, eyes wide, brushing past the other bystanders.