Regret Not a Moment (49 page)

Devon allowed a few seconds of tense silence to elapse, then she spoke. “You are intruding, Mr. Pritchard. Why?”

He looked uncomfortably at the two old women and Francesca sitting at the table behind Devon. Then he seemed to gather himself. “I got business with you,” he blurted out defiantly.

“I find that hard to believe; however, if you would like to make an appointment—”

“Now!” he interrupted, regaining his natural arrogance.

“I beg your pardon!” Devon said, eyes flashing dangerously. She rang the bell to summon the butler. He appeared almost before her motion was completed. “Greene, would you show Mr. Pritchard out, please.”

“I got business with you!” the jockey cried as the huge black man encircled his comparatively small arm with one strong hand.

Devon turned her back on the jockey and addressed the ladies assembled around the dining table. “I apologize to all of you for this scene.”

Furious at his summary dismissal, Pritchard cried, “Jeremiah Washington is layin’ flat on his back in the barnyard and I’m here to tell you why!”

Devon spun to face the jockey. She studied him for a moment as she absorbed his words. As comprehension dawned, she felt hot anger bubble up in her. “Get out of my way, Mr. Pritchard! If Mr. Washington is in that condition, I’ll find out why from him!”

As she started to brush by him, Pritchard caught her arm. “I have a right to be heard, too.”

Outraged, Devon jerked her arm from his grasp. “How dare you!” she spat. She turned her eyes to the butler. “Greene, escort this man into my study, please, and see that he stays there.” Without another glance at Pritchard, she turned and marched out of the room.

Unmindful of her dress shoes, Devon tramped through the mud of the barnyard to the office she shared with Jeremiah, as she had once shared it with Willy. There she found most of her staff gathered around the ancient leather couch. Jeremiah was laying there, an ice pack on his jaw.

“What in the world!” Devon exclaimed.

Seeing her, Jeremiah tried to come to his feet, but succeeded only in rising onto one elbow. “I fired Pritchard,” the trainer offered, as though that explained everything.

And, indeed, it did explain a great deal. But Devon still had a few questions. “You got into a fistfight with him?” she asked, astounded that this most mild-mannered of men would have done such a thing.

“I wish I had,” he replied sheepishly. “No, he hit me without any warning. Next thing I knew, I was flat on my back.”

“Kicked ’im when he was down, too,” one of the grooms added.

Devon’s fury against Pritchard intensified when she heard this. She picked up the telephone on her desk and dialed the main house. When the butler answered she instructed, “Greene, tell that… that… person”—she expelled the word as though it were a profanity—“in my study to leave at once. Leave not just my study, but this property. I want him out of here within the hour. He’ll get two weeks’ severance and a half-decent reference provided he meets that deadline and goes quietly. He can phone us with a forwarding address. Tell him those are my orders. I don’t ever want to see him again. Is that understood?” Devon nodded as she received confirmation on the other end of the telephone line. Then she replaced the receiver with a sharp click.

“Jeremiah, do you need a doctor?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine,” he said, sitting up and waving away the men who surrounded him, “all you boys get away from me and let me breathe.”

“Would you gentlemen excuse us, please. I think Jeremiah’s fine now,” Devon said, gently dismissing the staff. One by one, the men filed out of the office until the screen door closed with a squeaky smack.

Nonetheless, Devon spoke in a hushed tone. “It was more than you firing him, wasn’t it?” she asked Jeremiah, pulling out her scratched wooden chair and sitting opposite him.

“Yeah. Same old thing. He always had a chip on his shoulder about taking orders from a colored man. Like today…” Jeremiah explained the cause of their argument, concluding, “I was stupid, thinking I could change his attitude. He had an unbeatable way with some of the horses, though. I didn’t want to give up on him too easy.”

“He can he replaced,” Devon said brusquely. “Never keep on a troublemaker, Jeremiah. They’re just never worth it. You’re a good trainer. The farm is doing fine with you at the helm. Your only weakness is that you’re too nice. You’re willing to give men like Pritchard too many chances. It’s a waste of time.”

“Ah, Devon,” sighed Jeremiah, shaking his head. “I wish I could be as good as Willy. He commanded respect without even trying.”

“It’s not every man who can look beyond your color, Jeremiah. Most will, once they get used to the idea. Those that can’t, well, they’re just no use to us.”

“Devon, how come you never even thought about getting a white man for this job after Willy died?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You know our stock inside out. You know my training methods, and Willy’s. You grew up here and you’ve been my friend for almost thirty years. Most of all, you’re qualified for this job. What kind of person would I be if I put someone else over you?”

“Maybe a smarter one, Devon. No one has a Negro trainer. Everyone thinks you’re crazy to have me. I’m afraid this is just going to cause you a world of trouble.” Jeremiah tried to readjust his ice pack, spilling water down the front of his shirt.

Devon laughed. “Here, give that to me. I’ll refill it.” She bent over him, putting her hand to his cheek to take the pack from him.

“Well, ain’t this cozy!” a sarcastic voice came through the screen door. Devon wheeled to find the leering face of Jimmy Pritchard staring at her through the rusty wire. “I guess what they say about black boys is true. Maybe that’s why you keep ’im.”

Hearing the younger man’s voice, Jeremiah stood to his feet and, in two long strides, reached the door. He slammed it out so abruptly that Jimmy, caught unawares, was hit in the face.

Jeremiah was no taller than Jimmy, but he was bulkier because his retirement from racing had allowed him to put on weight. It was all muscle, though. And this he demonstrated by grabbing Jimmy’s collar and lifting him off his feet until they reached the wall of the stall opposite the office. Jeremiah slammed Jimmy into it, knocking the wind out of the younger man so that he slumped over. Jeremiah lifted his knee.
Bang!
Right into Jimmy’s chin, knocking his head backward. Then he dropped the jockey in the dirt.

Devon stood behind the screen door, aghast at Jeremiah’s unprecedented behavior. She kept silent.

“Pritchard, get your ass up if you want to fight. If you don’t want to fight, get the hell off this property. Now!”

The jockey shook his head to clear it, wiping blood from his nose with his sleeve. He rose to a sitting position and glared at Jeremiah with hatred. “I’ll fight you anytime, nigger.” Then he hurled himself at Jeremiah’s legs, hoping to bring the larger man down. But Jeremiah was too quick. He stepped aside so that Jimmy fell face first into the dirt. Jeremiah again grabbed his collar, this time at the nape of Jimmy’s neck.

“Let me help you up,” he said mildly, yanking Pritchard up and throwing him once more against the stall. This time the younger man yelped with pain as his elbow hit the metal padlock. He balled his hands into fists and came toward Jeremiah. “Not again you won’t,” Jeremiah said with a grunt, hitting his opponent in the stomach with all his might.

Pritchard doubled over with nausea and staggered toward Jeremiah. The black man backed up, ready to strike again if necessary. But before Pritchard could reach him, the younger man fell to his knees and vomited into the dirt.

Jeremiah looked up from the mess to find himself surrounded by his men. Most wore looks of approval, but two of Pritchard’s friends went toward the jockey and helped him to his feet.

“You’re done for today, Jimmy,” one said, leading him out of the barn.

Jimmy signaled for them to stop. With difficulty, he turned to face Jeremiah. “I may be done for today. But I ain’t done. Not by a long shot. There’s plenty of ways to deal with uppity niggers. Especially ones that put their hands on white women,” he spat. “You and that bitch. You’ll get yours,” he threatened. Then he turned and limped away.

Devon emerged from the office, face immobile. She opened her mouth to speak, but Jeremiah preempted her. Addressing his men he said, “If any one of you thinks like Pritchard, you’re free to leave now. We’ll give you two weeks’ pay and a recommendation. You who stay do so under the condition that you understand I am your direct boss. I hire and I fire. And any man, black or white, who starts the kind of trouble that led to the situation today is going to get fired a lot sooner than Pritchard did. I don’t care what color a man is. Work hard, you get rewarded. Make a mistake, you get another chance. But defiance, disrespect, prejudice—those I won’t stand for.” Jeremiah glared at each man in turn, waiting for one to protest, to turn away.

“Yes sir,” said a skinny groom, a sixteen-year-old white boy with dreams of being a jockey.

“That’s a deal,” said one of the black jockeys.

All around the room, men nodded agreement.

“Okay,” Jeremiah said gruffly, “then get back to work.”

When the room had emptied, he turned to face Devon. She simply gave him a nod of approval, turned on her heel, and headed to her appointment with her banker.

DEVON was in a mood to celebrate. Her banker had eagerly granted her request for a loan to buy the adjoining farm. And why not? she asked herself. She had built Willowbrook into a world-class racing operation, and she certainly had the assets for collateral. The banker knew he was not at risk.

Then there had been the incident with Jimmy Pritchard. It had been ugly, but Jeremiah had emerged the victor. Devon felt confident that he had finally established his dominion over the other employees. She was satisfied that Jeremiah would deal with any future insubordination swiftly and completely.

Turning to more pleasant thoughts, Devon glanced over at the frothy evening gown on the bed and smiled to herself. There was another cause to feel happy. She was fifty-two, yet still desirable, still sought-after. Not everyone could make the same claim at her age, and she was proud of it, though she would never have revealed this to anyone.

Mason Wilder would arrive soon to take her to a dinner at the Hartwicks’. They still lived in the old Magrath estate, adjacent to Evergreen, Devon’s childhood home. Helena Magrath Hartwick’s parents had both died, but the entire county still referred to the home as “the Magrath place.” Helena, Brent, and their children had remained good friends with Devon, but also with John.

Devon knew that John was visiting them, for he had stopped by Willowbrook on several occasions to see Francesca. Devon and Mason both observed this growing friendship with skepticism, but so far John had not disappointed the young woman. Devon resolved to warn John that evening—albeit subtly—about Francesca’s eagerness for his visits. She did not want her daughter hurt if John should suddenly decide he was bored with the girl. Devon knew that Francesca had fixated on the idea that John might have been her father, and was fascinated by him as a result. She also recognized that the feeling was mixed with a plain old adolescent crush on a handsome older man. That was perfectly normal and fine, Devon thought, as long as John handled the young girl’s fragile emotions with care.

Devon finished her makeup—a subtle application of rose hue on her lips and cheeks, smoky gray around her eyes, and black mascara to match her eyelashes. Then she walked over to the bed and stepped into the gray dress. Its pearlescent silk shimmered with every move she made. The full-skirted dress bared Devon’s shoulders, still youthful and attractive, but it had long sleeves.

Devon heard the doorbell ring just as she slipped into her silvery sandals. She knew it was Mason coming to fetch her. Francesca’s hurried patter down the wooden floor of the hallway confirmed that. The sound of their enthusiastic greetings floated up to Devon and she smiled to herself. Before she left her room, she opened all the windows, drinking in the night fragrances of her garden. It was not quite dark yet—one of those summer evenings when twilight seemed to go on for hours. The sky was streaked with a few faint traces of pink, and Devon breathed deeply, relaxing and enjoying the view. A perfect sense of well-being filled her and she savored it, not knowing that it would soon be rent apart.

Mason tried not to glower as he observed Devon and John talking intimately in front of the Hartwicks’ fireplace. He did not know that the subject of their conversation was Francesca, but even if he had he would not have been comforted. It seemed that they stood a bit closer to each other than was necessary. John touched Devon’s arm frequently as he spoke. Devon did not flirt or laugh a great deal, which comforted Mason somewhat, but it was clear that she was completely absorbed in the discussion.

“Francesca’s taken a great liking to you,” Devon was saying to John.

“And I to her,” John said, smiling as he thought of the teenager.

“I’m afraid the friendship may be more important to her than you intend,” Devon said with a soft smile.

“You know,” John said thoughtfully, “I initially was amused by Frankie. But I’m now finding that her friendship adds a great deal to my life. My parents are both dead. The rest of my family is, well, distant, both geographically and emotionally. Frankie has become very important to me.” He took a sip of his after-dinner cognac, then continued in a wistful tone, “I don’t know many young people.”

Devon did not wish to be cruel, but she couldn’t help pointing out that John had never really wanted children. “You could have had more children. I mean, when you were married to Bebe. Or if you had remarried after her.”

“Point well taken. I don’t think I ever felt ready for that responsibility. I kept on thinking I eventually would, but—”

Devon interrupted, sorry that she had implied some criticism of him. “But you were a good father to Morgan.”

“We had a lot of disputes over that at the time, though, didn’t we? You wanted to spend more time with her than I did. And that meant living at Willowbrook.”