Regret Not a Moment (54 page)

To make matters worse, Jesse had almost ignored her since she had started working with Jeremiah at the end of June. They had gone riding on a few occasions, but Jesse seemed never to have the time to linger over a picnic and a swim. In addition, Francesca’s own work schedule allowed her far less leisure than in summers past.

Jesse had grown even more remote after their arrival in Saratoga three weeks ago. Francesca had at first been puzzled. But after seeing him in the park, she suspected that he had wasted no time in beginning his summer romance with Lacey. As a result, he spent none of his time off with Francesca. And she was lonely for him, both as a friend and… she wasn’t quite sure what else. She only knew that she missed their time together.

Sometimes when she was in bed late at night, she wondered what it would be like to touch the muscles that rippled across his back. She wondered what it would feel like if his strong arms were to pull her to him and wrap themselves around her. Such thoughts were profoundly arousing to her. So arousing that she had begun to feel a strange flutter in her stomach whenever she saw Jesse.

Now, for the first time in her life, she had the conviction that she, too, could arouse that kind of desire. She suddenly remembered the day in the beginning of the summer when she and Jesse had gone swimming. For a fleeting moment she had thought he had been attracted to her. But she could not be sure. Since then, she had seen no such emotion on his part. And, of course, she could tell no one about her feelings for him. Somehow, though, that knowledge just sharpened the tang of her desire.

With a sigh, she turned away from the mirror. She looked at the white lace shawl on the bed, carefully laid out for her by her mother’s maid. She knew that Laurel would insist that she wear it. But it would cover the beautiful dress. Ignoring it, Francesca headed down the stairs.

Francesca did not, of course, see Jesse that evening. But she saw Kelly Majors, and that was almost as gratifying.

The arrogant young jockey’s mouth dropped open at the sight of Francesca in the lobby of the Gideon Putnam Hotel. He quickly recovered his composure when he saw that she was closely followed by her mother and Mason Wilder. Hurrying over to them, he greeted his employer and her escort politely while sneaking glances at Francesca. He had not realized that she could look so… so…
adult.
He found himself stumbling over his words as he tried to make small talk with the trio. Then, much too soon, he was forced to depart to meet his date. But he would remember how Francesca had looked that night.

And Francesca would remember the look on Kelly’s face. His face and the faces of all her other acquaintances. Oh, it had been heady to be surrounded by admirers! To dance every dance with a different boy. To have college boys treat her as though she were their age; to have boys her age tongue-tied with self-consciousness and a desire to please. Now she understood the self-assurance of the kittenish blonde Marina Witherspoon, a classmate of hers in Washington. She could suddenly understand why her girlfriends talked about nothing but boys. It was intriguing to wield the power of sexuality. What had eluded her throughout her adolescence had suddenly been presented to her like the combination to a secret vault of riches.

The enchantment did not end that evening. The next morning, Kelly’s attitude toward her was entirely different. He didn’t ignore her or make fun of her comments. He listened to her. He followed her with his eyes. He flirted with her. And Francesca flirted back. Flirted with extra vivacity when Jesse was near. Made sure that her laugh contained that suggestive note that she had found so haunting coming from Lacey.

“What’s wrong with you today?” Jesse asked when they were alone in the stable for a few moments. His voice was filled with irritation.

“What do you mean?” she asked coyly.

Jesse rolled his eyes and faced her squarely, hands on his hips. “I mean, you’re giggling and carrying on and acting like a… a…” He shrugged and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” Francesca said haughtily, “I certainly don’t know either.”

“Ah, get off your high horse, Frankie. And stop fooling around. We’ve got a lot to do today.”

“Oh, well, excuse me,
sir.”
Sarcasm dripped from her voice. “I didn’t mean to hold up your important work.”

Jesse gave her a look of disgust and turned to walk away.

“Wait a minute!” Francesca cried imperiously. “I have something to say to you.”

Jesse stopped in his tracks, his back tensed in an attitude of annoyance. He did not turn to face her.

“From now on,” Francesca said to the back of his head, “I want you to call me Francesca. I’m not Frankie anymore!”

“LOOKS like you were right about Carte Blanche,” Jeremiah told Francesca the following morning. The French colt had beaten Roll the Dice in a surprise victory that had been a windfall for those who had betted on him.

The foursome—Jeremiah, Jesse, Kelly, and Francesca—were lined up along the white rail fence watching the morning exercise. Their focus was on Devon, who was riding Roll the Dice. When an investment as large as that one failed a crucial test, the mistress of Willowbrook wanted to see for herself why.

“I thought that race was mine.” Kelly sighed and rubbed his hand across his chin. “We were ahead by a couple of lengths right from the start.”

“Yeah, and Carte Blanche really fell behind. I figured right then that he was done for,” grumbled Jesse.

Jeremiah looked down at the
Racing Form
he held in his hand. He read aloud once again from the article that described in tortuous detail how Carte Blanche had humiliated Roll the Dice. “‘Carte Blanche had fallen behind at least ten lengths, and just when it looked as though the race was going to Roll the Dice, the French colt charged ahead. “That horse went by me so fast, I thought it was a bullet,” said jockey Willy Shoemaker, riding Gallant Man.”

“Shit, why’d he have to say that!” Kelly moaned.

“Because it happened,” said Francesca. “At least Gallant Man placed.”

Kelly put his hand to his forehead in frustration. “I don’t know what happened!”

In response, Jeremiah read aloud, “By the final fifty yards, Carte Blanche jockey Benito Rodriguez knew he had won. He looked over his shoulder and saw no competition. So the French unknown galloped to one of the most—’”

The group groaned in unison, interrupting Jeremiah just as Devon pulled up alongside of them. “Reading the
Racing Form
, I see,” she said dolefully.

“You got it,” said Jeremiah with a shake of his head. “Any ideas now that you’ve taken him around the track?”

“Yes. I think he may be a sprinter. That race could have just been too long yesterday.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” said Jeremiah, sighing, “but I didn’t want to say anything until you’d had a chance to ride him. On the other hand, it could be that he backs down when he’s faced with competition. He’s always been out so far ahead of the others that we haven’t seen that in the past.”

“That hasn’t shown up in his workouts, though. And he’s run long in practices,” Francesca pointed out.

“Horses seem to feel the difference between a workout and a race,” said Jeremiah.

“Well, those are two different possibilities and both can be dealt with, but first we’ll need to isolate the real problem,” said Devon.

Jeremiah turned to his son. “Jesse, maybe you could spend the next couple of days working this out with Francesca’s help. I’ve got to concentrate on preparing Willow the Wisp for Saturday’s race.” It was common among racehorse owners to include reference to either ownership or parentage in the names of their stock. Thus, for those in racing circles, Devon’s pun on the phrase
will-o’-the-wisp
signified that the filly was Willowbrook stock.

“I want to see the condition book for the races next week,” Devon said to Jeremiah. “We may want to shuffle some of our stock around, given this development.”

Condition books were written by the racing secretaries of each track. They described the eligibility for entering each race to be held in the near future, usually the upcoming week or two. Entries could be restricted to horses of a certain age, sex, or winning record. The length of each race was also specified in condition books. Then there were maiden races, meaning races for horses that had so far never won. A horse “broke its maiden’ when it won its first race.

One secret of Willowbrook’s success was that Devon and Jeremiah carefully studied condition books from tracks around the country, then shipped their horses to competitions accordingly. Their winning record reflected the discrimination with which they selected races. Thus even Willowbrook’s least talented horses had above-average winning records. Those that didn’t win but had good bloodlines might either be sold or used for breeding.

While Francesca and Jesse returned to the stables, Devon and Jeremiah retired to the trainer’s temporary quarters to study the condition book.

As they arrived at the modest white shed row, Jeremiah indicated that Devon should wait outside. “I’ll bring out a couple of chairs. This may be the prettiest racetrack in America, but the quarters are about the same as any other.”

Devon chuckled, thinking of his luxurious custom-built home in Virginia. “You’re not used to living this way, are you?”

“Every time I go to a track away from home. But that doesn’t mean I like it. And Irma sure doesn’t keep house like this.” Jeremiah entered the building, then returned a few seconds later carrying two steel-framed kitchen chairs with cushions covered in plastic.

Devon thanked him and sat down. “Speaking of your family, I want to compliment you on Jesse. He’s doing a fine job. He has your way with horses.”

Jeremiah shook his head and settled into the other chair. “I wish he would take some time off, though, and go to college.”

“He doesn’t want to?”

“He thinks it’s a waste of time. He always points out that I was a success and I didn’t have a college education. How can I argue with that?”

“You told me that he gets good grades, though. He wouldn’t have any trouble getting into college,” Devon remarked.

“He doesn’t care about that.” Jeremiah swept his hand downward in a gesture of dismissal. “Ah, what’s the use with these kids? They’ll do what they want to do.”

“You could refuse to employ him at Willowbrook unless he finishes his education,” Devon pointed out. “It would be entirely your call, you know.”

Jeremiah gave her a smile of appreciation. “I know. And his mother would probably like me to do that. But I’m afraid he’ll just go somewhere else.”

A cloud passed over Devon’s face and she turned in her seat so that she was squarely facing her friend. “He won’t get the same opportunities to advance anywhere else. You know that. So does he.”

Jeremiah understood Devon’s meaning. “The world hasn’t changed much since we started in this business, has it? Rosa Parks, the NAACP, none of it has made much difference in how we’re treated every day. After I won the Derby, of course every white owner wanted me to come work for him. They shook my hand, patted me on the back. Sent me champagne and the like. One even sent me a woman, did I ever tell you that?” Devon shook her head in the negative. “Anyway, they stopped trying after a while. Knew I was loyal to you. Started calling me Devon’s boy. Probably still call me that. Whites don’t even know why they look down on us, you know. Because we’re inferior? I proved I was superior to all of the other jockeys. Do they really think that the color of a man’s skin determines what’s inside?” Jeremiah’s voice was filled with quiet anger. “You’re white, you tell me,” he demanded.

“I… I don’t know.” Devon was at a loss. She was embarrassed that many of the people who had treated Jeremiah in such a dehumanizing way were her friends. But if she were to eliminate friends on the basis of their racial prejudice, she would have almost none left. What she could do was to provide opportunities for the people who worked for her, without regard to their color. But what was such a small gesture in a world filled with prejudice? It did nothing to change the status quo. Devon said thoughtfully, “Maybe it would change things in this industry, at least a bit, if we could get Jesse an apprenticeship at another farm. He’s so gifted—”

“You mean, then your white friends would know that I’m not some fluke? Some mutant nigger who happens to have turned out intelligent? That there’s actually two of us in this world, and maybe more?” Jeremiah asked bitterly.

“Jeremiah! You’ve never sounded like this before. So… so cynical.”

“Devon, there’s not a Negro in America who’s not cynical. Unless he’s a total fool. You know what my greatest shame is?” Devon shook her head, indicating he should continue. “You remember that night you—a white woman—had to save me from the Klan?”

“But Jeremiah, they didn’t even go to your house after they came to mine.”

“Because they were scared of you. They had me next on the agenda, only they wouldn’t have been as
civilized”
—he spat out the word sarcastically—“with me as they were with you. Your name carries a lot of weight. You’ve got power. Power to hurt them. I may have money. And I may have a gun, but I’ve got no power and the pitiful thing is, I don’t see things changing for my son.”

“I know a little about what you’re talking about. Being a woman means always having to prove yourself. Never being taken seriously. Never being given the same chances as a man.”

Jeremiah shook his head. “It’s not the same thing. Not for a woman born into a family like yours, at any rate.”

“No, not exactly,” Devon conceded. “But do you think that anyone else would give Francesca a chance to be a jockey? Oh, they’d let her into their country clubs, I’ll admit that. But would they hire her? I don’t think so.”

“Okay, I see your point,” Jeremiah admitted. “There’s discrimination, although not that same day-to-day humiliation that my boy will have to face.”

“I know,” Devon said gently, “but you could get more involved in the civil rights movement. Try to change things.”

“I can’t tell you how much money I’ve given to the NAACP.”