Regret Not a Moment (57 page)

“Devon! Didn’t you hear me? Time to go in to dinner,” Mason said, the loudness of his tone indicating that this was not the first time he had addressed her.

Devon looked up with a start to see both men standing above her, hands outstretched, ready to escort her in to dinner. You’re a lucky old girl, Devon thought to herself.

She gathered up her black taffeta skirt and walked with the men into the dining room. “You’ve done a beautiful job with this house, John,” she complimented him.

As John held her chair for her, Devon looked about the dramatic dining room. Its most prominent feature was a black and white marble floor set in a diagonal checkerboard pattern. The walls were painted a gunmetal gray marbled with subtle hints silver. A massive burled walnut table in the style of Charles X was centered under an exquisitely wrought crystal chandelier. Fluted white columns marked the entry to the room. Devon wondered with a stab of jealousy which woman in John’s life had contributed to the house’s imaginative interior design.

She turned her attention back to Mason, who was saying to John, “You don’t think there’ll be any serious opposition to the nomination, do you?”

“I’m just not certain I want it, Mason. I’ve been away from this country enough in the past twenty years. It’s time to settle down,” John said, with an involuntary glance at Devon.

“But a U.S. ambassadorship is a great honor, and Belgium has always been a pivotal country in European politics!” Mason protested. “As far as the newspaper is concerned, we’re prepared to officially back the nomination. You’ve got the personal and professional background to make something of the post, John.”

“All right, all right, I admit that it’s hard to turn down such an honor.” John laughed, elevating his hands palm outward in front of him as though to ward off any further argument from Mason. Then, growing more serious, he said, “But I don’t know if my heart would be in it. I’ve just bought this place. Started to enjoy having a home again. After traveling so much for so many years, it’s nice to do nothing more than go back and forth between New York and Washington.”

“You, tired of travel?” Devon exclaimed. “I never thought I would see the day!”

John looked into Devon’s eyes. For a moment both relived memories of their tense final years together. Years when John had insisted that travel—to Paris, London, Monte Carlo, Newport, San Simeon, Palm Beach—was essential to his happiness. Now John smiled wearily at Devon. “Even the most delightful pastimes can grow tiring if one does them every day,” he said quietly.

Mason broke in. “But you’ve got a great deal to contribute. You’re one of the best negotiators this country has ever had. And, God knows, things have been tense with the Soviets. We need someone in Europe who’s negotiated with them before, like you did during the war.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” John asked in a teasing tone, trying to lighten the conversation. But the remark had the opposite effect. There was a moment of awkward silence in the room as all three realized that the joke might contain some truth.

Devon looked away from the men. Mason, opposite her, let out a great guffaw to hide his embarrassment. John joined in, relieved that the silence had been broken. He had spoken without thinking, and was ashamed for having accused his friend in such a way. After all, even if it was true, Mason had been with Devon when John had re-entered her life. John knew he had no claim on her.

“Seriously, though, I’ve of course told the president that I would accept if that is what he wants.” John went on to clarify his remark. “What he
truly
wants, not what he feels obliged to offer.”

“I think you fulfill the unique requirements of being both politically acceptable as well as diplomatically experienced,” Mason avowed.

John smiled wryly. “Well, we’ll see what the Senate committee has to say. I think it’s out of my hands at this point.”

“All right, I can take a hint,” Mason said, still laughing. “I’ll drop the subject.”

In bed later, cradling Devon in his arms, Mason confessed, “In a way, I would like him to be out of our lives.”

Devon lifted her head from his shoulder and propped herself on one elbow. It was dark, but the moonlight created stripes of silvery white on their bodies as it filtered through the window. She smiled and kissed him tenderly. She felt relaxed and contented, as she always did when they made love. “We’ve discussed this. He’s no threat to you,” Devon said, not bothering to pretend she did not know of whom he spoke.

“Yes, he is,” Mason said simply. “But, dammit all, I like the man immensely. Respect him, too. The three of us get on so well that it’s always a pleasure to spend an evening together. And yet…”

“I know,” Devon said softly.

“Have you been considering my proposal?” Mason asked, pulling Devon back down so that her head rested on his shoulder.

“Yes. Do you really intend to end our relationship if I say no?” she asked seriously.

“I have to, Devon. It’s a matter of self-preservation. Self-respect, too. I’m not a young man. I want a wife and, frankly, a companion for my old age. I want the woman I love beside me when I die. But if you won’t marry me, I’ll have to settle for something less.” He was silent for a few seconds, then continued thoughtfully, “Or perhaps not. I used to think a great love only happened once. I no longer believe that. Perhaps there is still time for me to find a woman I love who will also fall in love with me.”

Again Devon lifted her upper body so she could look directly at Mason. “If you truly believe you can find love elsewhere, Mason, you owe it to yourself to do it.”

Devon saw a glint of white as Mason smiled. “I have found love, Devon.”

She looked down at his broad chest, twirling one of his wiry gray hairs around her finger. “You know what I mean. I don’t think I can offer you the kind of love you deserve.”

Mason sighed. “My weakness is that I want you anyhow. Because although I believe I could love somebody else, I don’t think I could ever regard anyone, man or woman, as highly as I do you, Devon.”

“I feel honored that you think of me in that way. I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“If you didn’t, I would know it by now. We’ve been together many years. I’m hardly a pushover. And I’m not blinded by love. My love for you is an outgrowth of my admiration and respect, not the other way around.”

Devon was immeasurably touched by his words. Her eyes filled with tears as she regarded him, so dear to her. “Mason, I can’t marry you.”

Devon saw his eyelids close. He was silent for so long that Devon thought perhaps he had gone to sleep. She wondered if he was deliberately ignoring her, or if he was simply too hurt to speak. Suddenly she felt awkward and out of place in his bed. She felt compelled to return to the guest room, and as quietly as though he were indeed asleep, she pushed back the covers and began to ease out of the bed. But his strong hand slid across the linen sheet and grasped her wrist.

“No,” he whispered huskily, “please stay.”

Devon hesitated. “I—”

“Please,” he said, but his tone was more one of command than supplication.

Devon lifted her legs back into the bed and covered herself. Mason moved over so that he was on top of her, and she was surprised to find that he was once more ready to make love. Mason made use of Devon’s body with a fervor he had never before shown. For Devon, it was an oddly impersonal act, yet exciting for its very novelty. She found herself responding with a passion to match his own. They made love for a much longer time than usual, and when it was over, Mason pulled Devon to his side and wrapped his arms around her, clearly willing her to stay with him until morning. They knew it was the last time they would ever be together.

“I CAN’T believe that’s our son graduating from college.” Jeremiah squeezed his wife Irma’s hand as Jesse’s name was called.

Jesse, who had not known his direction upon entering college, had graduated in the top ten percent of his class, attending school even during the summer to cut his four-year program to three. And he would enter law school in the fall.

“I can t believe the wedding’s just two weeks away,” Irma said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. For Jesse had also found love. His fiancée, Celine Thibault, was the daughter of a Haitian immigrant, a baker who had taken his life savings of seven hundred dollars and transformed it into the second-largest chain of bakeries in the Washington area.

“Inconvenient time they picked for a wedding,” Jeremiah teased. The Preakness was the following week, and a colt trained by Jeremiah would be the Willowbrook entry.

Irma glared at him in mock anger. “You should be ashamed! Your only son graduates from college and gets married, all at the same time, and you can’t think of anything but that race!”

“Well,
you
can’t think of anything but that wedding!” Jeremiah laughed and shook his head. He turned his eyes back to the stage and said, “Anyhow, I wish Jesse had been there for the Derby. That was a beautiful win!”

Jesse had avoided Willowbrook for three years, and had avoided the Derby on the grounds that he was studying for final exams. It wasn’t that he was afraid to see Frankie again, he insisted to himself. He didn’t love her anymore. He loved Celine, wanted to spend his life with her. And he only rarely thought of Francesca. Almost never, in fact.

Still, he felt apprehensive about seeing her the following week at the Preakness. But he had to be there for his father. So he would go. And keep Celine close by his side.

“I’M ready to race and Kelly’s been ill. How can you think he’d be better than me?” Francesca stomped her booted foot on the old planks of the stable office.

“We’ll have none of that, young lady!” said Devon firmly. “Jeremiah has said that Kelly will ride in the Preakness, so that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“You’re the owner! You have something to say about this too!” cried Francesca.

“As an owner I know it would he foolhardy to allow an apprentice to ride in the Preakness. You’ll he up against the most experienced jockeys in the country.”

“I would have the same experience by now if anyone around here ever let me race!”

“That’s not fair, Francesca,” Devon said calmly, “we’ve let you race. And you’ve done well.”

“In races that don’t matter!” Francesca moaned.

Devon gave her daughter a sharp look and, with a loud snap, closed the cover of the ledger book she had been studying. She carefully replaced her pencil in the top drawer of the oak desk. Only after she had risen from her seat, gone over to the mini-refrigerator, and taken out a Coke did she speak. Still standing, she turned to face her daughter at the opposite end of the little room. “Every race matters. Don’t ever let me hear you say otherwise. Every race means money spent and, hopefully, money earned. This is a business. A business
I
built. You do not presently have the judgment to make the business decisions necessary here. This… this
caprice
of yours—wanting to race in the Preakness—could cost me a fortune. It is absolutely out of the question.”

“But I know the track at Pimlico as well as Kelly does—”

“Francesca,” Devon said firmly, “that is my final word.”

Francesca struggled to restrain her anger, knowing that a temper tantrum would only demonstrate her immaturity. Voice quiet, but shaking with rage, Francesca said, “When do you think I will be ready for an important race?”

“Next year, I think.”

Another year! Francesca had spent the last two years of her life working her way up to being a jockey. She rode King of Hearts every day during his training exercises. She opened her mouth to protest, but once again remembered to maintain an even tone. “Have you been watching me ride King of Hearts?”

“I have.”

“Do you have any criticism of the job I’ve been doing?”

Devon was pleased to note the gradual shift in Francesca’s attitude. She was no longer demanding. She was behaving like a professional: inquiring about needed areas of improvement. The ambitious young woman’s dissatisfaction was still apparent, but her approach to it was far more mature than it had been just moments earlier.

Devon sat down on the leather couch and invited Francesca to sit beside her. “You have the same problem as all good young jockeys. Your bravery is greater than your skill.”

“You don’t think I have talent?” Francesca exclaimed, her stomach clenched at the possibility of such a verdict.

“I didn’t say that,” Devon said soothingly. “Talent and skill are not the same thing. You have talent, you have bravery, and you have skill. Just not in equal measures. You need to polish your skills.” Devon reflected a moment before continuing. “Come to think of it, maybe there’s something we can do about that.”

“What?” Francesca asked eagerly.

“So far, you’ve been primarily involved in training our two-year-olds. That is, the focus has been on the horses themselves. I think the next step is for us to shift the focus to you as a jockey. Instead of working with Jeremiah, you should probably be working with Kelly. Work on improving yourself rather than the horses.”

“When can I start?” Francesca asked excitedly.

“That’s up to Kelly. I don’t want it to interfere with his training for the Preakness.”

“He’s still in bed sick,” Francesca said, disappointed.

Devon stood up from the couch and went back to the desk. “Well, the two of you work it out,” she said absentmindedly, “and I’ll let Jeremiah know.”

“Do you think he’ll mind losing me as an exercise rider?”

“Oh, you’ll still be doing that, too, my dear,” said Devon, with a grin, “you’ll just have to work twice as many hours from now on.”

DEVON felt threatened the moment she saw the soot-covered brick building that housed Johns Hopkins University Hospital. It was forbidding, impersonal, and dark. And Dr. George Donatello’s office was no better. Painted an institutional green, the tiny room had obviously been designed for function rather than human warmth. Dr. Donatello was seated behind a scarred oak desk that took up most of the space in the room. Devon occupied an uncomfortable wooden armchair squeezed into the narrow aisle between the desk and a set of battered metal file cabinets. But at this moment her surroundings mattered little. Her entire being focused on Dr. Donatello’s words.