Regret Not a Moment (44 page)

“If you keep pestering me, Jesse Washington, I’ll punch you as hard as any boy. Now, let’s race, and you don’t have to give me a head start!”

Jesse leaned over. “On your mark… get set…”—he paused a moment to heighten the suspense—“go!”

Jesse did not give Francesca a head start, but he did let her carry the lead until almost the end. Then he beat her by a small margin. He wanted to be kind, but he didn’t want to lose.

“HOW do you think he’s doing?” Jeremiah asked Willy, nodding toward the young jockey circling Willowbrook’s track on Royal Flush. The two men leaned on the white fence in identical poses, elbows on the top rail, left foot on the bottom.

“The horse is better’n the boy,” Willy grumbled. “Lad’s cocky. Horse too. But the horse is entitled.”

Jimmy Pritchard was a daring jockey. He took chances many others would not. But he did not alter his strategy to suit the horse; rather, he tried to make the horse suit his style of riding—all-out war in the roller-derby tradition. He had won a number of races for Willowbrook, but Jeremiah was concerned that his boundless daring was too undisciplined.

“He’s hard to control,” Jeremiah said with a philosophical sigh, pushing himself away from the fence.

“Won’t do,” said Willy in his usual curt fashion, turning his back to the man on horseback.

“You don’t like him, do you?” Jeremiah asked, studying the older man’s profile as they walked toward the barn. Willy was approaching eighty, but his posture was as erect and his manner as alert as that of a much younger man. Jeremiah knew that one day he would inherit Willy’s title of head trainer for Willowbrook, but he was not eager to see the old man go. Jeremiah had learned that Willy’s instincts were rarely wrong, and he relied on those judgments to guide him.

Willy snorted in reply to Jeremiah’s question. “Who cares anything about like?” he said derisively. “It’s simple. A boy who thinks he’s too good to listen to his boss is going to make a serious mistake one day. Can’t afford that kind of attitude.”

Jeremiah nodded in agreement. But Pritchard was good and he hated to lose him. “I’ll try to talk to him…” Jeremiah said, thinking aloud.

“Won’t get you anywhere with a mule like that one. He’s the kind won’t take orders from you and you know it.” Willy stopped walking and gave Jeremiah a significant look.

“Because I’m colored, you mean.” Between him and Willy there were no words minced. They were color-blind to each other, but they were aware of the views of society.

“Yup,” said Willy, shoving his hands into the worn pockets of his jeans and looking directly at the younger man.

“Well… I’d hate to give up on him.” Jeremiah ran his hand over his face, struggling with indecision. “He’s got guts, Pritchard does.”

“Yeah, and he needs a good kick in ’em. Or lower,” Willy grumbled.

Jeremiah smiled at the older man’s words. He had not acquired Willy’s ability to command others. As a jockey, he had been guided by Devon and Willy. When he had issued orders, it had been to an animal, not a person. Now, suddenly, he found himself in command of five young men who treated him with varying degrees of deference. He knew it was difficult for the four who were white to look upon him as a superior, despite his celebrity status in the racing world. It was the same old story, he thought with resignation. There were Negro athletic stars, but no Negro coaches. He had been able to overlook such injustices much of his life, insulated as he had been from prejudice in the safe cocoon of Willowbrook. But he knew that had it not been for the immense influence of Devon and Willy, he would not have been permitted to become a top-flight jockey.

Now, though, Jeremiah knew he would have to command respect as a man, not just as an athlete. And he had to start with Jimmy Pritchard.

“I’ll give him one last chance,” Jeremiah told Willy.

“He won’t thank you for it,” Willy warned Jeremiah, “and he won’t respect you either.”

“All the same…” Jeremiah turned his hands palms up and shrugged his shoulders. The two men stopped in front of Willy’s office.

“Comin’ in?” Want a drink?”

Jeremiah chuckled, marveling at the old man’s ability to drink whiskey on a hot afternoon yet continue working until nightfall. “No, thanks. See you later.

Devon looked up from the accounts ledger as Willy came through the door. Reading the look of disgust on the old man’s face, she asked, “Trouble?”

“Pritchard.” Willy didn’t need to say more. He and Devon, after more than twenty years’ collaboration, communicated in a virtual Morse code of monosyllables.

The old man opened the top right-hand drawer of his big scarred oak desk and took out a bottle of whiskey. “Drink?”

“A drop,” said Devon, from her own identical desk. She took a cheap tumbler half filled with water and handed it to Willy.

Willy tipped the bottle to her glass, then took a shot glass from the open drawer of his own desk. He carefully filled it as full as he could without it overflowing, then recapped the bottle and put it back in the drawer. He never had more than a single shot of whiskey in the afternoon, but he never failed to adhere to the ritual.

“What’s Jeremiah going to do about him?” Devon asked, leaning back in the old swivel chair and cradling her neck in her hands behind her head.

Willy sat on his desk, his legs on his chair before him. “Says he’s goin’ to try to talk to him.”

Devon crossed one denim-clad leg over the other. “Probably won’t work.” She sighed.

“That’s what I say.” Willy lifted the dusty old Brooklyn Dodgers cap off his head and laid it on the desk top beside him. It was not the same hat he had worn twenty years before, but it was identical.

“I suppose a jockey as good as Jeremiah only comes along once in a while,” Devon said with resignation.

“S’pose so,” Willy agreed.

Devon turned back to the ledger while Willy took his seat at his desk. They worked for a few moments in silence until the ringing of the old black telephone on Devon’s desk interrupted them.

“Is it already so late?” Willy heard Devon exclaim. “I’ll be right there, Mother.”

Devon replaced the receiver, stood up, and turned to Willy. “You’re coming to Alice’s birthday party, aren’t you? It’s an important one.”

“Eightieth, right?” Willy asked over his shoulder.

“Right.”

Willy said thoughtfully, his back still to Devon, “Fine-lookin’ woman for eighty.”

Devon stared at him and raised an eyebrow. “Did I hear correctly?” she asked in mock astonishment. “Did you actually just pay someone a compliment?”

“Don’t start cacklin’,” Willy said gruffly. “And, yeah, I’ll be there.”

Francesca knocked at her grandmother’s door. “Grandmother?” she called softly.

“Come in, dear!” Laurel’s voice, still musical, carried through the heavy wood of the closed door.

Francesca opened the door and stood shyly just inside.

“Don’t you look lovely!” her grandmother exclaimed.

Francesca smiled. Her grandmother always said she looked lovely.

“Come here and let me have a good look at you,”

The girl obeyed, crossing the polished plank floor to the delicate fruitwood vanity where her grandmother sat applying the finishing touches to her makeup. Francesca adored her grandmother, and was in awe of her femininity. Her grandmother always smelled deliciously of orange blossoms—everything about her was soft and sweet and soothing. Even her room—decorated in watercolor hues of blue, gray, and lavender—had an atmosphere of peace and comfort. Laurel herself was dressed in a gown of silvery gray silk whose luster reflected her snowy white hair.

“Turn around slowly,” Laurel told her granddaughter.

Francesca complied, holding out the full skirt of the pink linen dress. “Mother let me wear stockings and high heels!” she breathed, stunned herself by the transformation the new privilege had wrought on her appearance. Suddenly she didn’t feel at all tomboyish. She felt almost pretty.

“With your hair pulled into a chignon like that, you look quite grown-up.” Laurel smiled, taking her granddaughter’s hands in hers.

Francesca hugged her grandmother, elated at being told she looked grown-up. “I’m so glad you came to live with us!” she said, holding her grandmother close.

“I am, too, dear. I’d have been very lonely at Evergreen without Chase.”

Francesca pulled back and studied her grandmother. “Do you miss Grandfather all the time?”

A misty smile crossed Laurel’s face and it seemed that she forgot Francesca’s presence for a moment. In a wistful voice, she finally replied, “We were together sixty years…”

“Sixty years!” Francesca repeated in awe. “That seems like forever.”

“It passed so quickly,” Laurel said from her reverie.

Francesca was silent. From the expression on her grandmother’s face it seemed that the old woman was reliving a happy memory—one that Francesca was hesitant to interrupt.

Suddenly Laurel shook her head brusquely and stood up. “Sometimes I forget that he’s gone. Sometimes I feel his presence so strongly…”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Francesca asked in wonder, following her grandmother into the huge walk-in closet.

Laurel turned on the light, then sat on a small bench along the wall opposite the door. Above the bench was a shoulder-high shelf of neatly arranged shoes. Laurel took a moment to contemplate Francesca’s question. Finally, she said, “Once I would have told you absolutely not. But now… I suppose as one grows older one hopes for a spiritual afterlife. Not ghosts exactly, but…”

Francesca sat on the polished wood floor in front of Laurel. “Grandmother, are you afraid to die?”

“Yes, in a way,” Laurel answered honestly. “On the other hand, I feel so strongly that I would like to rejoin your grandfather. Maybe in death such a thing is possible.”

“I hope it is,” Francesca said fervently, “because then I could see my father, too!”

Laurel smiled down at her granddaughter affectionately. “I’m sorry you never knew him. I didn’t either. He was a hero, though, and a wonderful man, I know that much. And, one day, I hope you’ll marry a man just as wonderful.”

“Oh, I’m not going to marry,” Francesca said in the most sophisticated voice she could muster. “That’s for silly girls! I’m going to become a famous jockey instead!”

Laurel stood up and turned toward the shelf of shoes to hide her smile. She selected a pair of silvery peau de soie pumps and sat back down on the bench, addressing her granddaughter as she placed the shoes on her feet. “You’re not fond of boys then?” she asked mildly.

“Boys are okay,” Francesca said indifferently, “it’s girls who are so silly.”

“Well, then, it seems to me that you would be very happy spending your life with a boy… er… man, I should say.”

Francesca’s face crinkled into an expression of frustration. “Yes, but boys don’t like girls like me. They like girls like Melissa Parrish or Kendra Wilkes. Girls who wear dresses all the time and… well… you know what I mean!”

Laurel laughed softly and stood up, waiting until Francesca did the same. “You are a very beautiful young lady, Francesca, though you may not know it yet. Just wait a year or two. You’ll have so many boys interested in you, you won’t know what to do.”

With those words, Laurel swished out of the closet, skirts rustling behind her. Francesca followed more slowly, and just before she turned off the light, she paused at the mirrored door and peered into it. She saw a long-legged girl with strong features, thick curly hair, and slanting green eyes. What she wished she saw was a petite, curvaceous blonde with straight, shiny hair, a pert upturned nose, and round blue eyes. Grandmother was so wrong! She just didn’t know what boys liked!

“MOM, that’s the man you were married to before Father, right?” Francesca asked, peering at the old black-and-white photograph in the display case. Francesca and Devon, in Saratoga Springs for the August racing season, were visiting the National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame, first opened two years before. The museum’s curator—who knew Devon well from her fund-raising activities on behalf of the institution—had recently telephoned her to ask for help in compiling a series of old photographs. She had forwarded several dozen from her early racing years, and was surprised to see that almost all of them were prominently displayed.

Now Francesca was carefully studying a photograph of John Alexander, one arm around Devon, one holding the lead of a racehorse.

Devon remembered that time so vividly. The strife between her and John, the many disputes, the struggles with Willy. None of that was apparent in the photo. They looked loving and carefree.

“Yes,” Devon murmured to her daughter, “that was my first husband.”

“John Alexander. How come I’ve never met him?”

“He lives in Geneva, dear. He does something very important for the government.”

“Doesn’t he ever visit here?” Francesca persisted.

Devon shrugged. “I don t know.”

“He was very handsome. Was Daddy as handsome?”

“Different. Your father was darker, and he had tremendous charm. Certainly he was handsome. But you’ve seen pictures of him,” Devon said softly.

Francesca turned and looked directly at her mother’s profile. “Which husband did you love best?”

The question took Devon aback. She did not know how to answer. Turning away from the display case, she said, “I loved them both with all my heart, but in different ways.”

“If you loved Mr. Alexander with all your heart, why didn’t you stay married to him?”

Devon tried to remember back to the time before her divorce. They had fought. About what? What had been so important that it couldn’t be resolved? When had their disagreements grown greater than their love? “I…” Devon struggled to answer her daughter. “I’m not sure exactly what happened, to be honest. Sometimes, things just make you grow apart.”

“Was he mean to you?”

Devon chuckled at the question. “No, of course not,” she replied. “He was the kindest of men. He just wanted different things out of life than I did.”

“Did he get them?” Francesca asked.

Devon reflected for a moment on the question. John had put his New York business interests in trust to accept a career in what was obliquely called “government.” That image did not fit with the one Devon had had of him during their marriage. He had always been a hard worker, but not a man thoroughly absorbed by his work. Play had been equally important. The little she knew of his career since the war led her to believe that he had changed. Yet she still saw his name coupled in society columns with those of beautiful women much younger than he.