Regret Not a Moment (31 page)

“But the race is still hours away!” John protested.

“I know,” Devon said with a sheepish smile, “but I’m too on edge to sit here.”

“Leave the poor man alone to dress,” said John, filling a glass with champagne. “Here, sit down and drink this. It will calm you.” He pulled her back into her chair.

Devon took a sip, enjoying the sensation of the ice-cold, tangy bubbles on her tongue. “That’s nice,” she said.

John covered her hand with his. Devon was grateful for the contact. It made her feel better. She put her free hand over his and gave it a squeeze.

“Oh, there are Sydney and Bart.” John called to the couple, who came toward them slowly, their progress interrupted every few feet by a handshake or a kiss on the cheek from friends and acquaintances. By the time Sydney and Bart reached their box, they were trailing behind them six more of the Alexander’s friends.

Devon embraced Sydney warmly and gave Bart a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. She was glad to see Sydney. Bart was another matter. Devon admitted that he was good company and wonderful to have at parties. Women found him attractive, with his glossy brown hair and deep, almost black eyes. At first, Devon had liked him. But there was a dark side of Bart that made Devon distrust him. He seemed to enjoy needling his friends. Many of his remarks appeared deliberately calculated to create misgivings in the listener. None of his compliments were straightforward.

“You look lovely, Sydney. That’s a very slimming dress,” Bart often said to his wife. Sydney would thank him, all the while looking anxiously at others in the room. Was she anxious because she was afraid that she might indeed be too heavy, or was she worried that others had observed the backhanded nature of the comment?

Whenever Bart did this, Devon came to her friend’s defense. “It is lovely, Sydney, but of course you’re too slender to worry about whether or not it’s slimming,” she would say.

“John, old boy,” Bart said loudly now. Bart seemed genuinely to like and respect John, Devon thought. He never made him the butt of his needling remarks. But Devon was not usually spared.

“Missed you the other evening,” Bart said, turning to Devon.

“It was a wonderful dinner party, Sydney,” John complimented his friend’s wife.

“I’m sure you thought so,” Bart said slyly to John, “what with the beautiful Bebe hanging on to your every word.” He turned back to Devon with a wink. “You’d best keep an eye on this one, my dear,” he said, patting her hand.

Forcing a small laugh, Devon said in a tone that she deliberately kept lighthearted, “Apparently I don’t need to, since you’re doing such a good job for me.” She would not let her tone of voice betray her annoyance with Bart.

Instead of turning away from him, as she was tempted to do, she forced herself to go on joking and talking with him for a few more minutes.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go down and check on a few things.”

“Ah, our Amazonian trainer!”

Bart gave John a sidelong look as he said this, but John only said, “Hurry back, darling.”

As Devon made her way to the stables, she pondered Bart’s comment about John. Had it come from anyone but Bart, Devon would have taken it more seriously, but she knew that he enjoyed seeing the effect of such disquieting statements on her, so she decided to dismiss it. John had probably confided his annoyance at her long absences to his friend, and Bart was just playing off of that weakness in Devon and John’s relationship.

Devon approached Firefly’s stall and caressed the filly a few moments. She would have liked to give her a carrot, but it was too short a time until the race. Most trainers believed that horses ran best on an empty stomach. Devon had ordered Firefly’s rations that morning cut by twenty percent.

“Are you hungry, sweetheart?” she murmured, kissing the horse’s soft nose. She put her arms around the filly, and Firefly nipped her gently on the shoulder, knocking her hat off. Devon let it lay at her feet as she devoted her attention to the horse. She did not even mind when the filly left two wet marks from her mouth on the silk of the dress.

She bent to retrieve her hat, then wandered over to the small row of white-painted cabins where the workers stayed. The best jockeys did not usually live at a particular track. Many earned a great deal of money and had very comfortable homes of their own. Others worked full-time for one owner, enjoying the benefits of pleasant, free housing on some of the nation’s finest country estates. Rick McClintock was of the former breed. He had been assigned a room at Churchill Downs for the Derby, but he actually lived in a magnificent antebellum mansion near the racetrack. He drove a sporty crimson Morgan and had a different beautiful woman waiting for him after each race. He was a typical bachelor jockey. As he had come to know Devon better, he had even begun flirting gently with her, though he was careful not to overstep the bounds of the business relationship.

“Ah, Mrs. Alexander, how lovely you look today,” said McClintock as he invited her into his quarters.

Devon gave him a dazzling smile. Jockeys always amused her, with their mammoth egos crammed into pint-sized bodies. But she had to admit that McClintock was attractive. His roguish grin and dancing eyes always lit up flatteringly at the sight of her.

Devon walked to a rickety wooden chair and sat down. Rick sat in a second chair that did not match the first. Track housing was rustic, at best.

“All right.” Devon got right to the point, oblivious to her surroundings. “Is there anything we haven’t gone over?” Since the Blue Grass Stakes, she had hired Rick McClintock to ride Firefly regularly. Because McClintock did not work for Devon at Willowbrook, he had not known Firefly well prior to the Blue Grass Stakes. But by now he knew her almost as well as Jeremiah and Devon did.

“She’s been doing great with the blinkers on,” Rick replied. “They were a good idea. Otherwise, it’s like you already said. The strategy that works with Firefly is to start out at top speed and just keep at it.”

“Well, then, I guess there’s not much else to say,” said Devon with a shrug and a smile, “except good luck.”

They put out their hands simultaneously for a handshake.

“Get ready for the winner’s circle, Mrs. Alexander. I am,” said McClintock with his reckless grin.

She was. Oh, she was.

Devon felt tears come to her eyes as the crowd sang “My Old Kentucky Home”—a Derby tradition. She was overcome with emotion, not from the song, but from the occasion itself.

Devon’s nerves were stretched so taut that she could barely speak. She watched through her binoculars as Firefly was led to the starting line. Fearless Leader was already in. They both had decent post positions, which were assigned through a blind drawing.

“It’s going to be fine,” Sydney reassured her. But Sydney did not know how much was at stake. No one but John did.

Sooner than Devon expected, the signal to run sounded and Firefly, as at the Blue Grass Stakes, was one of the first to shoot forward.

“It’s the filly Firefly in the lead, followed by Battering Ram, Snowball, Sensation, One for the Money, Young Turk, and Boisterous. Fearless Leader breaks behind the field, but recovers and sneaks past Starlight and Henry’s Boy to overtake Mother lode and Lollapalooza going neck and neck,” said the announcer.

Devon sprang to her feet and leaned as far as she could over the rail of her box, her binoculars glued to Firefly. She focused on McClintock, who looked well in control. Firefly wasn’t even running at top speed yet! Devon was so proud of her.

“McClintock’s fighting off a challenge from One for the Money, trying to hold Firefly’s lead. Fearless Leader now on the inside overtakes One for the Money. It’s Firefly, Sensation, One for the Money, and Fearless Leader nose to nose, with the rest of the field a length behind. Bringing up the rear is Henry’s Boy.

“Fearless Leader surges ahead now, past One for the Money, Firefly still in the lead by half a length.”

Devon saw McClintock hunker as close as he could to Firefly’s neck and urge her forward with his crop. She sprang forward like a fury, lather streaming off her neck as she flew down the track. McClintock edged her to the inside of the track. Devon stopped breathing. The turns were tighter at the inside, but also shorter. There was more danger, but it could be the best position on the field if well ridden.

The blinkers seemed to be working. Firefly looked neither right nor left, despite Fearless Leader pounding almost nose to nose with her.

“And it’s Fearless Leader losing some ground to One for the Money, Firefly still in the lead,” said the announcer.

The gray One for the Money had indeed moved between Fearless Leader and Firefly. He pushed forward. Slim Bocaso, Fearless Leader’s jockey, fought the maneuver.

“Bocaso fights back, but he’s trapped by Sensation. And One for the Money breaks through the traffic jam and puts the pressure on Firefly. The filly’s still leading. She won’t give up! It looks like she may set a new track record!”

Firefly was galloping, galloping with all her might; Devon could see the veins standing out on her neck. She was almost a blur, she was going so fast. Her tail was a horizontal line behind her.

Suddenly a horrified gasp went up from the crowd.

“What’s happening? Firefly’s tumbling! She’s collapsing and McClintock can’t hold on to her! McClintock’s down! He’s hit by Sensation. It’s a collision and Sensation rolls over McClintock!” the announcer said, the words spilling out of him in an excited torrent.

“My God!” screamed Devon. She pushed past her friends and out of the box, tripping over stairs, people, handbags to reach the field.

Somewhere in the distance, Devon heard, “And One for the Money wins the race, with Fearless Leader in second place, and Young Turk in third. Firefly can’t get up. Sensation is up now. She’s limping but her leg doesn’t appear broken. McClintock’s still down, but he’s moving. Now he’s getting up. He’s limping over to Firefly! Firefly is still motionless.”

As though in a nightmare, Devon saw the white ambulance roar through the crowd toward the track, the moan of its siren an eerie portent of the hopeless disaster she knew awaited her on the field.

The track veterinarian was beside Firefly now. He was leaning over her, his stethoscope on her chest. Devon ran, ran as hard as she could, to the field, a small figure in red and black.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, you can’t go down there.” An arm on her. She brushed it off as though it were no more than a fly.

Sweat poured down Devon’s back. She was wet all over. Her silk stockings were in tatters, her legs cut from bumping into people and objects. She kicked off her shoes because her heels sank into the turf, slowing her down. Unnoticed, her hat was lifted off her head by the breeze. For a moment it floated on the air like a red beacon of distress.

“Firefly, Firefly, Firefly,” Devon repeated aloud to herself in a singsong chant. “Please, God. Please, God! Let her be all right,” she begged.

She was almost on top of them now. Two white-coated men were urging McClintock to get onto the stretcher. His scarlet and black uniform was torn; blood mingled with the red cloth. He was carried away just as Devon reached the field.

Devon saw a cluster of bodies surrounding her filly. Shoving through the group, she reached the horse’s side and sank to her knees in the dirt.

“Firefly!” Devon gasped. The filly’s beautiful brown eyes stared unseeingly at her.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Alexander,” said a man in black, folding his metal stethoscope into his bag. “I’m afraid…”

“No!” Devon cried.

“It was a heart attack, ma’am,” he insisted gently. He stood up, his arm reaching down to help Devon up. He wanted to pull her away from Firefly.

Devon refused. She stretched an arm out toward the filly. “I just want to touch her.”

“I don’t think that would—” began the vet.

“Fuck off! She’s got to pay her last respects.” Willy’s gruff voice dismissed the veterinarian.

Devon put her hand on the filly’s silky neck. “She’s still lathered,” she said to no one in particular, tears streaming down her face.

Willy knelt down beside her. “She gave you everything she had. She ran a good race. She would have won,” he said.

“She gave me her heart. She had so much heart,” Devon put her head against Willy’s rough denim shirt and sobbed. His arm encircled her and he patted her on the back.

“She had heart,” he agreed. “And that’s the best compliment you can pay a racehorse… she had heart.”

DEVON had never before felt such pain, but when the doctor laid the tiny warm creature upon her chest, all pain was forgotten.

“John?” Devon called weakly, eager to share the moment with her husband.

“Here, darling.” He came toward them, mother and daughter, and enfolded them in his arms.

Devon was filled with a sense of perfect love, of renewal, of happiness so overwhelming she thought it would burst from her body like a waterfall. She sighed, cradling her daughter in her arms, “A Christmas baby… the best present of all.”

“Have you finally picked out the name you prefer?” John teased. They had discussed several names—had settled on names several times—only to have Devon change her mind.

Devon smiled sheepishly. “Morgan, I think. And her middle name will be Victoria, after your mother.”

“Morgan Victoria Alexander. I like it. But what about your mother?”

“I’ll save that for our next daughter.” Devon grinned.

John looked at the wrinkled little body in Devon’s arms and was surprised by the feeling of protectiveness that came over him. The helpless little baby had depended for nine months on Devon; now she was his responsibility also.

“May I hold her?” he asked, almost shyly.

Devon looked up at her husband and laughed. “Of course! She’s your daughter, you know.”

Ever so gently, John lifted the squirming creature into his arms. Her hands, so tiny, were just visible above the clean white swaddling cloth. Little tufts of dark hair—ebony, like Devon’s—stood almost straight up on her head. Her small mouth looked like a juicy raspberry, round and red and sweet. John lowered his cheek to hers, and promptly fell in love with her.