Regret Not a Moment (46 page)

Alice and Laurel looked up from their newspapers as Francesca entered. The two old women shared the silent companionship of those who have known each other a lifetime. Alice, in her retirement, was no longer a servant, but rather a family friend. She now dined with the family, and she and Laurel spent most of their days together, contentedly sewing, visiting museums, or reading.

“We may be old, but we’re not deaf,” Alice remarked with a half smile. “Just because your mother is out this morning, don’t think that there’s nobody watching you. Sit down and have some breakfast. And don’t try to sneak out of the house without it again.”

“I’m old enough to decide when and what I’d like to eat,”

Laurel scowled at Francesca’s tone and opened her mouth to chide her, but Alice was quicker. “Not by a long shot, kiddo. Now sit,” she commanded, easily springing to her feet and taking a plate to the sideboard.

Alice’s air of authority brooked no contradiction, and with a sigh, Francesca sat down. After she had gulped down the breakfast of oatmeal, biscuits, and juice placed before her, she asked sarcastically, “May I leave now?”

Alice and Laurel looked at each other and rolled their eyes. “Not until you apologize for your tone and ask politely,” Laurel said, leveling a firm gaze at her granddaughter.

Francesca looked at the dainty old woman and suddenly felt like a boor. “I’m sorry. I was just in a hurry. May I please be excused?”

“Yes, you may. Where are you going?”

Francesca’s face brightened at the thought. “To buy Mother a Christmas present. Remember I asked you to lend me money? I have almost a hundred dollars. I’m going to Tiffany,” she announced proudly.

The two old women looked at each other in indulgent amusement. “Well, if you need a bit more help, let me know. I think I might be able to arrange another loan,” said Laurel.

“Thank you, Grandmother,” said Francesca. And with that, she rose from the table, hurriedly kissed both women, and rushed from the house.

Outside, the brisk air invigorated her, and despite the slushy sidewalks, she ran for a few blocks. It felt good to be on her own. She felt extremely adult undertaking such a mission. When she arrived at Tiffany, she passed through the doors without hesitation, but stopped short when confronted with the vast, high-ceilinged room crammed full with display cases, precious silver, clerks, shoppers, Christmas decorations, and the general noise and confusion of the holidays.

Edging toward the first counter she saw, she stopped and leaned against the display case, trying to get her bearings. Looking inside, she saw men’s jewelry. She cast her eyes about the room helplessly, not knowing where to go next.

“Excuse me,” she said to a clerk hurrying by, but he did not hear her.

Still holding on to the counter, she walked around the display case toward the back of the store. She saw key chains and silver pendants, earrings, and pearl necklaces, but she had no idea where to start to find a gift for Devon. Her eyes riveted to the display cases, she continued down the aisle.

Suddenly she felt a hard knock on her shin and collided—face first—into the soft wool of someone’s coat. “Ouch!” she cried, almost falling backward. The man reached out to steady her, but his companion, a tall, striking redhead, scolded her.

“You silly child! Why don’t you look where you’re going!”

Francesca turned an angry glare on the woman and opened her mouth to retort, but the man spoke first. “It was an accident,” he said soothingly, “she didn’t mean any harm.”

The redhead shrugged her white fox fur closer about her and remarked, “I don’t see how parents can let their children run around alone like that!”

“It’s none of your business,” Francesca cried, “but I’m here to buy a surprise for my mother, so she couldn’t come with me!”

“How dare you speak to me in that tone!” the young woman breathed.

“Calm down,” the man commanded both, with a gesture of his hand. In his other hand, Francesca saw what had hurt her shin—an ebony walking stick with a brass eagle head as the handle.

The man turned back to Francesca, and for the first time, she noticed the deep, deep blue of his eyes. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but she could not place him. Yet she was certain she would have remembered meeting him. “You’re looking for a Christmas gift for your mother?” he asked gently.

“Yes, thank you, I am,” Francesca said in her most adult manner.

The man suppressed a smile at the child’s pompous tone. It did not fit with her helter-skelter hair and pointed wool cap.

“Tiffany is a big place. Do you need any help?”

“Oh, please!” the redhead began sarcastically.

The man turned to her in exasperation, the expression on his face silencing her.

Francesca looked at the beautiful young woman, then back at the man. She dimpled and said, “I really do need some help.”

“Well, come along then,” said the man. To the redhead, he turned and said, “Why don’t you take the car back to your place. I’ll catch a cab.” And with a peck on her cheek, he left her standing in the middle of the aisle, her coral-painted mouth open in astonishment.

“Won’t she be mad?” asked Francesca, giggling.

“Briefly,” replied the man, with a dismissive gesture of his walking stick.

“You’re nice to help me. I hadn’t expected this place to be so big.”

“Well, then, let’s get on with it. What’s your budget?” he asked with a smile.

“My budget?”

“How much do you want to spend?”

“I have a hundred dollars,” Francesca said proudly, “but my grandmother said she could lend me more if I see something I really love.”

“Why don’t we start over here. Pens and stationery. For a hundred dollars, you can probably buy something very beautiful.”

“My mother would like a pen. She’s a businesswoman,” Francesca said proudly.

“Well, then, let’s have a look.”

Francesca looked behind the counter where busy clerks hurried back and forth. They all seemed to be waiting on customers. Francesca was afraid she would be humiliated in front of the man if another clerk ignored her, but as soon as he placed his gloved hand on the display case, a smiling clerk seemed to materialize out of nowhere.

“Sir, may I be of assistance?” the clerk asked with an obsequious little half bow.

“This young lady would like to buy a Christmas present for her mother,” he said, indicating Francesca with a hand on her shoulder.

“Ah,” said the clerk, turning to Francesca deferentially, “and what did we have in mind?”

“A pen?” she said uncertainly, looking up at her new friend.

The clerk reached into the display case and pulled out a gray velvet box filled with pens neatly aligned on a satin-covered rack within. “We have some sterling silver pens here. They’re very fine.”

Francesca immediately saw the one she wanted. It was silver like the others, but had an inlay of mother-of-pearl that added a delicate femininity to it. “This one looks like something Mother would like. How much is it?”

“That is eighty-five dollars, young lady.”

Francesca clapped her hands together with delight. “I’ll take it!” she cried.

“Very good, miss. I’ll have it wrapped for you.”

Once payment had been made, the clerk handed Francesca her change, ceremoniously counting out the money. “Thank you, miss. And sir, I’m sure your wife will be very pleased with her gift.”

Francesca opened her mouth to protest, but a squeeze on the shoulder silenced her. And for a moment Francesca wished so much that the clerk’s words were true. She wished this kind stranger were her father and would always be there to help her.

“Well, can I drop you somewhere?” asked the man.

But Francesca didn’t want to lose her new friend so quickly. Seeing her downcast expression, the man looked at his wristwatch. “It’s a bit early for lunch. But… if we walk very slowly and look in all the shop windows, I suppose we could delay our arrival at the Plaza until eleven-thirty. That is, it you would he so kind as to join me for lunch.”

“Oh… yes… I’d love that!” Francesca cried. Then, suddenly, she stopped short. “But… but I’m not supposed to go anywhere with strangers. My mother told me never to—”

“And she’s absolutely right,” the man interrupted. “Well, then, I shall be getting along.”

“Oh, no, please!” said Francesca. After all, she knew she could trust this man. He wasn’t the kind of person her mother had warned her about. He was obviously someone very much like her mother’s friends. He was expensively clad in a navy blue cashmere coat, and Francesca could tell he was a man of substance. Besides, she would be fourteen in just a few days. She wasn’t a child any longer!

As they left Tiffany, Francesca noticed that the man limped slightly. She wanted to ask him what had happened, but her mother had told her that such questions were impolite.

After a lingering walk around the block, the two proceeded up the stairs and through the huge brass doors of the Plaza Hotel. The man, knowing what would appeal to the youngster at his side, chose to lunch at the airy Palm Court rather than the more masculine Oak Room at the rear of the hotel.

After they sat down, Francesca removed her hat and woolen coat with its high collar. Now the man studied her carefully.

“Have I done something wrong?” the girl asked, puzzled by his intense scrutiny.

“No… no,” said the man, shaking his head. “You remind me of someone. Just a bit.” His voice was wistful.

“Who?”

“Oh,” said the man, staring beyond Francesca into the distance, “someone I knew twenty years ago. Someone who meant a great deal to me.”

“When you were young?”

The man threw back his head and laughed, revealing straight white teeth. “Yes,” he said good-naturedly, “when I was young.”

Francesca blushed, without quite knowing why.

“What would you like?” the man asked, studying the menu.

“Oh, the tea sandwiches and watercress salad!” Francesca said, barely looking at her own menu. “That’s what I always have. I love the way they cut the crusts off the little sandwiches,” she said in a confidential tone. “And, if you don’t mind, I’d like strawberry shortcake for dessert.”

Again, the man studied the girl carefully. Suddenly he said, “I don’t believe I’ve asked your name. Would you tell it to me?”

“Frankie,” she said crisply.

“Odd name for a girl.”

“It’s not my real name,” she confessed, “but it’s what I like to be called.”

“Well, Frankie, my name is John. John Alexander.”

Frankie’s mouth opened in shock. “You’re the one!” she breathed, staring at her companion with new fascination.

The man tilted his head and lifted one eyebrow in inquiry, waiting for her to go on.

“You were married to my mother!”

John was stunned. He searched the girl’s face, a face that seemed strangely familiar to him, though he could not isolate the traits that reminded him of Devon. Yet she did remind him of—no, wait. It was not so much a resemblance to Devon as to Morgan. Yes, that was it. Morgan. A fist clutched his heart and squeezed it until he could not breathe. His only child. And now, this child. Devon’s child. With the same dark hair, the same laughing features. For a moment, Morgan was not dead at all. It had all been a cruel hoax. How often he had awakened in the dark of night thinking that Morgan’s death had been a nightmare. Only to be bitterly disappointed. To realize that the nightmare was reality.

And now, this… this was like a wonderful dream. He blinked his eyes rapidly to suppress the mistiness that threatened. Morgan, still young enough to be a child—his child—was sitting before him. His eyes drank in her features. Her beloved features. But… they were not the same. His stomach plummeted in disappointment. No, it was not Morgan. A child like Morgan. A child like his and Devon’s. Only she wasn’t his. That was the heartbreak of it.

“You’re Francesca, then,” he murmured. Of course, he had read the columns announcing her birth. “I should have recognized you immediately.”

“I look like Mother?” she asked, delighted.

“Well…” He saw the hope in her eyes and did not want to disappoint her. “There is a definite family resemblance.” John took a silent inventory of her features. Yes, he was beginning to see it. Morgan, too, had been different from Devon, and yet had resembled her in much the same way this child did. “Your eyes are green, not aqua, your skin is darker, but the shape of your face, your bones, your mouth—all that is the same. Yes, there is definitely a strong resemblance.”

“But… but Mother’s beautiful, and I’m not,” Francesca said, hoping for contradiction.

Her words tugged at his emotions. She was so vulnerable. He wanted to protect her, encourage her. Give her all the confidence he would have done a daughter of his own. “Give it a year. You will be,” John replied honestly. Then, seeing the disappointment on her face, he added, “Its already there, your beauty, you just need to realize it yourself. Once you have confidence, you will be beautiful.” And it was true, he thought.

“Mother’s the most beautiful woman I know,” said Francesca.

“I haven’t seen her in so many years,” John said, thinking aloud, “I wonder if she’s changed a great deal. Of course, I’ve seen photographs, but that’s not the same.”

“Oh, Mother’s much more beautiful than her photographs,” said Francesca breezily. “Everyone says so.”

“Everyone?”

“Well…” said Francesca, pausing discreetly while a waiter placed their food in front of them. When he had left, she continued, “Mr. Wilder says so.”

“Mr. Wilder?” asked John, taking a bite of his London broil in mushroom sauce.

“Mother’s gentleman friend, as she calls him.” Francesca picked up a tea sandwich, saw that it contained egg salad, and replaced it, choosing one filled with smoked turkey instead.

Suddenly Francesca saw an opportunity to learn things her mother would not tell her. “Why did you and Mother get a divorce?” she asked abruptly.

John drew in his breath, surprised by the question and the pain it caused. But, of course, this girl couldn’t know that. She meant no harm. And he could tell that she needed to know these things. He shook his head. “There’s no easy answer to that. It was a lot of things.”