Where the Heart Chooses

by Tinnean

  “Jack…when I was five years old, I asked my nanny why my mother and father never kissed each other. She said it was because Sebrings love once, and only once. For the longest time I thought that meant if you loved someone, you didn’t kiss them.”

  Jack laughed. “But obviously you realized otherwise.”

  “Yes. My father didn’t love my mother. After reading these letters, I understand why she never made the effort to obtain his love. She was a beautiful woman, you know.” I was dismayed to realize I was talking about her as if she were dead. I cleared my throat. “Any man would have been lucky to have her.”

  “Portia, let me try to show you it doesn’t have to be like that.”

  “No, I won’t do that to you. You deserve to be loved wholeheartedly.”

  “Suppose I tell you I’m willing to take whatever you can give me?”

  “You’d settle for that, Jack?”

  “I wouldn’t consider it settling.”

  I put down the cup and reached for the letters. “May I keep these?”

  He sighed. “Of course. Why don’t you change? I’ll call your airline and see about rescheduling your flight.”

  * * * *

  “I was sorry I couldn’t be in the States for Nigel’s funeral,” he said as he waited with me at Heathrow for my return flight. Father’s man stood some distance away, affording us a measure of privacy. “I was helping Father with something in Africa, and I didn’t learn of it until afterward. I hope you know I’d have been there otherwise.”

  “Yes, I know.” Although to tell the truth, I’d been in such a fog of pain and grief that to this day I had no idea who’d been there other than family.

  “I liked him very much when I met him at your wedding.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. It was kind of your family to attend. I remember what a busy time of year that was for Lord John.”

  “I always envied Nigel. I thought he was a very fortunate man to have won you.”

  “We were fortunate to have run into each other.”

  “Portia, may I…may I call on you the next time I’m in the States?” he asked. “Just to take you to dinner, or perhaps a show?”

  “All right, Jack.” I did enjoy his company, even though I’d never been attracted to him. “Do that.”

  * * * *

  Chapter 18

  We lost Mother the following year. We were all at her bedside, even Quinton, whose “travels” had been cut short when we realized how ill she was.

  Mother had been fading in and out of consciousness, but at the last, she opened her eyes, gazed at Jefferson, and smiled. “Albert.”

  And then she was gone.

  “I…I wish I knew why she saddled me with a middle name like that,” he mumbled as he reached for a handkerchief. Ludovic put an arm around his shoulders.

  Bryan stood by the window, staring out onto the side lawn. “Johanna will come to the funeral, of course.”

  “Billy and Libby?”

  He shook his head without bothering to look around. “Billy’s attending college in upstate New York. The only time his mother sees him is when she flies up to Alfred. As for Libby…well, she’s in Mexico getting her third divorce.” He sighed heavily. “I’d better go downstairs and call Johanna.”

  Tony waited until he left before snarling, “What the hell was he thinking?”

  “You’ll have to ask him that yourself,” Jefferson said.

  Tony shook his head. “It’s not my business.”

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” Ludovic murmured.

  Until you got to know her.

  “Tony, do you want to inform Father?” I asked. “I’ll call the funeral home and let them know they can come pick her up.”

  * * * *

  Eight months later, on a cold December night the week before Christmas, Father passed away in his sleep. In spite of his age, we hadn’t been expecting it, so we were all in our homes when Henry Plum, who had replaced his father as Father’s butler, called us.

  Once again, Bryan had to summon Quinton home. Once again, neither of Bryan’s stepchildren cared enough to attend.

  Most of Father’s friends were gone—after all, he was ninety-five—and only a few of his colleagues were able to attend the service. President Reagan was kind enough to send a representative.

  There were four vaguely familiar faces at the back of the church, but the two men and two women made no effort to approach us. My brothers exchanged glances, and Tony went to talk to them. He returned after a few minutes, pale and his mouth in a grim line.

  “No, leave them be,” he said when Quinton, Jefferson, and Bryan would have gone to confront them. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Father was interred beside Mother in the plot of land on the farm where Sebrings had been buried since the 17th Century.

  * * * *

  “All right, Tony. Who were those people?”

  He looked tired. “Our half-brothers and sisters.”

  “What?” Bryan’s voice dropped two octaves as he tried to contain his surprise.

  “Tony, what the fuck are you talking about? Uh…sorry, Portia.”

  “Not at all, Jefferson. You saved me from saying it.”

  Tony scrubbed his face. “You remember me telling you Father was on the verge of marrying someone else,” he said to Bryan.

  “She was a Ziegfeld girl,” I murmured.

  “You knew?” My brothers looked nonplussed, while Quinton just shook his head.

  “Why does that surprise you?” Quinton came to me and slid an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t you remember what Mother used to do?”

  “You’re not supposed to know that, sweetheart.” I pinched his chin. “Apparently that young woman was Father’s one.”

  “I doubt it. He didn’t love her enough to go against Grandfather’s wishes.” Tony met my gaze. “What did you say when Father told you he didn’t think it was a good idea for you to continue to see Mann?”

  “You were aware of that? I told him I thought it was a splendid idea and that I had no intention of giving Nigel up.”

  “Precisely. But when Grandfather more or less said the same thing to him, what did Father do? He bought his mistress a little house in San Francisco and gave her four illegitimate children.”

  “Jesus, is this a mess!” Jefferson’s face was gray, and his gaze went from Tony to Bryan to me. “We could have lost Shadow Brook. If he’d married her—they could have inherited…I swear to God I’d kill to keep this house and this land.”

  “No need for violence,” Tony said. “Grandfather would never allow something like that to happen. He saw to it that his will was ironclad. Only the issue of Anthony Sebring and Mary Blackburn stood to inherit Shadow Brook. As for Father’s other family, they’ll each get a million dollars as well as a portfolio of stocks.”

  I didn’t ask how Tony knew that. When we went to see the lawyer regarding the will, it would probably turn out that he was the executor.

  “I’ve got a headache,” Bryan said. “I’m going to take a Tylenol and lie down for an hour before I start home.”

  “Bry, why don’t you stay the night?” Jefferson ran his palm over the filial on the newel post. “Why don’t we all stay the night? God knows the last thing any of us needs is an accident.”

  “I think I will. Johanna won’t ca-mind.” She’d used the excuse of needing to be home for phone calls from her children to avoid coming out to Shadow Brook. “Right now I’m good for nothing. Someone wake me for dinner,” Bryan called over his shoulder.

  “Works for me.” Gregor looked around. “I’ll go help Olive in the kitchen.”

  “It’s a good thing we all have spare clothes here.” I turned to my son. “Quinton?”

  “There’s nowhere I have to be. I’m done wandering, Mother,” he told me as he looped his arm through mine and we began walking up the stairs. “I sent in my application to Harvard, and I’ll start work on my master’s in January.”

  Well, at l
east he’d be in the same country.

  * * * *

  Chapter 19

  After Quinton obtained his master’s in Political Science, he followed in his father’s and his uncles’ footsteps, and joined the family business, the CIA.

  A few years earlier, at the age of twenty-five, he’d been given access to the trust fund his father and I had set up for him shortly after his birth. I’d also seen to it that Nigel’s life insurance, which the Company had paid out to me, was available to him if he so desired.

  Quinton bought a townhouse in Alexandria; it wasn’t too terribly far from Great Falls, and we went riding together every Sunday whenever he was in the country.

  On this particular Sunday, there was more I wanted of him than to simply take a look at the bay mare I was considering purchasing

  “She’s quite a beauty, Mother.”

  “Yes. And she’s is a sweet goer as well. Her present owner calls her Pyrrhic Victory.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “I have no idea.” I smiled and shrugged. “I do like the name, though.”

  “So you’ll buy her?”

  “I think I will. I have something else about which I need to speak to you, sweetheart.”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Alyona is thinking about retiring.”

  He nodded. “She’s told me that as soon as she could find someone to take her place as housekeeper, she wants to move up to New York to live near some cousins.”

  I raised an eyebrow, and then sighed. “She never did feel I could adequately take care of myself, and even more so after your father…”

  “Yes. I know you can, Mother, and yes, I know I saw to it that your security system was updated with the latest in Company technology, but I’d feel more comfortable knowing you weren’t alone.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know I have my share of…people who don’t look kindly upon me.”

  I felt a shiver run up my spine, but that was the life of an officer of the CIA, and even though I was long out of the game, I might still be used as a pawn to get to my son. “So you agree with her that Gregor should become my chief cook and bottle washer?”

  He laughed. “He’d hardly be that!”

  “No, that’s true.”

  Gregor had been promoted to special agent, and he had a good many awards and commendations, which he never mentioned, since he was a modest man. He’d been injured in the line of duty a couple of years ago and lost almost a yard of his small intestine. Rather than retire he’d taken a desk job in the Manhattan office. It kept him involved in all things FBI, and every day he’d take the number six subway to Federal Plaza.

  I knew from random comments that he missed being in the field, but I still wondered if he’d be willing to come home.

  “I’m just afraid he might find life in Great Falls a little dull.”

  “I’m sure Alyona thinks dull would be good.”

  “Oh, yes. She says excitement is what almost got him killed.” I remembered her telling me her man—little more than a boy—had been killed fighting with the Resistance during World War II. They’d been young and thought they’d live forever, only he hadn’t. And when Nigel had died, that had only reinforced her belief that dull was good.

  “So you’ll give him the position?”

  “I’ll offer it to him, and if he wants it, it’s his.” I glanced over at him. “Did you doubt it? He’s as much a part of the family as Alyona.”

  “He is. He’s been there for me as much as any of my uncles.”

  “I wonder why he never married. I know he’s been involved with some very attractive women.”

  “Well, according to Alyona, why buy the cow if the milk is free?”

  “Yes, she was from that generation.”

  “And no, I haven’t found anyone yet, Mother.”

  “I’m cut to the quick that you’d think I’d question you about your lady friends, Quinton!”

  “Of course. Forgive me.” He grinned and touched his gelding’s sides with his heels, and both horses broke into a canter.

  And so when his sister retired, Gregor was more than willing to take her place in my household. He became my majordomo, my butler, my chauffeur, my chef.

  What no one knew was that the former FBI agent was also my bodyguard.

  * * * *

  Chapter 20

  The year 2001 was going to be busy. Quinton often traveled to Europe and South America, but for the most part his assignments were confined to the contiguous forty-eight states.

  As for me, I continued with my charities.

  Gregor drove me into Baltimore where I was going to have lunch with the ladies on one of the charities I chaired.

  “Will you have something to keep you occupied until this luncheon is over?” I asked him.

  “Sure. I was thinking of visiting the FBI office here.”

  Just then, my cell phone rang. “Excuse me. Hello?”

  “Mrs. Mann? This is Louis Buonfiglio. You don’t know me, but I’m a friend of your son. We work together at the CIA. I thought I’d better tell you—Mann’s been shot.”

  I didn’t know him, but I knew of him. This man might be many things, but a friend of Quinton’s wasn’t one of them. “How bad is it?” In all the years Quinton had worked for the CIA, he’d never been shot on the job.

  “The wound is to his thigh, and it bled like a son of a—it bled a lot. It could have been a hell of a lot worse,” he hurried to assure me. “That bastard, Mark Vincent, was involved. Mann lucked out—Vincent’s aim was off. Mann’s at the U of Maryland Medical Center. I don’t know if they plan to admit him, but I thought you’d want to be available in case they did.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, ma’am. Keep me posted, please. If he’s admitted, I’ll drive up to see him.”

  “Thank you again.” I hung up. “Gregor…Quinton’s been shot in the leg, apparently by someone named Mark Vincent.”

  “Goddammit! Where is he?”

  “The University of Maryland Medical Center. At least, according to Buonfiglio.”

  “That was him on the phone? That son of a bitch! Sorry, Portia.”

  “Please don’t apologize. We both know Buonfiglio’s reputation.” The man was as unctuous as Uriah Heep, and Bryan had mentioned in passing that Buonfiglio’s ambition seemed to be becoming indispensable to any of the various directors of counterintelligence. To date he hadn’t been successful. I dialed another number. “It’s Portia Mann. I understand my son was brought to your ER with a gunshot wound. I want to know how he is.”

  “Mrs. Mann! I’m so sorry! Just give me a moment. I’ll see what I can learn.” For five minutes I listened to a voice telling me how important my call was, and that they’d be right with me. Finally, “Mrs. Mann? Mr. Mann will be all right. The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, and his doctor feels it was caused by a ricochet. He will have a scar, I’m afraid, but it shouldn’t be too large, and he can always have plastic surgery done on it.”

  “Thank you. Will he have to be admitted?”

  “Well, we’d like him to stay for observation…We don’t have a bed for him just yet, but we’ll keep him in the ER until we do.”

  “Thank you very much. I appreciate you taking the time.”

  “Anything for you, Mrs. Mann.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you again. Good-bye.” I disconnected the call, but didn’t put my phone away just yet. “Gregor, I imagine Quinton is going to need a pair of trousers. There’s a Jos. A. Bank on the way to the hospital. Stop there.”

  “The luncheon?”

  “It will have to wait.” I dialed another number. “Allison, it’s—”

  “Portia? I promise you I’ll be there today. The last time, Chance wanted to—”

  “No, I may not be able to make it to the luncheon. Please handle it for me?”

  “What’s going on? You don’t have a hot man in your bed after all this time, do you?”

&nb
sp; “Hardly.” I choked out a laugh. “Quinton’s been shot—”

  “Oh my God, Portia, I’m so sorry! How is he?”

  “He’s in the hospital. I was assured nothing vital was hit.”

  “I shouldn’t have been so flip…”

  “It’s all right. Allison, I know this charity is my responsibility, but I won’t put it above my son. Can you take care of it for me?”

  “Of course!”

  “That’s fine, then.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “That’s all I can think of right now. We’re going to the hospital.”

  “Just remember to call me if you need anything!”

  “I will. Thank you. I have to go.”

  “Yes, go. And make sure you give my godson a hug and a kiss from me.”

  “I will. And don’t let Elizabeth Wexler try to take over.”

  Allison laughed. “She’s as officious as that miserable husband of hers. I’ll sit on her if I have to! I hope to see you in a bit.”

  I hung up, and this time I put my phone away. In a matter of minutes we arrived at the men’s clothier. We purchased the trousers for Quinton, and then Gregor drove to the hospital.

  “I want to see the head of the ER.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Gregor tucked the box with the trousers under his arm and we went into the emergency room.

  “Mrs. Mann! It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you also, Andrew, although I could have done without this particular visit. My son?”

  “He’s doing well. However I won’t hesitate to tell you that if that bullet had been just an inch to the left, we might not be having this conversation.”

  I gripped Gregor’s arm so tightly I was afraid I’d leave marks on it. “Sorry,” I whispered.

  “But Dr. Forrester sees no need to be concerned.”