by Tinnean
“It can wait until you get home.”
“Okay.”
“Do you need a ride?”
“No, I’m good.”
“You’re not driving yourself, are you?”
“No.” I could hear the amusement in his voice. “I’ll see you in a few, Quinn.” He hung up before I could say another word.
I stared at my phone until there was a murmured Excuse me.
“Oh, sorry,” I said and stepped aside to allow the office workers who had poured out of the elevator to reach the revolving doors. They were on their way home for the day, and so should I be. I put my phone in my pocket and went out to the Jag.
As I swung into the front seat, I thought about Mark. I thought about the letter my cousin had written to me. And I thought about the home that had once been my father’s.
I put the Jag in gear and drove home.
I was about ten minutes from the house in Great Falls when I noticed the car behind me seemed to be following me. This time, I had my Combat Magnum under my arm, but I knew it wouldn’t be necessary for me to draw it. The car was familiar.
I rolled to a stop at a traffic light and glanced through the rearview mirror. The sun wasn’t quite setting, so I could see fairly clearly who sat in the front seat of the late model Dodge sedan. Although the agent behind the wheel looked vaguely familiar, he was not Matheson; Mark sat beside him, and the expression on his face was grim.
Had something gone on at the WBIS today?
What was I thinking? Something always went on at the WBIS.
The light changed, I stepped on the gas, and in a matter of minutes, I arrived at Mother’s street. As on the other night, there wasn’t much traffic. I turned the Jag into the long, curving drive, got out, and crossed to the curb just as the Dodge eased next to it. There was a faint snick as Mark unlocked the door, and I pulled it open and took the crutch, then offered a hand to help him out.
He caught my forearm just below the elbow, heaved himself out of the car, and stooped to speak to his agent.
“Thanks, Winchester.”
“You’re welcome, sir. What time shall I pick you up tomorrow?”
“Seven.” Mark studiously avoided my gaze.
I didn’t say anything, just helped him away from the car and slammed the door shut. Winchester let the car continue idling until Mark gestured for him to leave. He gave us a final look before making a U-turn and heading back the way he had come.
“I’m back to work. The Boss said I could come back, but he made me promise to ride the elevator. My people are going to think I’m a wuss.”
“No, they’ll think you were shot.” I was relieved Wallace had done what he could to restrict Mark’s activity. “Is that what you planned to tell me?”
“Yeah.”
“I imagine it’s not just the odd day here and there?” I urged him up the front walk. It sounded as if it was on a full-time basis, and I imagined Wallace wasn’t too happy about the situation either, but going up against my lover, he didn’t have much choice.
“Well, no.”
“I swear to God, I don’t know a more obstinate man.” I would have growled, but I knew it was useless.
“Who? Novotny?”
“No, you.” Why was he being so careless with his health? I was so irritated I wanted to tear my hair. I wanted to tear his hair.
“What would I do with myself otherwise?” Was that why he never took all the time he had accumulated?
I felt myself deflate. We climbed the shallow steps, and I unlocked and opened the front door. “Don’t dawdle. Miss Priss will run out.”
He entered, leaned the crutch against the wall, and removed his jacket.
I closed the door, hung up Mark’s jacket, and then hung up my overcoat. “Why is Winchester driving you instead of Matheson?”
“Something came up today. Something else,” he conceded when I raised my eyebrow. “Matheson’s going to be out of town for a week or so. So that’s the intel on my end. What did you have to tell me?”
That wasn’t all the intelligence, I was certain, but I had no intention of pushing him for more at the moment. “Why don’t we go to the small parlor? Dinner won’t be for another couple of hours, and Gregor is sure to have some hors d'oeuvres ready.”
“Okay.”
Miss Priss began winding herself in and out of his legs and the crutch, and I scooped her up so he wouldn’t trip. She rubbed her head against my chin.
“She’s a very friendly kitten, isn’t she?”
“Yeah. Even though that idiot the other idiot left her to had no clue how to take care of a cat, she behaved sweetly with me.”
“Would she dare otherwise?”
“Well, you saw how she flipped off Novotny.”
I laughed and shook my head.
We arrived at the parlor at the same time as Mother and Gregor. Gregor was pushing the tea trolley, which was loaded down with an amazing array of hors d'oeuvres—fingerling potatoes with avocado and smoked salmon, tomato-feta bites, sausage balls, marinated mozzarella, as well as a can of Coke and a glass filled with ice cubes for Mark and a couple of Pinots—noir and grigio—to wash them down.
Mother kissed first my cheek and then Mark’s, and asked, “How was your day?”
Mark shrugged. “It was a day.”
Mother raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure. And yours, Quinton?”
“Interesting.” I waited until we entered the parlor, helped ourselves to the hors d’oeuvres and drinks, and took our seats—Mark and I the two Queen Anne chairs that were side by side and Mother and Gregor the loveseat.
I scooted my chair closer to Mark’s, and he grinned at me and touched his glass to mine. “At last,” he murmured.
“Yes.” For a second I lost myself in his hazel eyes, then cleared my throat and returned to the present. “Mother, are you familiar with a Heather Snow?”
Mother’s brow furrowed. “I can’t say I am.”
I took the letter Gideon Wells had given me and reached across to hand it to her. “She was Addison Mann’s daughter.” I turned to Mark. “Addison was—”
“Your father’s half brother.” He finished my sentence, and I stared at him, my jaw agape. “What? You didn’t think I knew?”
“Everyone thought he and Father were stepbrothers.”
“‘Everyone’ are idiots.”
Mother handed Gregor her glass. “You are amazing, Mark.” She began reading the letter.
“Who else knows this?” Gregor snarled.
“How the h—should I know? The information is out there if they look. But if you mean who have I told, the answer is no one. As far as I’m concerned, it’s none of their fucking business.” He groaned and covered his face with his palm. “I’m sorry, Portia.”
‘That’s quite all right, sweetheart,” she said absently, now scanning the second page.
I remembered Mark saying that if he didn’t have me, he’d be in love with Mother. The expression on his face just then indicated he’d been telling the truth. I leaned across the space that separated us and kissed his cheek.
Mother raised her gaze from the letter. “No one knew Grandfather Mann was actually Addison’s father. His mother was a widow when she married him, and her dead husband was acknowledged as Addison’s father.”
I’d learned this myself in my late teens, when I’d found those photos of the Mann Manor and asked Mother about it. “Your grandfather left it to his younger son. Father and I only learned this after Grandfather passed away and we went to the reading of the will. Addison was a smug little worm who relied on his mother’s influence over his father to get him out of every bit of trouble in which he found himself—”
“There were difficult feelings between your grandfather and your father, and I always thought Ada persuaded Algernon to leave their son Mann Manor. I would have contested the will, but at that point, all your father wanted to do was walk away from the entire situation.”
“It broke his heart,” Gregor sa
id. “He mentioned it to me once—I think it was the anniversary of the day his mother walked out—how little the old man seemed to care for him.”
Mark swore under his breath, and I looked at him, an eyebrow raised. He shook his head.
“Nigel was a good man. He felt things more deeply than many assumed.” Mother held up the letter. “May I show this to Gregor?”
“Of course.”
Gregor gave her a look so filled with love my heart turned over. He took the letter and read it.
“I hate to say this, Quinn,” Mark said as he raised his glass of soda to his lips, “but you didn’t luck out in the grandfather department. One started a whole new family when he should have kept his dick tucked in his trousers and the other cut off his son at the knees. And Portia, I’m not even going to apologize this time.”
“It isn’t necessary, Mark. The one intriguing thing was that Algernon Mann put a stipulation in his will that the manor was not to be disposed of in any manner whatsoever. If Addison no longer wanted it, it and its contents were to be donated to the Animal Welfare League of Arlington.’’
“I bet that burned his butt,” Mark observed with inordinate pleasure. I knew him well enough to be able to tell he’d have liked nothing better than to seriously hurt Addison Mann. It was a good thing my… uncle? Oh, Jesus, I had another uncle! “So I’m assuming he held on to the manor.”
“Yes. He passed away in 1993, when his daughter was twenty. All he had to leave her was the manor.”
“All? You’re talking about a six thousand square foot house with six bedrooms, six and a half baths, servants’ quarters up in the attic, and outbuildings.”
“I’m not even going to ask how you’re aware of that, Mark.”
He just grinned at me.
“She sounds like a nice woman, Quinn.” Gregor handed me the letter. “What happened to her?”
“According to the police report, she was killed when a vehicle fleeing the scene of a drive-by shooting in Savannah ran her down.”
“Wrong place, wrong time?”
“I’m afraid so.” I looked down at the typewritten letter and began to read aloud.
Dear Quinton,
This is going to come as a shock to you, but I am your cousin. Geez, I sound like Darth Vader.
Sorry. My ex-husband didn’t have any use for my sense of humor, among other things.
The fact of the matter is I’m your father’s stepbrother’s daughter…
“Well, I like this woman’s sense of humor,” Mark said. “I could get to like her. Too bad she’s dead.”
Yes, it was too bad.
“Apparently Addison never told her he and Father were actually half brothers.” I resumed reading.
I have no idea why your grandfather left the house to Dad. Dad hated it and would have sold it to spite his stepfather if he could have gotten around that codicil.
He couldn’t, so when he died, it came to me.
The thing is, I kind of like the house, which is why I’ve kept it all these years in spite of the fact it costs an arm and a leg to heat, the windows need to be replaced, and I think there’s a family of squirrels living in one of the attics.
In the event of my death, I’m returning ownership of Mann Manor to its rightful owner: you or your heirs. I’m not morbid enough to make out my will at the age of twenty-five for no good reason—
I paused to explain. “According to Gideon Wells, she went to see him a little over five years ago to have him draw up her will.”
“Gideon Wells?”
“My lawyer. Our lawyer, if we should chance to need one, Mark.”
“Not likely, but go on.”
—but I was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1997. Talk about rotten luck, cuz: it runs in my mother’s family. Since most of my aunts and cousins have passed the five year survival point, I don’t see why I shouldn’t either, but to be on the safe side, I want to make sure you get this house. I don’t want to saddle my kids with it, when I have them, because frankly, Mann Manor is a money pit. In addition to the heat, windows, and squirrels, it will cost the earth to be renovated and restored. Dad said your mom comes from a wealthy family, so maybe that won’t be a problem for you, if that’s what you choose to do.
I’ve followed you in the newspapers and seen photographs of you attending charity affairs and political functions. You’re very good looking, you know... I’d have liked to date you. And we aren’t blood relations, so no one could object.
“I’d object.” Mark growled. “Okay, I take it back. I don’t like this woman.”
“She’s dead, Mark.”
“You think that makes any difference? Now I have to go check out the clowns who ran her down.”
“I’m not following you.”
“She’s your family, babe.”
Mother rose, crossed to Mark, and bent to kiss his cheek. “You’re a very good man, Mark.”
Gregor shook his head. “I’ve got to get dinner started.” He piled his plate with hors d’oeurves and looked down at the kitten. “Come on, Miss Priss. I’ll feed you.”
The kitten meowed in apparent agreement, and they left the room.
“You were right, Quinton.” Mother retrieved her glass, which Gregor had placed on an end table, and took a sip of her wine. “You did have an interesting day. When do you get the keys?”
I dug into my pocket and took out a ring with half a dozen or so keys on it. “Shall we pay a visit on the weekend and see just how much of a white elephant I’ve inherited?” I asked Mark.
“I guess so.”
“Mother, will you and Gregor join us? We could stop first at Charmaine for brunch.”
“I believe we will, sweetheart.” She smiled at us. “I think I’ll keep Gregor company in the kitchen. I’ll leave the remainder of the hors d’oeurves for you.”
“Thank you.”
She left the room.
“How do you feel about having a house, Quinn?”
“It’s fortuitous. We’ll have to see what needs to be done, and how soon we’ll be able to move in.”
“I guess. Want one of these salmon things?”
“Yes, please.” I didn’t take an immediate bite. “Something’s bothering you.”
“You’re sure you want me to—”
“Move in with me? I thought we sorted that out. Of course I do.”
“In a place we were buying together. But this house is yours.”
“Yes, and? I’m sorry, Mark, I’m not following you.”
He blew out a breath, something he seemed wont to do lately. “I won’t feel as if I’m pulling my own weight.”
“I’m fairly sure you will. In fact, if what my cousin wrote is anywhere near the truth, we might have to take out a mortgage to cover everything that needs to be done to it.”
“You think?”
“Yes. Promise me you won’t freak out if it turns out we’re mortgaging our souls.”
“I don’t have one to worry about.” He leaned forward as if to kiss me, but took a bite of the “salmon thing” in my hand instead. “These really are good.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “They are, aren’t they?” I finished it. “What plans for tonight?”
He took another of the hors d’oeuvres, studied it for a moment, then shrugged. “I need to do a little research. You?”
“I’ll probably visit the hospital. I need to find out when DB will want me to book the flight to Las Vegas, as well as the wedding chapels and a luxury suite—in New York-New York, I thought. That’s going to be my wedding gift to them.”
“Nice.” He stroked my arm. “Then what?”
“Well, I was thinking of offering him my place when he and his ladies come back from their honeymoon. That will give them time to find a home of their own.”
“Good idea. So you’ll be staying at my condo.”
“Yes.”
“Cool. What are you going to do with all your furniture?”
“I thought I’d put it into st
orage, except for the piano.”
“Very cool. Give me a hand, will you?” He held out his hand.
“Mark? What’s wrong? Are you all right?” I took his hand, but before I could help him up, he pulled me down onto his lap. “Did I hurt you?”
“Yes, you hurt me. I didn’t even get a kiss when we walked through the door.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” I relaxed and nuzzled his lips. “God, I love you, Mark.”
“Love you too, babe. Honey, I’m home,” he murmured against my mouth.
“Always.”
Epilogue
The reunion for the Phillips Exeter class of 1983 was being held in the Mason-Gorges Assembly Hall in Concord, New Hampshire. The dress, of course, was formal.
Mark and I had flown up to Concord the afternoon before, checked into Demerit Bed and Breakfast, and spent a few hours touring historical sites. After dinner at a Japanese steakhouse, we’d returned to the B&B, unlocked the door to our adjoining rooms, and stripped.
I stroked the scars on Mark’s thigh. They had healed well, and in a short amount of time—perhaps not very surprising, considering who he was—he’d been back to using the stairs at the WBIS.
But oddly enough, they were extremely sensitive, and he shuddered and bit back a moan as I caressed them with lips and tongue.
Now, however, it was time for the reunion.
“Nervous, babe?” I asked as we entered the lavish building.
“Why should I be?” Mark straightened the sleeves of his tux, tugged at the hem of his jacket, and gave me a cool smile. “I’m the one you’re here with.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Quinton? Quinton Mann? My God, it’s so good to see you!” The man who greeted me was about my height, had light brown hair and blue eyes. He seized my hand in a snug grip and shook it enthusiastically. “It’s been too long.”
Mark scowled and moved to stand between us. “You know this clown, Quinn?”
“I do, Mark.” I struggled to swallow my grin.
“This clown” had been a very close friend during my days at Phillips Exeter. As a matter of fact, he and I had gone skinny dipping—and a bit more—back in the day. It had been more than fifteen years since I’d seen him, although I spoke with him on the phone occasionally. In the ensuing years, he had put on a little weight, and his hairline had started to recede. Perhaps that was why Mark—who had introduced himself to Mother in January of last year as this particular friend—didn’t recognize him. I rested my hand on Mark’s sleeve.
