Where the Heart Chooses

by Tinnean

  “Anything that had to do with Aliens.” There was amusement in his voice.

  “Aliens? As in outer space aliens?”

  “As in the James Cameron movie.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve seen that.”

  “If there’s a lull in the conversation, just mention the subject. He’ll be more than happy to go into exhaustive detail.”

  “If he enjoys the movie that much…perhaps a popcorn machine?”

  “The kind that looks like a little pushcart? Sounds perfect, Mother.” He laughed. I loved to hear him so happy. For months after that day in September, no one had laughed. “Just don’t forget the starter kit.”

  “I’ll go online and see what I can find.”

  “I’m impressed!”

  “Scamp!”

  “I know. I have to inform DB he’s got a place to come for Christmas dinner. Thanks so much for inviting him.”

  As long as Quinton didn’t ask me to extend an invitation to Susan Burkhart, he could even bring Mark Vincent, that WBIS agent everyone was wary of, to spend the holiday with us. “Your friends are always welcome.”

  “Thank you. I love you, Mother. Bye.”

  “I love you too, Quinton. Good-bye.”

  * * * *

  Christmas was chilly, although once again there was no snow.

  Tony and Bryan had flown in from the West Coast, where they were living now. Earlier in the fall, Bryan had announced he’d had enough, he was retiring. And since he no longer had anything keeping him in Washington—he and Johanna had divorced in 1990, after both Mother and Father were gone, and he’d moved to a one-bedroom condo in Dupont Circle—he was moving to Los Angeles.

  “But what will you do?”

  “A friend is producing a TV show, CIA, and he’s asked me to be technical advisor.”

  Shortly after Bryan’s announcement, Tony made one of his own—he was leaving the NSA and moving to the West Coast as well. “I have no desire to drop dead at my desk,” he informed us. “And besides, someone’s got to keep an eye on the sprout.” He slid an arm around Bryan’s shoulders.

  There had been such tension, such distance between them for so many years. All we could do was shake our heads and be thankful they’d worked out whatever it was that had kept them apart.

  They were spending Christmas with me, and we would all ring in the New Year with Jefferson and Ludovic, who’d moved to Shadow Brook after Father passed away.

  “Thank you for coming with us,” I said as Tony turned into the parking lot of Arlington National Cemetery. Quinton and I would bring Nigel up to date on whatever had gone on in our lives.

  “We wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

  “Because it’s your turn to accompany us,” Quinton teased.

  “We love our baby sister very much,” Bryan responded. Each year my brothers took turns coming with us to the cemetery. Gregor remained home, preparing our Christmas dinner. The only year he’d joined us, he’d broken down, and so we never asked him to try again.

  “Still, if your hip is bothering you, Bryan…”

  A few years before, during one of the rare times we were all together at Shadow Brook, we’d been schooling our mounts over the jumps in the paddock, and Bryan’s had taken it wrong, going down heavily and rolling over him before managing to regain its footing.

  We thought nothing of it. “Get up, you big baby,” Tony sniped when Bryan just lay there. “You’ve simply had the wind knocked out of you.”

  Bryan tried to sit up, and then he jammed his gloved hand into his mouth to stifle a groan. Tony was off his mount and beside him, while Jefferson went after Bryan’s horse and I caught up the reins of Tony’s chestnut and led him away.

  I kicked my feet free of the stirrups and jumped off. “Ogilvie, take the horses!”

  The head groom came running out of the stable. “What…? Oh my God, Mr. Bryan!” He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and tossed it to me.

  I dialed 911 and spoke to dispatch. “This is Mrs. Mann. I need an ambulance at Shadow Brook Farm. It’s at the end of—”

  “I’m a local boy, ma’am. I know where it is. What happened?”

  “My brother’s horse fell and rolled on him.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ask him what hurts.”

  “Bryan, what hurts?”

  “H-hip,” Bryan said between clenched teeth. He was pale and sweating, and I was afraid he was going into shock.

  “He’s complaining of his hip.”

  “All right. I’ve notified Rescue, and they should be there in about five minutes.”

  “Thank you. Do you need me to stay on the line?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  I hung up and returned the phone to Ogilvie with a word of thanks. “They’ll be here in about five minutes.”

  “I’m sorry, Bryan.” Tony was almost as pale as Bryan. “I’m so sorry!”

  Bryan raised his hand, but then it dropped, and he slumped in Tony’s embrace, unconscious.

  It turned out there was some internal bruising as well as a fractured hip, but nothing major, and within the week, Bryan had been released with a pin in his hip and crutches to bear his weight. He’d dispensed with those crutches as soon as he was able.

  Tony turned off the ignition and hurried around to the passenger side to open the door for Bryan.

  “You don’t have to fuss, big brother.”

  “I’m not fussing. I simply don’t want you to fall on that pretty face of yours and break your nose. Think of the disappointment of all the ladies in Hollywood.”

  Bryan blushed but laughed. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  “No. Portia, why don’t you and Quinn go to Nigel’s grave? We’ll wait by the Tomb of the Unknowns.” My brothers always gave us that time alone.

  “All right.” Quinton took my arm, and we strolled down the path that led to the place where Nigel was buried.

  We’d ordered a half blanket of red roses and white carnations for Nigel’s grave. “It always looks lovely,” I murmured. “Well, darling, things aren’t much different from last year or the year before. The charities are doing well. Allison is still married to number five. I wonder if Chance Dashwood will last longer than the last one. Tony and Bryan are alive and well. They both resigned—I know, we were all stunned—and moved out to Los Angeles this past fall. They’re sharing a house out there, and they haven’t killed each other yet! We used to wonder what had caused the breach between them. Now we wonder what healed it. Gregor sends his regards. He misses you, darling.” And I miss you more than I can say! “Quinton?”

  “Hello, Father. This was an intriguing year. A relatively risk-free assignment this past summer resulted in me being shot for my pains. Oh, nothing serious, just a flesh wound to my thigh. That was when I ran into Mark Vincent. He’s WBIS and after your time, but I think you’d have found him an interesting agent. His partner was killed in South America back in ’93, I think it was, and Vincent flew down and took apart the cartel that was behind it. You always valued loyalty. Well, the whole family does. What else? Do you remember me mentioning Marnie, the doctor who worked for the CDC? We broke up. I dated the doctor who stitched me up last summer—I know, I never thought I’d have a thing for doctors.” He chuckled, but sobered quickly and sighed. “Our schedules just didn’t mesh. And Susan, the woman I’m seeing now? I’ll be breaking up with her next week. Maybe one of these years I’ll be able to tell you about someone I’m still with.”

  I patted his arm. It was difficult, having Sebring blood in our veins.

  * * * *

  David Brendan Cooper was a charming guest, and my brothers thought so as well. There was something about him that nagged at me, but I couldn’t pin it down and so wrote it off as DB having one of those faces that reminded you of someone.

  We had a lovely Christmas dinner, and afterward opened the gifts that had been placed under the Douglas fir Jefferson had seen was sent to Great Falls
.

  I picked up a rectangular box that was wrapped in paper of holly and ivy. “This is for you, sweetheart.”

  “Thank you.” Quinton tore off the paper and opened the box. “Oh, Mother! What an amazing DVD player! But…” He grinned at me through the hair that fell into his eyes. “I only have VHS tapes.”

  “Not anymore, Quinn.” Gregor handed him his gift, classic DVDs: Casablanca, 12 Angry Men, and Citizen Kane; fun DVDs: The Mummy, Planet of the Apes, and Lara Croft: Tomb Raider; and because he enjoyed that period in art, Impressionists: The Other French Revolution. “These are all the latest releases.”

  “No Aliens?” DB asked. “You don’t know what you’re missing! Hey, you’ll let me borrow Lara Croft, won’t you? That Angelina Jolie is a babe!” He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Mann, I wasn’t sure what to get you. I hope this is suitable.” DB had made a donation to Widows and Survivors of the Korean War in my name, which touched me deeply.

  My eyes misted, and I cleared my throat. “Very, very suitable. And I hope you’ll enjoy your gift.”

  “Oh yeah! I don’t know if Quinn’s mentioned how much I like this one movie, and every time I watch it, I make popcorn and throw it at the screen whenever the bad guy comes on.”

  We all chuckled over that.

  DB’s gift to Gregor was a GPS. “I know you’re Mrs. Mann’s chauffeur, among other things. It’s top CIA technology, guaranteed to keep you from getting lost.”

  “Thank you, DB.” Gregor held out his hand, but when DB took it, he pulled him into an embrace, pounding his back. “I don’t know that I appreciate you thinking I constantly get Portia lost, but thank you!”

  Quinton gave DB a framed and autographed poster of the movie Aliens.

  “Quinn! Ah, Quinn! Man, thank you!” DB ran his fingertips over the various signatures. “Sigourney Weaver, Michael Biehn. Oh my God, James Cameron! This is the best…” He leaned the poster against the loveseat and enveloped Quinton in a hug.

  “I’m glad you like it, DB.” Quinton patted his back.

  “Like it? I love it!” DB blushed as he realized we were all watching him. He coughed lightly and gave Quinton an envelope. “For you. It’s hard to know what to get for the man who has everything—well, a woman wouldn’t fit under your Christmas tree, and besides, you already have one. Anyway, there’s a new restaurant in D.C., Raphael’s. I’ve heard nothing but good things about it, so I thought you might enjoy a dinner there.”

  “I’ve heard of it myself. Thank you, DB.” He cocked his head. “Would you care to join me?”

  “Nah. I think you should take your lady.”

  Quinton closed his eyes and shook his head. “Please don’t say anything about this to Susan. I’ll be going on assignment next week and—”

  “You want to surprise her. Got it.” DB was so busy studying the poster that he didn’t notice my son’s expression.

  Well, it was only gentlemanly that Quinton inform Susan first that they were no longer a couple.

  Gregor’s gift to me was a small, exquisite bottle of Solo Tu, the perfume Nigel had had created for me. It had been many years since I’d been given this as a gift.

  “I…uh…I hope I haven’t overstepped…I thought you might…I know you usually buy it your—Is it okay?”

  He blushed scarlet when I kissed his cheek. “You haven’t, I do, I did, and it’s a delightful gift, Gregor.” I frowned at my brothers, who found his discomfort uproarious. “Thank you.” I stroked the bottle’s curves, opened the stopper and inhaled the spicy fragrance, and then set it aside. “Since we’re all finished, suppose we have dessert?” He’d prepared something new, almond butter-stuffed pears, and I knew he was anxious to see our reaction.

  “Hold on a second!” Gregor bounced up and put on another CD from a boxed set of music of the Big Band era, my gift to him. Nigel and I had played the records so frequently in our home that Gregor had come to appreciate them as well. “Okay, now I’ll get the coffee and the stuffed pears!”

  * * * *

  Chapter 23

  The New Year began with an unexpected phone call. Harriman Patterson, a classmate of Quinton’s from Phillips Exeter, contacted me to do an interview about my son for the commemorative issue of the school’s alumni magazine.

  “Twenty years,” he told me.

  “You’re doing this more than a year in advance?”

  “Yes. We want to do it properly.”

  “And you said your name was Harriman Patterson?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Mann. Although everyone back at Exeter knew me as Skip.”

  “May I call you back?”

  “Sure thing, ma’am.” And he rattled off his phone number.

  Quinton was still out of town, so I couldn’t clear this with him. However, Mr. Patterson’s credentials withstood Gregor’s scrutiny, as well as mine, and I called him back later that afternoon.

  “Harriman Patterson.”

  “Mr. Patterson, it’s Portia Mann.”

  “Mrs. Mann. I didn’t expect to…that is, it’s good to hear from you so soon.”

  “Thank you. I’ve cleared my schedule.” There was no need to let him know that I’d looked into his background. “I’ll see you on the fifteenth, at, shall we say, 3:00 P.M.?”

  “That’ll be fine, ma’am. I’ll be in D.C. that week, at the William Henry Harrison Hotel.”

  “Excellent.” I gave him the address and directions from the Capitol.

  “Thanks very much for agreeing to see me.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We said good-bye and hung up.

  * * * *

  “Do you mind if I hang around, Portia?” Gregor asked.

  “Would you prefer I cancel?” Even though Harriman seemed innocuous enough, I trusted Gregor’s instincts.

  He tugged on his lower lip. “No, you don’t need to…I’m just being …I don’t like the idea of you alone in the house with someone we don’t really know.”

  “Certainly, stay. Why don’t you prepare some refreshments? And try not to look like you’re more than my chef cum butler.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He grinned broadly. “We’ll keep that as a little surprise. If it’s necessary.”

  “Are we being paranoid, Gregor?”

  “I’d rather be overly cautious than have to explain to Quinn why something happened to you on my watch.”

  I rested my hand on his shoulder, startled when he blushed. But then the doorbell chimed, and I glanced at the clock. It was three on the dot.

  Gregor tugged at his suit jacket sleeves, making sure their lines were smooth. “I’ll get it.”

  “Bring him to the sitting room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He was getting into his role as nothing more than my butler.

  Within a matter of minutes, Gregor was back, a tall man in his thirties at his side. “Mrs. Mann, Quinton’s friend, Harriman Patterson.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, ma’am.” His soft voice held a hint of New England in it, and he held out his hand. In his other hand was a camera.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t permit pictures of my home.”

  “I’ll need to examine the camera. Sorry, but that’s Mr. Mann’s policy.” Gregor looked annoyed. Had he missed it? How had he missed it?

  “Sure. No problem at all.” He smiled easily and gave the camera to Gregor. “That’s a pretty scarf you’re wearing, Mrs. Mann.”

  “Thank you. It was a Christmas gift.”

  “Are the flowers violets?”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “They bring out the blue in your eyes. Are you done with the camera yet, Mr. Novotny?”

  “Almost.” While Gregor studied it, Patterson glanced casually around the room.

  “Nice room.” His gaze seemed to linger on the portrait of Nigel and me, which had been done for our fifteenth anniversary and which hung above the fireplace.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I thought we would use this room, since I keep the photo albums here. You said when you
phoned that you were interested in learning about Quinton as a boy. I must say it surprises me that you’d want to hear about his childhood years.”

  “Every alumnus article focuses on the man the student has become. I thought I’d pitch the idea of the road he took to become that man.”

  “Interesting premise,” Gregor remarked.

  “Thanks.” Patterson gave a slight smile. “I try not to do the expected.”

  Gregor returned Patterson’s camera to him. “It’s okay,” he said to me. “So you’re going to write about the time you and he went skinny-dipping?”

  “Uh…” The poor man looked disconcerted. “I hadn’t planned on it, Mr. Novotny.” He smiled ruefully as he put the camera into the pocket of his suit jacket. “I mean, we were just kids at the time.”

  “I’m quite aware of that incident,” I said to put him at ease. “Of course I would never tell my son that.”

  He had a very charming smile, and I wondered if he’d ever favored Quinton with it. And if he had, what had Quinton thought of it?

  “I’ll get the refreshments started.” Gregor left the room, and I gestured toward the loveseat.

  “If you’ll have a seat, Mr. Patterson?”

  “Please, call me Harriman.”

  “Harriman. Now tell me, how far back did you want to go?”

  “How far back do you have photos?”

  “Oh, you should know better than to ask that of a mother.” For a second he looked confused, and I patted his arm. “We took pictures from the day he was born,” I explained as I opened an album. “Our first photo as a family. My brother Bryan took this picture.” It was in my hospital room. I held our son, and Nigel held both of us. Was there ever a baby as welcomed as our son? I smiled and turned the page. “And this was taken the day we brought Quinton home from the hospital.”

  I continued turning pages, pointing out pictures of his christening, his first step, his first taste of solid food, his first haircut.

  “He doesn’t look happy.”

  “No. It was a few years before he could accept the barber shears. And I have to admit, it broke my heart to cut that beautiful hair, but it was time.”