Where the Heart Chooses Page 20

  “You kept a lock of it.” There was a curl tied with a blue satin ribbon.

  “Yes. He was getting too old for ringlets. And of course, as he grew older, his hair darkened.”

  “That’s really nice.” He seemed uncomfortable though. “I…uh…I understand Quinn rides.”

  “Oh, yes. He was going to be part of the equestrian team for the Summer Olympics in 1980. Let me get that album.” I took it from its place beside the others in a bookcase and showed him photos of Quinton at the various competitions. “Ah. This was taken in August of ’81, at the Hampton Classic. Jack Be Nimble.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The roan gelding he’s riding. Quinton named him Jack Be Nimble. Surely he mentioned Jack? He’s always been very fond of that horse.”

  “Teenage boys aren’t likely to talk about horses, Mrs. Mann.” The corner of his mouth curled into a grin. “Not to each other.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling. “Yes, I imagine you’re right, Harriman. It was a perfect ride.”

  “I’m not surprised. I…uh…I won’t ask if I can borrow that picture for my article, but would you mind if I took a snapshot of it?”

  “Not at all.”

  His interest in my son would have been flattering even if it was simply for the magazine, but I noticed how he regarded that particular picture. It was of Quinton crouched atop Jack as they took a water jump.

  “That horse looks like he’s about to sprout wings!”

  “Jack Be Nimble was a wonderful jumper.” I watched Harriman from under my lashes. “Perhaps Quinton will take you out to Shadow Brook some time to see him.”

  “That’d be nice. Is…uh…Jack Be Nimble still alive?”

  “Yes, very much so. Jack is thirty-five and white around the muzzle, but he gets around quite well.”

  “Does Quinn still ride him?”

  “No. Jack’s earned his retirement. Quinton has another horse he keeps at the country club’s stable, and we go riding every Sunday, as long as he’s available.” As an assistant to an undersecretary of State, Quinton wouldn’t leave the country as frequently as a CIA officer would. “And when he’s not, I’ll exercise Testament.” He stared at me, something in his expression indicating how perplexed he was. I couldn’t understand why. “What is it?”

  “You’re a good mom.”

  “If you bring a new life into this world, it’s your responsibility to care for it to the best of your abilities.”

  “Yeah.” He turned back to the album I was holding. “This is interesting.” He tapped a photo in which Quinton emerged from the pond at Shadow Brook. He was dripping wet and grinning through the hair that hung in his eyes. The photo was snapped just as the golden retriever that belonged to our chauffeur leaped up and caught the waistband of his swimsuit, almost dragging it off his hips.

  “Quinton was seventeen that year. We spent quite some time that summer at Shadow Brook.” Of course I wouldn’t mention that even more time was spent with his uncles at the CIA and NSA.

  “Looks like you almost got a free show.” Once again, the corner of his mouth curled up in a surprisingly attractive grin.

  “Almost.” Although I couldn’t help laughing, I was surprised he’d mention that. And then I recalled that skinny-dipping episode, and I wondered how close he and Quinton had been at Exeter.

  I wondered if perhaps, after all this time, Harriman was interested in my son in more than a purely nostalgic way.

  Quinton had dated one beautiful woman after another, and he’d just broken up with another of them. I knew he’d been with Armand Bauchet when he was fifteen, and less than a handful of other young men in the two years before he returned to the States for his master’s, but if he’d had affairs with men since then, he’d been very discreet and I’d never learned of them.

  Just then, Gregor wheeled in the tea trolley. I poured tea for us and handed the men their cups. Harriman took his Earl Grey without milk or sweetener, which was a little unusual, but there was no accounting for tastes. I knew Grandmother Blackburn had taken hers like that.

  I took the platter of cucumber sandwiches. “Have one, Harriman.”

  * * * *

  “I’ll just clear this off while you get back to the interview,” Gregor said as he gathered up the decimated plate of sandwiches and our empty tea cups.

  “I’m done.” Harriman’s tea cup was still half-filled, but I didn’t say a word. He was my guest, and I wouldn’t embarrass him by drawing attention to the fact that he apparently hadn’t enjoyed the tea. “When was this photo taken?”

  “October of ’62.” Those thirteen days in October when we’d been uncertain whether we faced a nuclear war in our own backyard.

  “So that isn’t Quinn?”

  “No, it’s his father.” I’d stopped by Langley to take him to lunch and had snapped it myself. Nigel was in shirt sleeves, the sleeves rolled up, and his vest unbuttoned. His hair was in disarray, and he looked exhausted.

  “May I?” He held up his camera.

  “Certainly.”

  “Was this during the Cuban Missile Crisis?”

  “Yes.” I was impressed that a civilian who hadn’t been born at the time would connect the two. “I can’t imagine how this picture wound up in this album.” The shadows of secrets lurked behind Nigel’s hazel eyes.

  Harriman snapped a photo of it, and then observed, “Quinn looks a lot like his father.”

  “He does.” Down to those same shadows in his eyes. “Now, what else can I tell you?”

  Harriman pushed back the cuff of his jacket and studied his watch. “It’s getting late. I wasn’t just talking about the tea, Mrs. Mann. I am done. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come across as curt. You’ve given me all the information I could use.”

  “You haven’t taken any notes.”

  “Photographic memory.” He tapped his forehead and grinned. “Anyway, I’ve taken up too much of your time. Thank you so much. You’ve been very kind.”

  “You’re welcome. Will you let us know when the issue will be out?”

  “Hmm?” He glanced from the photo of Nigel to the portrait of both of us above the fireplace, and took a picture of that as well. “Oh, yes.” He put his camera back in his pocket and took my hand. “Thank you again.”

  After he left, I crossed to the mantel and looked up at the portrait. The man who had painted it had been an artistic genius. The light seemed to reflect off Nigel’s eyes, and if you stared at it long enough, you’d wonder if he was about to blink.

  “Would it be so terrible, Nigel, if our boy fell in love with another man?” I had told him of that one day I’d spent with Folana Fournaise, without mentioning her name, of course, and he’d been intrigued but nonjudgmental. He’d also divulged that he’d had a same-sex encounter when he’d been a young officer in Seoul. Our love-making afterward had been some of the most erotic in which we’d engaged.

  Now I could hear him as if he stood at my shoulder, murmuring in my ear. “If he finds happiness, darling, and as long as it doesn’t cost him his life, Quinton can love whomever he chooses.”

  * * * *

  Chapter 24

  Quinton phoned the following week to inform me he’d returned home from his assignment and would be able to keep our riding date.

  “Shall I pick you up, Mother?”

  “That’s quite all right, but Gregor will drive me.”

  “Very good. I’ll meet you there.”

  Ken McIlvoy, who was still the head groom, led out Pyrrhic Victory. I gathered up the reins and mounted, and walked her in figure eights until Quinton was on Testament, the gray gelding he’d purchased a few years earlier.

  We set the horses to one of the trails, trotting in companionable silence for a while. Finally, I couldn’t help asking, “Why didn’t you ever bring Harriman home for a visit, sweetheart?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your friend, Harriman Patterson.”

  “Skip? I know I must have mentioned him, Mother, bu
t it’s been so long. Why would you bring him up?”

  “He called and requested to interview me.”

  “That’s odd. He’s a good person, but I haven’t heard from him in years. Why did he want to interview you?”

  “He said he wanted some information about your formative years, what you were like as a boy.” I smiled at him. “I’m afraid I must have bored him. You were the perfect child.”

  “Now, Mother.” Quinton blushed, and I couldn’t help smiling more broadly.

  “I know all mothers think their children are perfect, but you actually were. Are. You make me so proud, and I know your father would be as well.”

  “Thank you. “ He cleared his throat gruffly. “I wish we’d had him with us longer.”

  As did I. Even after all these years, I missed him terribly.

  “But why did Skip call you?”

  “The Exeter alumni magazine is putting out a commemorative issue for the class of ’83.”

  “I know there’s to be a twentieth reunion; I’ve held off RSVP-ing, since I’m not sure if I’ll be in the country next summer, but I don’t remember hearing anything about a commemorative issue of the magazine. It’s a nice idea, though. I’ll give him a call and see what the story is about that.”

  “A charming young man.” I said nothing about my impression that Harriman Patterson had a personal interest in him.

  “May I see the surveillance tape, please, Mother? As I said, it’s been some years, and I’m curious as to what he looks like after all this time.”

  “Of course. And just to reassure you, both Gregor and I ran background checks on him, Quinton. He checked clean.”

  “I’m sure he did. Skip always wanted to walk on the wild side, but he never got any further than—” He began coughing. “Excuse me, I swallowed wrong.”

  Had he been thinking of the skinny-dipping episode? I swallowed a smile.

  He turned the conversation to his breakup with Susan Burkhart. “She’s telling everyone she broke up with me because I’m the Ice Man.”

  It made sense that the offspring of Mr. Freeze and his ice queen would be the Ice Man, and while that worked to his advantage in his career, it saddened me that it had spilled over into his private life.

  “I don’t mind.” He sighed. “Well, not very much. I am the Ice Man. She had her expectations, and I’m just not the man to fulfill them.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” I wanted to find the little witch and tear her bleached blonde hair out by its brunette roots.

  “That’s life, Mother.”

  “Yes, and doo be doo be doo.”

  He burst into laughter, which hadn’t exactly been my intention, but I was pleased it lightened his mood. “If you have no objection, shall we start back now?”

  “Certainly.”

  * * * *

  Gregor was waiting at the clubhouse, reading the Sunday Post, a half-empty glass of grapefruit juice beside him.

  Our waiter approached, smiling. “Your regular, Mrs. Mann? Mr. Mann?”

  “Would you mind if we left now, Mother?”

  “Of course not. Thank you, Alex, but nothing today.”

  He nodded and went off to another table.

  “We’ll meet you at the house, sweetheart.”

  He kissed my cheek and squeezed Gregor’s arm. “Drive carefully.”

  “I’ve got that GPS, y’ know, but sure thing, Quinn. You too.” He folded the newspaper, and we walked out to the parking lot. It was only when we were in the Town Car that he asked, “What was that about?”

  “He’s concerned about the interview I gave Harriman Patterson. He wants to examine the surveillance tapes.”

  “Oh, fu-shi- dammit! He was clean, Portia!” he said. I would have been amused by his attempt to shield my ears from any crudity, but he was clearly distressed.

  “I agree, but as I said, Quinton’s concerned. Possibly something is going on at work.” I sighed. “I miss having Bryan at the Company.” I wondered if I could get any information from DB.

  Quinton was waiting for us when we arrived at the house.

  “I’ll garage the car later. I don’t want to miss anything,” Gregor said. He got out of the car and opened the passenger door for me. He’d informed me, when he’d come to work for me, that I was to sit in the back seat when he drove me anywhere, and that he’d address me as Mrs. Mann when we were in public.

  I’d bitten back a smile and murmured, “Yes, Novotny.”

  With the weather turning nippy, we hurried inside. Gregor took our coats and hung them in the hall closet, and we climbed the stairs to the room tucked away in the attic that contained the best equipment Quinton could provide for my safety and security.

  I was interested in seeing how my son reacted to the sight of his friend after all this time.

  * * * *

  As it turned, it was a non-starter—there was no reaction, because there was nothing on those tapes. They had been wiped clean.

  Gregor’s mouth was set in a grim line. “I’ve still got connections. I’ll have Steward run the tapes through some programs, see if he can find something we missed.”

  “Thank you, Gregor,” Quinton said, “but I think the Company might have something that will get the job done just a bit more expeditiously. And I’ll take the recorder with me, in case there’s a glitch in the system.”

  “All right, but I want to know as soon as you know. How the fuck…” he muttered.

  “Gregor, why don’t you put together something for lunch?”

  “Huh? Oh yeah. I think we could all do with some food.” He left the room, grousing about doing whoever had toyed with our security system a grievous hurt.

  Quinton smiled, but became serious as he disconnected the recorder and wrapped up its cables and power cord.

  “You don’t think it was a glitch in the system.”

  “I won’t lie to you, Mother. The odds of that happening are extremely remote. I don’t want you to worry until I’m able to look into it further.” He was so much like his father.

  We went downstairs, had lunch in the informal dining room, and both Gregor and I gave him every detail of the afternoon with “Harriman Patterson.”

  * * * *

  It was later that week when I received a terse phone call from my son. “I was able to get your VCR repaired. I’ll be home in a short while to hook it up for you.”

  “Very well, sweetheart.” Normally I would have smiled. Even after all the years he’d had his townhouse, he still referred to this house as home.

  I knew my son, though, and I could tell from his tone of voice that he wasn’t pleased with what he’d learned.

  “Why don’t you stay for dinner? I’ll have Gregor make something Italian.” But I was disturbed. Who was the man who’d had tea with me, and why had he felt the need to feign interest in my son?

  Quinton must have been calling from his Lexus, because not more than ten minutes later he arrived on my doorstep. Gregor ushered him into the back parlor, then stood beside the door with his arms folded, a grim expression on his face.

  “I didn’t want to discuss this over an unsecured line, Mother.” Quinton crossed the room and greeted me with a kiss to my cheek. He sat beside me on the loveseat and took my hands. “I had John Callahan run a battery of tests on that machine and on the tape. I don’t think you’ve met him—he’s the second assistant to the Chief of Internal Security. Callahan found nothing, not even the ghost of an image, but I did learn something. It wasn’t Skip. I spoke to him, and he told me he’d love to do an article about me, but the editors had nothing in the works. It was Mark Vincent.”

  “What?” Gregor’s face turned an alarming shade of puce.

  “Your blood pressure,” I reminded him.

  “Never mind my blood pressure! Vincent?”

  Quinton nodded. “Senior Special Agent Mark Vincent.”

  The man who hadn’t shot my son, but who’d been there when someone else had.

  Harriman Patters
on—Mark Vincent—had taken tea with me. He’d had the Earl Grey without milk or anything to sweeten it. His face had become blank, and he’d placed the cup down on its saucer with a carefully restrained movement.

  It was mean-spirited, but I was pleased now that I hadn’t suggested he try milk with his tea.

  “He didn’t ask about any current assignments, did he?”

  I shook my head. “I wouldn’t have discussed them with him in any event. He did touch on Harvard a bit, and seemed intrigued by the B+ you earned in English Literature your last year there, but mostly he seemed to want to know about the years before Exeter. Why would a WBIS agent want such dated information about you, Quinton? I could understand an interest in your more recent activities, but really, why should he care that you would have ridden Jack Be Nimble if we had gone to the Summer Olympics in 1980?”

  I could hear Gregor’s teeth grinding from across the room. “Does anyone know why Vincent does what he does? He’s a dangerous man, Portia. There’s very little accessible information about him. What is on record is because a second party or possibly a third party fu-pardon me—made an error.”

  “Major Drum has come up against him a time or two and swears Vincent is a sociopath.” Quinton rose and paced the room. “He’s competent, and he has nerves of steel. And he prefers to work alone.”

  “Wasn’t he partnered once?”

  “Early in his career, Gregor. His partner was tortured and killed…” Like his father, Quinton knew better than to try shielding me from the reality of life as an intelligence operative. “…and Vincent went after the men who were responsible. From what filtered back, he put the fear of God into what was left of them. Most organizations and their operatives won’t tangle with a WBIS agent.”

  “As hesitant as I am to admit it, we may have need of an organization like the WBIS.” I recalled Nigel’s words about that agency.

  Quinton smiled tightly. “Unfortunately, you’re correct, Mother. There are too many countries where life is held cheaply.”

  “And the WBIS can deal with them, because it holds life just as cheaply,” Gregor growled. “I don’t like how he disabled the surveillance equipment.”