Where the Heart Chooses (12 page)

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He stared into Nigel’s eyes, and then
growled under his breath and left.

* * * *

The package sitting on my desk had
international postage on it. It was addressed to Portia Sebring.
Carefully cushioned inside was a ceramic arrangement of violets.
They appeared so genuine I could almost smell them.

There was a pale lavender envelope in the
center, and when I picked it up, I realized that was where the
scent was coming from. I slid a thumbnail under the flap and
withdrew a sheet of paper the same color as the envelope. The ink
was a deeper purple, and the message was written in a meticulous,
schoolgirl’s hand.

My dear Portia,

Please accept the enclosed as a token of my
best wishes on your upcoming marriage. I hope you find great
happiness with Nigel Mann.

Due to certain commitments, I regret I
cannot attend your wedding.

Be happy, dear Portia, and remember, if you
ever have need of me, Sir Joseph will know how to find me.

Ever yours,

Folana

P.S…

The post script was a recounting of her
visit home to Crete. I had no problem deciphering what it actually
said.

You’ll be hearing shortly that I’ve married.
Roderick Wood is British and he’s a good man. However, because
there are no deep feelings between us, (and you’re not to think
it’s because you’re a hard act to follow, my friend. I imagine that
one day I’ll find someone to love as much as you love your Nigel.)
you’ll also hear that we’re now divorced.

Please believe that while Roderick willingly
took the blame and confessed to adultery, there was no adultery
involved. He admitted to it simply to accommodate me. You’re not to
go after him or to send your charming (so Bart claims) brother to
do the deed. Yes, I know you would hurt Roderick if you thought
he’d hurt me. Trust me, there’s truly no need.

~ F

Why had she felt the need to marry now? I
folded the note and put it back in its envelope. In spite of the
short amount of time we’d spent together, Folana did know me well.
If I’d thought Roderick Wood had done anything to upset my friend,
I’d have seen he wound up singing soprano.

Just then, Tony sauntered into my office and
propped a hip against my desk. “Pretty.” He nodded toward the
violets.

“Yes. It’s from Folana Fournaise.” I put the
arrangement back into the box and set it out of the way on my
desk.

“Interesting. I just received a message from
Sir Joseph Bowne, asking if I might pass it on to you.”

“Oh?” I kept my response cautious. I had no
doubt it would have been encoded, and I understood why Sir Joseph
wouldn’t get in touch with me directly; that would be by-passing
the chain of command.

“Two things.
The Complex
has been
disbanded, and Folana Fournaise has purchased a penthouse
overlooking Hyde Park.”

“Hmm. While the former is very interesting,
I fail to see where Folana’s choice of abode has anything to do
with, well, anything.”

“You didn’t let me finish. That’s just the
first thing. The second is she married Roderick Wood, a British
national, in Beirut.”

“And she didn’t invite me to the wedding?” I
widened my eyes to indicate how wounded I was.

“I don’t know how you could be friends with
a woman like that.” He scowled at me.

“And what kind of woman would that be?”

“Oh, come on, Portia. You know as well as I
do that she’s one to keep her eye on the main chance. That marriage
made her a British citizen.”

I held my tongue and waited to see what else
my brother had to say.

“She divorced Wood after a few months. And
she must have paid him a hefty bonus to confess he’d committed
adultery.”

“You think she paid him?”

“Of course. What man would do that,
especially when there was no adultery involved?”

I didn’t ask him how he was sure of
that.

He continued. “At any rate, Miss Fournaise
is a British citizen now.”

“I see.” Yes, it made perfect sense. Folana
had never truly had a home. Now, it seemed, she had.

My brother worried his lip for a moment. “I
saw her name on the guest list.”

“She won’t be attending.” I gestured toward
the envelope that was lying on my blotter. “Prior commitments.”

“Certainly. Well, that wasn’t really what I
came to speak to you about.” But he looked relieved.

I leaned back in my chair, crossed my legs,
and waited to hear what he had to say.

“Portia, do you have to have those four
weeks off?”

This was an on-going discussion about my
honeymoon.

Nigel and I hadn’t decided when we would be
remarried; Mother had done that, and she’d chosen the last Sunday
in June.

“You’ll remember we didn’t have a honeymoon
the last time.”

“What do you call six months in Berlin?”

“Six and a half months.” I corrected. “And I
call it a job.” He flushed, conceding my point. “Bryan has given
Nigel the time.”

“You’re already married,” he grumbled, “I
don’t see why you have to get married again.”

“You talk to Mother about it. I’m trying to
stay out of this as much as I can.”

“But Portia, it’s your wedding.”

“Tony, if it makes Mother happy to plan this
for me, then I’m not going to get in her way.” I’d never seen her
so effervescent, and that made me feel guilty. So rarely had I—or
my brothers for that matter—paid any attention to her emotions. We
were Father’s children, after all.

“Oh, all right,” Tony groused. “Tell Mann we
have the bachelor party scheduled for two weeks from Saturday.”

“Just make sure I get him back in one piece,
please?” I saw the time. “I have to go.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s on the early
side, don’t you think?”

“I’m supposed to meet Allison for
dinner.”

“Who? Oh, your TZE sister. Can’t you
reschedule it for another time?”

“I’m afraid not, big brother. It’s actually
my bridal shower.”

“Excuse me? I thought that was supposed to
be a surprise.”

“Tony, I decipher codes for a living.
Learning when my shower is to be held is a snap in comparison.”

“What’s the point if you aren’t going to be
surprised?”

“Are you joking? When I walk into the
private dining room of Ballantrae’s and see all those balloons and
flowers and that white lace umbrella over the wishing well, I am
going to be the most surprised woman in the world!”

“I don’t understand women.” He shook his
head and turned to leave.

“But if you did, think how boring your life
would be,” I called after him.

He snorted and walked out.

* * * *

Mother got her big wedding, and as I had
warned Nigel it was a three-ring circus for the society set.
However, the expression on his face as I walked down the aisle on
Father’s arm, in a lace and
peau de soie
gown dripping with
Swarovski crystals, made it worthwhile.

“You’re overdoing it, little sister,”
Jefferson said softly as we twirled around the dance floor.

“Overdoing what?” I asked as I searched for
my husband. I smiled when I spotted him waltzing with Mother.

“Anyone looking at you would think you were
head over heels in love with the man.”

“Isn’t that the point? After all, we’ve just
exchanged vows.”

“Yes, but you’re supposed to be his
cover.”

“And aren’t I doing an excellent job of it?”
I gazed over his shoulder into Nigel’s eyes.

“Change partners, Jefferson?” he
murmured.

“I don’t know why anyone tries to dance with
you, Portia,” my brother complained as he let me go. “None of us
ever gets to finish!”

“Never mind. Dance with Mother.” I smiled at
her and went into Nigel’s arms.

“Are you enjoying yourself, darling?” He
nuzzled the hair away from my ear.

“Yes, I am. Although I must say I’d enjoy
myself even more if we were somewhere alone.”

“In that case, shall we slip away?”

* * * *

True to his word, this time we honeymooned
in Paris. While there, he took me to Jacques Ferber, the furriers
who supplied Chanel, Lanvin, and Worth with their furs, and bought
me the most beautiful lynx coat.

When we returned at the end of four weeks, I
moved into Nigel’s apartment, which was larger than mine, and we
fell right back into the swing of things at work.

After the Cuban Missile Crisis that October,
however, we realized life was too short, and on the weekends we set
about looking for our first home together. Nigel’s apartment was
fine for a bachelor, or even a business couple, but it was too
small for the family we intended to start one day.

It took months, but finally, early the
following September, Nigel and I found a beautiful, old Tudor house
on a nice-sized piece of property in Great Falls, Virginia.

“This is it, darling,” he said tenderly,
bringing my hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the platinum
band on my ring finger. “This is the house where we’ll raise our
children, where we’ll grow old together.”

“Nigel, you do say the sweetest things.” I
leaned against him. “Do you think Jack and Jackie would like to
come, once we’re settled in?”

“I’ll ask.” His arm was a pleasant weight
over my shoulders.

Between closing on the house and then
getting everything exactly right, it took longer than we had
anticipated and before they could pay us a visit, Dallas rolled
around and the entire country went into mourning.

* * * *

We learned I was pregnant almost two years
to the day of our second wedding, and we spent that summer
confronting the almost overwhelming task of finding a suitable name
for our child.

“Shall we name him after you, darling?”

“Good God,
no
!” Nigel looked
horrified. “I was saddled with this name because apparently my
mother had fond memories of a college professor. I won’t do that to
my own son!”

But he had no objection to his middle name,
Quinton. Oddly enough, we didn’t choose a girl’s name.

“You really should, Portia,” Mother
insisted. We were having dinner with her while Father was in New
York meeting with the secretary general, and the topic of girls’
names had come up.

“Mrs. Sebring, if it’s a girl, we’ll just
name her after the day of the week on which she’s born.” Nigel gave
Mother his most charming smile.

“What a very clever idea!”

I almost choked on my wine, and Nigel nudged
my ankle under the table.

Afterward, driving home in his own
Studebaker Golden Hawk, which he preferred to the Coupe de Ville
supplied by the CIA, I murmured, “You certainly have the Sebring
women wrapped around your finger. I’ve rarely seen Mother that
mellow. If I’d suggested anything as outrageous as naming a child
for a day of the week, she’d have sent me to my room.”

“Portia, you’re the only Sebring woman I
want wrapped around my finger, but I wouldn’t mind sending you to
your room.”

“Nigel, I can’t understand how you remained
single for so long, but I’m very glad you did.”

He gave me a startled glance. “What…you…I
don’t…Would you mind explaining that?”

“You’re the sexiest man it’s been my
pleasure to know.” I leaned over as close as I could, brushed my
lips over his ear, and blew into it. “Once I saw you, Nigel, I’d
have shot whoever was in my way to get to you.”

“Portia.”

“Yes, darling?”

“When we get home, you are definitely being
sent to your room.”

“Yes, darling.”

* * * *

We decided that because I’d be going back to
work once our child was born, we’d need a housekeeper/nanny, and
set about the task of interviewing applicants for the position.
They all had excellent references, but Nigel did a background check
on each of them that would have rivaled an applicant for a position
at the White House.

“This one, Portia. I think she’ll be
perfect.”

And so Alyona Novotny came to be our
housekeeper. With her she brought her younger brother, Gregor, an
eighteen-year-old who already had the square build of his Czech
peasant forebears. He came to worship my husband.

* * * *

In the early morning hours of February 12,
1965, I woke Nigel. “Darling, would you mind driving me to
Baltimore General? I think it’s time.”

Fathers weren’t permitted in the delivery
room, but somehow Nigel charmed the doctor into allowing him to be
present. He sat beside me, clutching my hand tightly, which
succeeded in distracting me somewhat from the discomfort of my
labor.

And then there was an indignant squall.

“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Mann, you
have a healthy baby boy!”

The nurses cleaned our son up, wrapped him
in a soft, blue blanket, and handed him to Nigel.

He looked down at the infant in his arms
with awe. And a single tear rolled down his cheek. “Our son!” he
whispered. “Thank you, Portia.”

“You did well, Mrs. Mann. Now, let’s get you
to your room, shall we?”

I was rolled down the corridor to the
private room Nigel had arranged for me. Once I had on one of my own
nightgowns and was settled into the bed, they allowed Nigel into
the room.

“Lovely flowers, darling,” he murmured as he
dropped down into the chair next to the bed and took my hand once
more. This time his grip didn’t feel as if he intended to hold on
to me if he had to move heaven and earth.

On the bedside table was a basket of
violets.

“They are lovely, aren’t they?” I closed my
eyes and drifted off into sleep.

* * * *

Mother insisted that breast feeding was
something we—the women of both the Sebring and Blackburn
families—just didn’t do, and since I’d be going back to work
shortly and would be unable to take Quinton with me, it would be
better to start him off with formula.