Where the Heart Chooses (30 page)

As if to answer my question, Folana said, “A
joint meeting was being held between the North Koreans, the
Vietnamese, and the Russians, and once that was completed, the plan
was for Park to ‘visit’ Moscow.” She went on to reveal the events
in detail, and I couldn’t suppress a laugh.

“And Naryshkin truly wept?” The SRV—at one
time KGB but now Foreign Intelligence Service—agent had been
assigned the task of escorting Park to Moscow. Park’s body had been
found in the Mekong River. Because of that, things had gotten tense
between all three governments for a time, but especially between
the Russians and the North Koreans. Of course the general public
was unaware.

“Yes. Shortly thereafter he defected
himself.”

“Ah. I’d heard about that and wondered.”

“Sidorov was not pleased.”

“I can imagine. He always did expect the
best from his people.” Idly I wondered if he’d ever retire. “Did
you learn anything else?”

“Two more things. The man we’re
discussing—there was an explosion in his apartment two evenings
ago. Obviously he was unhurt.”

“Obviously.”

“There was a fatality—a rather senior
director of the WBIS. Apparently he did not like this person, and
from what I could discover, the feeling was mutual.”

“Were you able to learn what that was
about?”

“An operation that failed.”

“Hmm. And how does this involve my son?”

“The explosion left the agent without a
place to stay.”

“I’m assuming you’re telling me this because
it’s relevant.”

“Yes.” She gave me the address of where Mark
Vincent was now residing.

I was silent for a moment, and then started
to ask, “You’re aware…?”

“I’m aware.”

It was Quinton’s townhouse.

“You said two things?”

“Yes. He’s had sexual encounters with both
men and women, but his leaning is toward men.”

Generally, that wasn’t safe in this
business, but the WBIS believed its agents’ private lives were just
that, and that equation was taken off the table from the moment
they were recruited.

“According to him, allowing oneself to be
labeled is ‘for wusses.’”

“Amusing.”

“Shall I do anything further?”

“No. Quinton is my son.” To my knowledge, it
had been a long time since he’d last been involved with another
man. And Vincent was intriguing. “This is for me to deal with.”

“You will be careful, won’t you? The man is
dangerous.”

“That’s what Gregor keeps telling me. But,
Folana—”

“I know. You, also, can be dangerous.”

“Oi, Duchess!” came a shout from the
background.

“Yes, Bart?”

“Tell Queenie I sends me regards!”

She gave a little laugh. “Bart says—”

“I heard. Give him my regards as well. How
did the cooking lessons come along?” I knew she’d been very pleased
with the sword cane Bryan had sent.

She chuckled. “Now he can burn water in
French and Italian.”

I laughed myself.

“If I learn of anything more, I’ll contact
you.”

“All right, thank you.”

We hung up without saying good-bye.

So Mark Vincent was bisexual, or possibly
gay. And he was living with Quinton. I took the pins from my hair
and stepped out of my shoes.

I wouldn’t have objected if it had been
Harriman Patterson who was fascinated with my son. Knowing that it
was a WBIS agent…

I sat down in Nigel’s big recliner and gave
it serious thought.

* * * *

The next morning dawned beautifully. The
trees were starting to leaf out, and a hint of spring was in the
air.

After church, I dressed in riding togs, and
Gregor drove me out to the country club. It was a perfect day for a
ride, and I would be meeting Quinton there.

Although I rode every Sunday, I enjoyed it
most when he was at my side and we could take the horses out on the
trail together.

I’d never had the opportunity to ride with
my husband, since that was the one activity Nigel had never
mastered, much to his father’s displeasure. Nigel was adept at so
many things that I’d often wondered if his lack of skill in this
arena was because he knew it would throw a spanner in his father’s
plans for him.

I was relieved when Mr. Mann showed no
interest in becoming acquainted with his grandson, although puzzled
by it; my own father, who was not the warmest of men, doted on my
little boy.

“My father isn’t particularly fond of
children,” Nigel informed me when I brought up the subject. “But
once Quinton reaches his adolescence, he’ll become very interested,
wanting to mold him into the perfect bureaucratic drone. Portia.”
He cradled my cheek in his palm. “If anything should happen to me,
promise me you won’t allow him any say in our son’s future, no
matter what the path Quinton chooses.”

“Darling, nothing is going to happen to you,
but I promise you.” I turned my head and kissed his palm. “He won’t
be allowed to influence Quinton in any way.”

It never proved to be a concern. By the time
I did lose Nigel, his father had been dead for more than ten
years.

* * * *

Quinton arrived a little late, for which he
apologized. He tossed me up into the saddle, and once Ken McIlvoy
brought out Quinton’s gray, he mounted with just a hint of
stiffness.

“Pulled muscle,” he explained with a faint
blush.

He was his usual contained self, but a
mother knows her son. Something…or someone…had made him happy.

To see him like this—it pleased me very,
very much.

* * * *

One of the things I’d learned from my mother
after I retired from deciphering codes was to select a day during
the week that was for me alone, and for no reason in particular, I
had chosen Monday. The rest of the week was for things that were
expected of Portia Mann, the committee meetings and fund raisers,
charities and luncheons, but on Mondays I practiced savate in the
morning, spent the early part of the afternoon on the firing range,
and then a few hours in the library with a retired professor,
learning Farsi.

As for Gregor, he would accompany me,
practicing when I practiced, shooting when I shot. Once he’d vetted
the professor, he spent those hours at the library perusing
forensic journals. Always he was with me.

He looked at me thoughtfully when we
returned home that day. “You’re looking tired. Although having to
spend Saturday evening in the same proximity as Mark Vincent—”

“Frankly, I found him interesting. He
doesn’t care very much for Wexler.” The truth was it was his
interaction with my son that I thought was interesting.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better
about him? Jesus, Portia!” Gregor’s pained expression disappeared
as he blushed scarlet. “I mean…I mean…”

It never failed to amuse me, how protective
the men in my life were, even down to the language they used in my
presence, no matter how inoffensive.

I opened my eyes wide, and Gregor tripped
over his tongue in an effort to explain, to apologize, losing
track, I hoped, of the conversation.

If I told him I was becoming impatient with
Senator Wexler’s behavior, he’d lose patience himself, perhaps to
the point of doing something about it and putting himself in
jeopardy. And if I told him I was concerned over my son’s private
life, he’d be concerned as well, although he’d try to hide it by
scoffing and telling me Quinton was an adult who could look after
himself.

“So if it isn’t Vincent—”

I should have known. Gregor could be like a
bulldog.

“Actually,” I smiled at him, “I’m finding
Farsi a bit more difficult than I’d anticipated.”

He raised an eyebrow and snorted. “Y’ know,
if you didn’t want to give me a straight answer, you could have
just told me to mind my own business, Portia.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “I’d never say
anything so rude.”

“Hah. I’m going to make some dinner for you.
How about crab-tomato bisque? And I baked a loaf of black
bread.”

“That sounds heavenly, Gregor.”

He looked pleased, as he always did when I
complimented his cooking. “Now, dinner is going to take a while.
Why don’t you take a bubble bath and relax? I’ll call you when it’s
ready.”

“Thank you. What would I do without
you?”

“That’s something you don’t have to worry
about.” He shooed me out of the room.

Once in the master bathroom, I sprinkled a
handful of violet-scented bath beads into the steaming water and
sank gratefully into the tub.

I leaned my head back against a bath pillow,
closed my eyes, and breathed a sigh of relief as the tension eased
out of my muscles.

No, barring an act of God, doing without
Gregor really was one thing I’d never have to worry about.

* * * *

Gregor had surpassed himself, not that I was
surprised, and fortunately, while we dined, the subject of Mark
Vincent wasn’t brought up again.

Afterward, we sat together, going over the
week’s schedule. “Tomorrow’s meeting has been rescheduled for April
1.” It was for a fundraising committee for the 2004 Presidential
election, and word had it another senator from Massachusetts
planned to run. “Elizabeth Wexler’s youngest daughter is about to
give birth, and of course she wants to be there.”

“Another Wexler brat? That’s a real April
Fool’s joke on the world.”

“Now, Gregor…” Although it was hardly their
fault they had Richard and Elizabeth Wexler as parents, he did have
a point. Unfortunately, the seven girls all resembled their father,
and so did each of their children. If I wanted to be cruel, I could
have said that while Richard Wexler was a tolerably good-looking
man, those looks did not translate well to his daughters. However,
I wasn’t inclined to be cruel to such drab, spiritless young women.
They had more than enough in their lives with which to deal.

“That’s going to give you a free slot of
time around noon. Did you want to call the D.C. Branch of the
Alumnae of Tidewater and see if they could use an extra body?”

“That’s a—”

The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Mann
residence. Oh, hi, Quinn! Yeah, sure thing. Just a second.” He
placed a hand over the mouthpiece. “Something’s up. He doesn’t
sound good.” He handed me the phone.

“Good evening, sweetheart.”

“Mother? Would you mind if I came over?”

My heart gave a painful lurch. Gregor was
right. Quinton sounded desolate, so different from the happy man of
yesterday. “Not at all, sweetheart!”

“I…I haven’t had dinner yet. I’ll grab a
bite out before I—”

“No. We’ll have something ready for
you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t be absurd. This is what mothers are
for. Now then, when may we expect you?”

“In about half an hour.”

“Drive carefully.”

“Aren’t I always careful?” There was brittle
mockery in his voice.

“Quinton, I will not be happy if you wreck
your car.”

“No, Mother. I’ll see you shortly.” He hung
up, and I pressed the “end” button and handed the phone to
Gregor.

“What’s wrong, Portia?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.
Quinton will be here in about thirty minutes. Is there anything
left of dinner? We’ll need to feed him.”

“I’m on it.” He hurried out of the room,
muttering, “I’ll bet this is all Vincent’s fault!”

I would have smiled at that, but I was too
concerned about my son. And I’d need to conceal that. After all, as
Gregor was only too fond of reiterating, Quinton was an adult; the
last thing he would need was a mother fussing over him.

I put away the papers Gregor and I had been
perusing and began to pace the room. Quinton had been in excellent
spirits yesterday. What had occurred between then and now to change
that?

Gregor paged me over the intercom. “I’ve put
together a tray for him, Portia. I thought water might be a better
idea than wine. Where do you want it?”

“Bring it to the small parlor.” I went there
and put a Borodin CD in the player. Hopefully it would soothe my
son.

“Good choice of music,” Gregor said as he
put the tray down. “I always liked
Kismet
.” His smile was
strained. “I saw him pull up to the curb. I’ll go get the
door.”

“Yes, thank you.” And since the last thing I
wanted was for my son to realize that I was indeed worried, I
selected a photo album at random, sat down, and began to turn the
pages, not really seeing the images on them.

After a few minutes, Quinton entered the
room. There was a slight flush on his cheeks. Had Gregor questioned
him?

“Good evening, Mother.” He kissed my cheek
and sat down. “Crab-tomato bisque soup and Gregor’s black bread.
Definitely comfort food. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, sweetheart. You
sounded in need of comforting.” I said nothing more, wanting to
give him a few minutes to gather his thoughts.

He took a few spoons of the bisque, a few
bites of the black bread, a swallow of Perrier. Then he began
speaking. “I don’t know what to do, Mother.” Emotions chased across
his face. “I’ve been seeing someone since February, and we’d just
taken our…our involvement to a physical level. It wasn’t a one
night stand,” he said tiredly. “But it may as well have been. It’s
over. I came home from work tonight and found what was basically a
‘Dear Quinton’ letter on my pillow.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. But you were
involved enough to give this…this person a key to your house?
You’ve never done that, to my knowledge.” I also noticed that he
didn’t use the feminine pronoun to denote his “someone.” I knew my
son well enough to know he wasn’t coy. If he’d been seeing a woman,
he would have stated it quite frankly. Therefore…

I folded my hands and listened.

“It certainly wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve
ever done, and I can’t imagine what possessed me to give hi- to
give out my key this time.”