Where the Heart Chooses (16 page)

“Of course not.” Two months after I lost
Nigel, Johanna had gone into premature labor that had resulted in
an emergency C-section. The tiny boy had too much against him, and
my brother held his son as he took his last breath.

“I’m not talking about losing Bryan Anthony,
although it’s unfortunate Johanna can’t seem to carry to term.”
There had been four miscarriages, and Bryan had been so hopeful for
this pregnancy when his wife made it past the fourth month. “He
thinks he’s concealing it, but I’m his mother. As little as he
might think it, I can see…” Mother briskly changed the subject. “If
you want to get here at a reasonable hour, I’d better let you
go.”

“All right. Thank you, Mother. We’ll see you
in a few hours.” I hung up just as Gregor walked in.

“All set, Mrs.—Portia. We just have to stop
by a friend’s and borrow his pickup truck.” He handed me the lynx
coat that Nigel had given me. “I realized the kind of trees Mrs.
Sebring has would dwarf a wagon.”

“Whatever you think, Gregor. However,
there’s been a slight change of plans. We’ll be staying at Shadow
Brook overnight.”

“Okay. Give me two minutes to pack.” After
Nigel…Nigel died, Gregor had moved some clothes back into the room
that had always been his.

“You’ll need a suit for dinner.”

“Right. Make that five minutes.”

And five minutes later, we left.

* * * *

“Have you met anyone in New York, Gregor?” I
asked after we’d been on the road a little while.

“Yeah.” He flashed me a grin. “It’s nothing
serious yet.”

“What’s her name? What does she look
like?”

“Her name is Virginia, and she’s
five-foot-eight, brown hair, and blue eyes. And she’s a field
agent.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Well, like I said, it’s early days yet.
Please don’t tell Alyona! She’ll be marching me down the aisle
before Christmas.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“So…uh…how are you, Portia?”

“I’m fine.”

After a long moment of silence, he said, “I
miss him, you know. When Jeff sent me word of the crash…Oh God, it
felt like someone reached in and tore my heart out.”

“Yes,” I said softly. I still felt like
that.

“Alyona was the only family I had for the
longest time. Our parents never make it out of Czechoslovakia.” For
the first time his accent was obvious. “She like mother to me more
than sister. Finally we get to United States. Cousins in New York
let us stay with them.” He cleared his throat, and his accent was
gone. “They did what they could for us, but times were tough, and
even with Alyona working two and three jobs, it was hard to make
ends meet. I told her I’d quit school and get a job, but she
wouldn’t let me. And then you and Mr. Mann hired her.” He glanced
at me. “It was your father’s doing. One of her jobs was as a maid
in the Roosevelt Hotel.”

I didn’t say anything to let him know I was
aware of this.

“You hired her, and you let me come along.
Just an eighteen-year-old kid. Most people wouldn’t have taken on
an extra mouth.”

“Ah. So you’re the reason why our grocery
bills jumped that year. I was certain it was being pregnant.” As
I’d hoped, that made him laugh.

“I’d have done anything for you or him or
the baby. Mr. Mann used to slip me a few bucks so I could go out
with the guys on Saturday night.”

“You were more than worth it. You worked on
Nigel’s car so that it ran better than when the Company had it
brought in for a tune-up. You were wonderful with Quinton—” He made
a scoffing sound, and I reached across the seat and touched his
arm. “Yes, you were. Not many young men that age would have the
patience to take care of an infant, to change his diaper, or feed
him when Alyona had to prepare dinner. And last February…” It would
have been Nigel’s fiftieth birthday, and I’d been planning the
party for months. “You took personal time to be there for Quinton,
and I can’t thank you enough for that.”

He started to say something, but then shook
his head. “We’re all family now.”

“Yes, we are.” And I leaned across the seat
again, this time to brush a kiss over his cheek.

* * * *

Quinton returned home for the Christmas
vacation, and I saw his relief when he walked into the morning room
and found the ten-foot tall tree there, as it had been every
Christmas.

“It’s lovely, Mother.” He came to me, put
his arm around my shoulders, and leaned his head against mine. When
had he become so tall?

“I think…I think I want to visit Arlington
on Christmas Day,” I told him. “I didn’t have last Christmas with
your father.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll go with you.”

* * * *

And so began a tradition we honored every
Christmas after.

* * * *

Quinton’s dreams of participating in the
1980 Summer Olympics were on the verge of being fulfilled—we were
notified that he’d been selected for the Three Day Equestrian
Event.

He and Andrew Gallagher, his coach, worked
unceasingly with Jack Be Nimble and Quasimodo, the geldings who
were going to accompany Quinton to Moscow.

Andrew and I leaned against the rails of the
indoor ring, watching as Quinton set Jack Be Nimble to trotting
forward and sideways in a half-pass across the tanbark.

“Poetry in motion. Y’ know, Mrs. Mann, I
think he and the team have a good chance of bringing home a
medal.”

I was so proud to hear that. Quinton worked
so hard…

Then, on March 21, those dreams were dashed
when the Carter Administration decided to boycott the games to
protest the USSR’s invasion of Afghanistan.

* * * *

“Stupid government,” Alyona grumbled one
evening as she was clearing off the dinner table. “Missus, what we
do for Quinton?”

The spring term had started, and he was back
at Phillips Exeter. Although he’d put on a brave front, I’d
detected how disappointed he was by this turn of events. The last
thing I wanted was for my son to brood over missed
opportunities.

“What’s the condition of the wine cellar,
Alyona?”

She frowned at me. “Is almost empty. You
know.”

“Yes.” I’d sponsored a number of charity
auctions and had offered bottles of Chateau Margaux. “I imagine a
wine-buying trip is called for.”

A smile bloomed over her face. “You make
arrangements. When is time, I pack for you and Quinton.”

* * * *

The school year was over, and Quinton was
home.

“Would you mind going for a ride with me,
sweetheart?”

“Not at all, Mother.”

Jack Be Nimble and Quasimodo were both at
Shadow Brook, and Penelope had long since been put out to pasture,
but the country club had a decent stable, and I’d often used one of
their horses with pleasant results.

We changed into riding clothes and drove
there. The weather was lovely, and a number of the horses had been
taken out.

“Mrs. Mann! It’s good to see you! And who’s
this young man?”

“This is my son, Quinton. Quinton, Ken
McIlvoy, who’s recently taken over the stable. He does an excellent
job running it.”

“Mr. McIlvoy.” Quinton offered his hand, and
McIlvoy took it with a smile.

“Is Mary Lincoln available?” I asked.

“Yes, she is. And so is Mr. President.”

I couldn’t help laughing. Mr. President was
one of the most placid mounts in the stable, and he was the horse
Gregor usually rode. Gregor had never mastered the art of horseback
riding, but during those times when he visited, he would join me,
sitting stoically atop the palomino. I didn’t question his
insistence on riding with me; it was enjoyable to have a male
companion who didn’t assume that because I was a widow, I was
desperate for someone to take me to bed.

“No, I think the Godfather.”

“Uh…”

“Trust me. My son is a very accomplished
rider.”

“Yes, ma’am. If you say so.” He watched as
Quinton swung up into the saddle and let the gelding shake out his
fidgets, and finally nodded in satisfaction.

We cantered for a while, and then dropped
the horses down to a walk. “What did you need to talk to me about,
Mother?”

I smiled over at him. I hadn’t said anything
about needing to talk, but he was his father’s son. “The stock in
our wine cellar has been sadly depleted. I’d like you to accompany
me to France.”

The corner of his mouth curved for a moment
in a grin very similar to his father’s. “Aunt Johanna wasn’t very
pleased when she learned you couldn’t lend her a few bottles for
one of her dinner parties.”

I didn’t ask how he was aware of that. He
had my permission to visit his uncles during the various vacations,
and he’d spent Easter with Bryan and his wife and stepchildren.

“Well, Aunt Johanna knows we have the best
cellar.” I’d never warmed to her, but I would have made an effort
to get her the wine if she hadn’t acted as if she were entitled to
it. As little as I cared for her, I wouldn’t disparage my brother’s
wife to my son. “And Uncle Bryan doesn’t have the time to travel to
France to restock his own cellar.”

“He never takes time off. And you plan on
buying some stock for him, don’t you?” Quinton reined the Godfather
toward me and touched my shoulder. “I know you’re doing this
because of this mess with the Olympics—”

“Shhh. I’m doing this because you’re the man
of the family now, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, Mother. Of course I’ll go with
you.”

* * * *

Throughout that summer, we traveled from one
vineyard to another. I was friendly with most of the men and women
who ran them, having traveled with Father when he’d gone on similar
trips.

I’d heard excellent word-of-mouth about a
new vineyard in Avignon. Tartarin Bauchet ran
La
Vigne d’un Dieu.
I
knew him from
previous visits to his vineyard in the Bordeaux region,
and I thought we’d stop by to see him.

His son was very charming and his daughter
very pretty, and while I toured the buildings and sampled the
wines, they showed Quinton their stable.

M.
Bauchet beamed when I praised his wines. “Perhaps
Madame
would care to
stay for the wine festival?” he suggested.

“That’s very kind of you. I’d like that.
Although…”

“
Quel est-il
?”

“My son has to return to the States for
classes.”

“There is no need for you to leave, though,
is there?”

“Well…” It would be nice to stay for that. I
smiled at him. “I’ll give it some thought.”

* * * *

Quinton and I were at our hotel later that
evening, and I brought up the possibility of staying with the
Bauchets.

“I’d…I’d like that, Mother.” He peered at me
through the lock of hair that tumbled over his forehead. I brushed
it out of his eyes. He was so like his father. “If it wouldn’t
inconvenience you?”

“Not at all.” It would be
good for my son to develop connections of his own. And
Anastasie
was
very pretty. “I’ll inform
M.
Bauchet tomorrow.”

* * * *

We were there about a week when M. Bauchet
received a message from the manager of his vineyard in
Bordeaux.

“
Merde! Excusez-moi, madame
. Duran
has found bois noir on the chardonnay grapes. I must
go.”

“Of course.”

“
Madame
my wife and Anastasie will
come with me. Anastasie wishes to see a neighbor boy, you
understand.”

“Yes.” I hoped Quinton wouldn’t be too
heartbroken that the girl preferred someone else to him, however
misguided that was. “We’ll return to our hotel—”

“
Mais non
! Perhaps you would care to
accompany us? The merlot from last year’s harvest is ready to be
uncorked.”

“That’s very kind of you. I remember the
merlot from ‘67 was excellent, and I’ll be interested in sampling
this lot. Quinton—”

“Oh, please,
Madame
Mann!” Armand
exclaimed. “I’ll be here. Please let Quinton stay also! Papa often
leaves the vineyard in my care when he’s called away.”

“That’s a good deal of responsibility for
someone your age.” Armand was seventeen, two years older than
Quinton.

“You needn’t worry about
your son,”
M.
Bauchet assured me. “Armand is very capable, and Quinton will
be safe in his care.”

“May I, Mother?”

Quinton was very contained—after all, he was
the son of Mr. Freeze and his ice queen—and others wouldn’t see it,
but I did. He was drawn to Armand, not Anastasie.

I thought of my attraction
to Folana, all those years ago.
Why limit yourself? The
realm of sensuality should be boundless.

“Of course you may, Quinton.”

* * * *

Quinton returned home, an air of happiness
fizzing around him. Ah, young love. It was so wonderful.

Although not as wonderful as if you were
blessed to find lasting love. I thought of Nigel. The ache was
fading, but I still missed him terribly.

It was just after the wine
festival, and while I had returned to
La
Vigne d’un Dieu
, it was time for me to
leave. Crates containing bottles of red wines, white wines,
sparkling wines, were already in transit to the house in Great
Falls.

Perhaps I’d ask
M
. Bauchet if he would
permit Armand to return to the States with me for a month or so. If
it worked out, I might ask
M.
Bauchet if Armand might be permitted to attend
school with Quinton.