Where the Heart Chooses (42 page)

“With a little assist from you.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.
Anyway, Wexler fell apart when he learned that you had been in the
car, Mrs. Mann. He started to swear that Lapin had acted completely
on his own, but the son of a bitch is a politician to the core, and
he tap danced his way around that. The cops let him go.”

Somehow I doubted his ability to tap dance
around Mark. “Will it be possible to keep Wexler’s name out of
this?”

“Mrs. Mann, you can’t be willing to let the
man get away with this?”

Oh, how little Mark Vincent knew us. His
gaze went from the smile on Quinton’s face, which made it obvious
how he’d gotten the nickname Ice Man, to the cold, cold look I knew
was on mine.

“What am I missing?” Mark didn’t sound happy
to be in the dark.

“My uncles are retired CIA, Mark. They may
be considered senior citizens, but if they find out that Wexler was
personally behind the accident that left my mother in a hospital
bed, they’ll go after him themselves.”

“If?” Mark’s expression became bland.

Quinton’s brows snapped together in a frown
and he spoke more forcefully, intent on getting his reasoning
across. “I won’t be able to press criminal charges against Richard
Wexler, that would be less than useless, but I fully intend to
press civil charges against him. I don’t want you involved.”

“Here I thought I was almost family.”

“Mark.” His tone was impatient. “You like my
mother. Wexler was the base cause of her injuries. Nothing less
than his death will suit you.”

“Are you calling me uncivilized, Quinn? I’m
cut to the quick.”

“And I’m tired,” I interjected querulously.
I never complained, and I regretted this would worry Quinton, but I
needed to get him out of the room. “And
I
hurt.”

“Mother! What can I do?”

“Would you mind asking the nurse for some
pain medication, Quinton?” I made my voice helpless.

His gaze was pinned on my face. “I’ll be
right back.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” I waited until he
was out of the room, then propped myself up on the arm that had no
IV lines in it. “I wanted to talk to you alone, Mark.”

“Mrs. Mann, you aren’t going to get on my
case about not doing anything, are you?”

“No.” I could see that startled him. “We
both know you aren’t going to pay any heed to Quinton in this
matter. Just see you don’t get caught.” I drew in a breath.
“Richard Wexler engineered the accident that could well have killed
my son. If I weren’t confined to this bed, I’d go after him
myself.” I gripped his arm, and the sudden pinch of discomfort the
movement caused reminded me I was connected to an IV. I dismissed
it. “I want him to pay. I don’t want him dead, however. That would
be too easy.”

He looked unbelievably dangerous, but he was
gentle in covering my hand with his. “A man who worships power…How
would stripping him of his Senate seat do for a start?”

“For a start.” I lay back on the bed, out of
breath in spite of the fact that I hadn’t done anything more than
sit up. “Will the police question Quinton?”

“For?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Mark. You know I’m talking
about Lapin’s death.”

“Why would they? He’s been here in the
hospital since early Sunday morning. Besides, the autopsy report
will come back that his blood alcohol level was off the chart.
Whether that was because he had a guilty conscience or an alcohol
abuse problem, the cops won’t know or care.”

“You’ll see Quinton is kept safe.”

“They’ll have to go through me to get to
him.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.”

Just then, Quinton returned with a
nurse.

“I’ll take care of these.” Mark gathered the
violets, which I’d forgotten about and had let spill over the
blanket.

“Good evening, Mrs. Mann,” the nurse said.
“It’s good to have you with us. I just need to check your
wristband.” She took my wrist, examined the band to make sure I was
who I was supposed to be, checked my vital signs and noted them on
my chart. “This will just take a moment, gentlemen.”

She removed the cap to the syringe, inserted
the needle into my IV’s port, and pressed down on the plunger.

“Done. This is Dilaudid. It will start to
work pretty quickly.” She grinned at me. “Good drugs, great
dreams.”

Ah. That explained the visits by Nigel and
Gregor.

“Meanwhile, I’ll let your doctor know you’re
with us once more.”

Quinton sat on the edge of the bed and took
my hand. “All the uncles are here. Tony and Bryan flew into Dulles
as soon as they got word, and Jeff and Ludo drove in from Shadow
Brook. Alyona won’t be able to come down. She’s got a really bad
chest cold, but Gregor’s called her every day, and he’ll see her at
Thanksgiving…”

I could feel the narcotic begin to take
effect, but there was something I needed to ask.

“Where are the clothes I wore to the
ball?”

“They’re ruined, Mother. They had to be cut
off you.”

“Even your father’s lynx?” I pressed my
fingers into my eyes. “Of course, how foolish of me not to
realize.” Most importantly, Quinton hadn’t been in the car, and
both Gregor and I were alive.

I felt lips brush across my forehead.

“Sleep well, ma’am.”

Although I was touched by Mark’s gesture, I
knew he wouldn’t appreciate it if I acknowledged it. I would have
said, “Didn’t I ask you not to call me ma’am?” but the Dilaudid had
me in its grip.

I sank into the velvety comfort of
unconsciousness.

* * * *

Because I was confined to a hospital bed
didn’t mean the world stopped turning.

Of course the vacation that Quinton and Mark
had planned was canceled—if I’d been conscious, I would have
insisted they go ahead and take it, after all, I wouldn’t be going
anywhere—but I wasn’t conscious. While my son stayed at my bedside,
Mark did what he was best at.

Two weeks after I regained consciousness, he
brought in a copy of the
Post
. “I thought you might be
interested in seeing this, ma’am.”

“What am I looking for?”

“Page seven.”

I leafed through to that page and found what
he was talking about. The article was very small. It mentioned
allegations that prior to his fatal motor vehicle accident, Peter
Lapin, Senator Richard Wexler’s aide, had been involved in a hit
and run that left a man and a woman hospitalized.

“What did the senator have to say about it?”
I asked Mark.

“It seems he was unavailable for comment.”
He smiled, and I understood how he’d gotten the reputation for
being a sociopath.

“Has Quinton seen this?”

“No clue.”

I’d have to ask him when I saw him
later.

“That’s a pretty robe,” Mark said, changing
the subject.

“It was a gift from Gregor’s sister.” Gregor
had brought a number of items from home, including the blue
robe.

“It goes well with your eyes.”

“Thank you.”

Mark smiled faintly and picked up the hook
and yarn I’d been given as a form of occupational therapy—annoying
hook, annoying yarn, annoying therapy. He shook his head and
unraveled the mess I’d made of it.

“Grandmother Blackburn tried to teach me,
but she gave up when I persisted in mixing single, double, and
triple crochet stitches all on the same row. I really tried her
patience—I would rather have been playing outside with my
brothers.”

“I imagine you’d much rather be outside now
too.” He started a loop and began a row of chain stitches.

“You never cease to amaze me, Mark.”

“Well, you never can tell when it’ll come in
handy.” He grinned but kept his eyes on the row of stitches.

“Such as when you’re confined to a hospital
bed?”

He raised his head so abruptly I wouldn’t
have been surprised if he gave himself whiplash. “Ma’am?”

What had happened to him that mention of a
hospital bed affected him in such a manner? I nodded toward my
bed.

“Yeah, that’s right. One of the men my old
lady dragged home was a Portuguese fisherman. He said it was good
for a man to know a variety of things.”

“He sounds like a smart man.”

“He was. Except when it came to women. Beat
hell out of me why he’d be attracted to a woman like her.”

“What happened to him?” There had been no
mention of the man beyond the year Mark turned eight.

“His ship went down in the Halloween storm
of ’91.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was doing what he loved, what he was
good at. There isn’t a better way for a man to die.”

“Not in bed, surrounded by people who care
about him?”

He hunched a shoulder. “If you’ve got people
who care about you.”

“Don’t you?”

“No. Frankly, I never thought I’d make it to
forty.”

“Do you honestly believe no one cares?
Quinton does, as do I. And didn’t you tell us you were family?”

“Huh? When? Oh…right…after you’d come to.
You weren’t supposed to hear that.” He scowled at the row of
stitches he’d just completed. “But I was just ragging on
Quinn.”

“
I
don’t ‘rag,’ Mark. In fact, I’m
deadly serious.”

He raised his head and met my eyes, his
expression puzzled. “I’m sure you’ve heard what I’m capable of.
Why?”

“I can’t begin to explain my son’s feelings
for you, but as for me, you saved his life in Paris, you discovered
what was causing his sleepless nights and high level of exhaustion.
You’ve made him smile. Mark, you could be a serial killer, and I’d
still care about you.”

He opened his mouth and then shut it with
nothing more than a mumbled “Thank you.”

* * * *

The next day, the only person not waiting
for me to be discharged was Mark.

“Where’s Vincent?” Tony asked. “Is he
avoiding us?”

“Of course not. Why would he?” My tone was
innocent, but I made sure they didn’t see my expression. “After
all, it isn’t as if he knows you plan to ask what his intentions
are toward your nephew.”

Quinton looked up, biting back a laugh. “He
said something about golfing.”

“Golfing? Vincent?” Gregor found the idea
uproarious.

“Apparently Trevor Wallace thought that
would be a good idea,” Quinton said mildly.

“Wallace?” Tony stroked his chin. “He golfs,
doesn’t he? I wonder what he has in mind for Vincent.”

“I have no idea. That’s a very pretty scarf,
Mother.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” I began talking
about the scarves I planned to crochet for my brothers, and the
subject was neatly turned.

We waited for my doctor to appear to
discharge me. And we waited. Finally, Bryan went out to the nurses’
station.

“Franke’s out of town and his associate is
tied up in surgery,” he said minutes later. “There was a pile-up on
the Beltway. We have to wait.”

Sometime after two, Dr. Baxter bustled in.
“Doctor Franke was unexpectedly called away, and I’m filling in for
him.” Baxter was a little under average height and rotund, with
sandy hair and myopic eyes. I’d met him before, had found him
supercilious, condescending, and arrogant, and had told Dr. Franke
I preferred another physician.

Dr. Franke and I were going to have a
discussion about this.

“How are we feeling today, Mrs. Mann?”

“I don’t know about you, but I feel
fine.”

“Heh heh. You’ll have to let me be the judge
of that.” He had me breathe in and out and thumped my back,
declaring my lungs sounded fine but that he and Dr. Franke didn’t
want to take any chances. “I do think it best to keep you here for
another night.”

Looking from one pair of Sebring eyes to
another, he swallowed so hard his Adam’s apple bobbed repeatedly,
gave a weak smile, and scurried out.

“I don’t like it,” Tony snarled.

He liked it even less when a girl who
couldn’t have been much more than fourteen tapped on the door and
entered. She wore a candy striper’s uniform and held a stack of
magazines—
People
,
Entertainment Weekly,
and
Soap
Opera Digest
, when I was more likely to read
Time
or
Newsweek
.

“I’m sorry you won’t be going home today,
Mrs. Mann.”

“How did you know that?” Tony demanded, and
she jumped.

“I…I must have overheard…I’m sorry. Did I do
something wrong?” She looked as if she was about to cry.

“No, my dear.” I patted her hand.

“I’ll just be…I have to go now.” And the
poor little girl bolted out.

Quinton worried his lower lip. “How possible
is it that anyone on this floor could have already known you’d be
staying another night, Mother?”

“If something was wrong, then yes, it is
possible—word always gets out.” I opened the envelope that had come
with the magazines and took out the small square. “
A little
light reading to pass the time. I’m sorry you’ll be staying another
night, Portia, my dear.
” I crushed it between my fingers. “It’s
signed with an
R
.”

“Richard Wexler?” Bryan took the magazines
from my bed and dropped them on the heating unit beneath the
window.

“Who else? You saw that Birnam Wood of a
flower arrangement he sent.”

“But how did he know you’d be here another
day?”

“We’ll have to assume either Baxter or one
of the nurses is on Wexler’s payroll. Or even one of the aides.”
Quinton pulled out his cell phone. “He had the sense not to show up
before now, but I wouldn’t put it past him to use this as an excuse
to pay you a visit. I’m staying with you tonight, Mother.”

“All right, sweetheart, but it’s
Friday.”

“It doesn’t matter. Excuse me.” He hit speed
dial. “Hi, it’s me. I won’t be able to make dinner tonight.”

Gregor groaned and rolled his eyes.
“Vincent,” he mouthed. “Want us out of here, Quinn?”