Chapter 85
He’d opened it with polite interest, and then caught his breath. “Mark!” And his voice was just as gruff as mine had been as he thanked me.
Portia Mann’s card had an image of a house, the sort only seen in paintings or on the rich side of town. Its windows were lit with a warm, yellow glow, pristine snow covered its gabled roof, smoke from numerous chimneys curled up into the night sky, and people were gathered on the veranda that encircled the first floor. She’d signed it, in her elegant handwriting, With warmest regards, Portia.
And then there was Quinn’s card. It was another one that hadn’t come in the mail. I’d found it in my suit pocket the previous Monday, after I’d spent the weekend with him. It was a snowy forest scene, trees decorated with glittering snowflakes. Moonlight, the only source of illumination, spilled down upon it. I’d opened it, and there had been no cute phrase, no trite sentiments, simply, Yours, Quinn.