March 18th
You'll never guess where I am...not in a million years...
I can't quite believe it myself!
I am at home. No...not Scotland, not home at 'The PITT' either. Yes...that's right...I'm in Boston. In fact, I am currently on an antique double bed in what used to be my room in this...the Hart penthouse. The house in the Vineyard is locked up for the winter months, and I was 'lucky' (if you could call it that) that my mother wasn't in France as she normally is this time of year.
How did I end up here? Well, that's a story in itself...one that is sure to get my temper going again. After tea with my mother and grandmother, I can tell you my back is up quite a ways...so I doubt putting the events of the last week down on paper is going to make much of a difference. Any broken ribs that could pop out of place due to tension probably already have.
It is precisely this injury that sparked the unfortunate situation. Flipping back to my previous journal entry I see that I was still in the hospital when last I wrote. Moreover, it looks as though Flint had just entered the picture before I was forced to wrap up.
Flint...Dash...was nearly arrested for assaulting a police officer at that precise moment, and it was only Beachhead's quick reflexes and Shockwave's 'in' with the boys in blue that prevented a very ugly incident.
When he finally made it into the room and I caught sight of him, my heart leapt to my throat. His eyes were wild with dread and grief, his face barely hiding his anxiety. Here was a man skilled...nay, obsessive...about concealing emotion in front of his fellow Joes...a man who uses humor and arrogance to mask feelings of apprehension or fear...who stood before me a wreck, barely able to stand.
In fact, before I even had a chance to say hello he had fallen to his knees on the floor beside my bed...oblivious to the soldiers and cops gathered in the room. Grabbing my hand and squeezing it tightly, he began to babble incoherently about losing me. Somehow, I slowly managed to calm him down and piece together how he came to be here.
Poor Dash!
It seems that a sneaky CNN cameraman had caught my little 'accident' on tape before the FBI had a chance to stop him. Needless to say, media coverage of a hostage situation is inevitable, but one needs to keep reporters at arms length lest they inadvertently reveal plans of attack to the criminals inside. In any case, and unfortunately for me, by the time the camera was seized the footage had already been fed to the station and out to the television sets of John Q Public...including the one in the recreation room down in the PITT where Flint and his team were relaxing for a few hours before they shipped out on their next assignment.
According to Wild Bill, it took four Joes to restrain him when he saw me go down...and then another two to keep him from running out and taking off on the first chopper he could get his hands on.
He was in no state to fly.
Flint, stoic, fun loving, tough as nails soldier, lost it.
No one knew what to do with him. Christ, all of them were thrown for a loop! The three people who would know how to handle Dash were unavailable and no one else could get near enough to even try and calm him. Duke and Roadblock were both down in Florida training for Star Brigade...and for all intents and purposes they all thought I was dead. DEAD! Killed then and there.
God! Flint thought I had been killed! He had no way of knowing I was wearing a flak jacket...he had no way of knowing I was alive, if not well, in a local civilian hospital...
...he had no way of knowing because he couldn't get in touch with our team. He had no way of knowing because 'I' ordered Chuckles not to divulge my condition to the brass back at HQ.
Boy...was he PISSED at me when he found out about that.
I considered keeping that little bit of information to myself, but realizing that Phil was going to keep quiet about it even with Flint about to tear him another asshole, I decided to come clean. It's funny...less than 48 hours before I would have wanted a front row seat for that action. Instead, I bore the full brunt of Flint's tirade...and let me tell you, after what I just put him through I truly deserved it.
After waiting for what seemed like hours for any information about our status, and being forced to watch me fall in an ungraceful heap over and over as the clip reran on pretty much ever station, Flint could sit idle no longer. Problem was, he really COULDN'T leave the base. The powers that be expected him to leave with his team in less than 24hrs...no exceptions.
Of course, the 'powers that be' in this case had never run up against a bull headed, grief stricken Joe Warrant Officer...one who was well liked and respected by his team...whose men would go to bat for him no matter what the cost because they knew he would do the same if situations were reversed.
So it was that Wild Bill flew him into Iowa. So it was that Beachhead accompanied them, scanning the police radio frequency once they came into range and calling every hospital in the immediate vicinity looking for word.
So it was that he ended up here on the floor next to my bed, shaking as he gently stroked my head...trying to get as close to me as possible without hurting me. Had he not been warned he likely would have scooped me up right then and there, crushing my ribs yet again as he hugged me close as he is wont to do when he is feeling particularly upset...and at that moment he was MORE than particularly upset.
I felt AWFUL!
Too bad Dash is not very skilled at playing the guilt card. He had me by the 'proverbials' for a good while there; I would have done anything for him! I was feeling terrible and despite my injury was at his beck and call! I had never seen him like that...truth was it scared me. He was so upset that he could hardly string two words together. If the conversation at the White House didn't convince me of the sincerity of his feeling for me, the scene in the hospital room certainly did!
That said, the moment he pulled himself together (which I have to say was very soon after I had sufficiently reassured him that I was still among the living and planned to stay that way for some time) he managed to do the one thing guaranteed to make me mad as hell.
He called my mother.
Yes...Dashiell Faireborn...my 'working class' boyfriend and taboo lover got on the phone to Boston and told Katherine Hart to come and pick me up in Iowa. This after ordering, not suggesting or asking politely, ORDERING me home on sick leave.
Ooooo...if I wasn't still feeling guilty about the whole 'keeping my injury a secret' thing I think I would call him up right now and rip his head off. Sure...it's all fine and good for him! HE is in a jungle somewhere in Bali living it up among the leeches, poisonous insects and COBRA snipers while I have to be subjected to yet ANOTHER evening at a five star restaurant where my life is placed under a microscope and dissected piece by piece...each one coming up more 'repulsive' to the socially sensitive Hart's than the other!
Granted...she had no idea who she was talking to. She keeps referring to him as Mr. Flint, and is convinced he is nothing more than my commanding officer. It seems Dash kept the conversation short and professional. I suppose I should also be grateful that they didn't cross paths at the hospital...I was in no condition to mediate the inevitable confrontation between these two very strong and willful personalities. Flint had left reluctantly soon after making the arrangements that saw me safely home. Had it been possible I think he would have stayed by my side until I was on my feet...but given the legality of his hasty departure from the PITT and the importance of his current mission, he had no choice but to head back to base with Wild Bill, leaving Beachhead behind to help Chuckles wrap up as well as ensure I not slip out before my mother arrived.
I should add...and I hate to admit this...that he was...grrrrr...not wrong...to call. If HE had seen me go down on national television...he figured chances were my mother had as well. Disguises and acting aside, the expression 'not even my mother would recognize me' proved to be a figure of speech in this case!
Sure enough...my cousin Matt had watched the whole thing on unfold on CNN and within an hour the entire Hart clan were ready to send in the lawyers. That said, although Flint reassured my mother of my health and well being, deflecting a potentially crippling lawsuit, the whole episode did little to boost my families perception of my career.
I still cringe when I remember her arrival at my bedside, entering the hospital room in typical flamboyant yet classy Hart fashion. Dressed to the nines in a lovely navy blue Donna Karan pantsuit and tasteful Ralph Lauren overcoat, she looked like a million bucks (which is probably what the outfit ended up costing).
She took two steps into the room before she stopped and took in the scene. I was sitting up right on the bed, maps laid out before me...with Beachhead positioned cross-legged at the foot. Never one to let a moment pass without trying to make my life as miserable as possible, Wayne was determined I should go over (and over and over) the mission and figure out my mistakes and determine when things went wrong.
"I'll tell you when things went wrong...when the first bloody bullet hit me, that's when!" I thought to myself as he glared at me, reading my thoughts.
"Don't give me that look! Broken ribs or not I'll have you on the floor doing 60 before you finish the next thought! I swear, woman...Didn't your daddy ever tell you to learn from your mistakes!"
Grrrrrr.
But I digress.
My mother looked at Beachhead, then at me, then back to Beachhead...and I could practically see the gears beginning to work in her head. She sniffed, shook her hair out, and sighed in exasperation.
"Really, Alison..."
And in that moment, I was no longer an experienced soldier, well schooled linguist and accomplished actress of thirty. No...I was a little girl of four caught playing in the mud in her Versace-Bebe jumpsuit.
Beachhead got up and introduced himself and my mother took his hand firmly, the model of poise and dignity as she discreetly looked him up and down. She retained the friendly smile when Chuckles walked in wearing what must have been his loudest shirt yet, followed by Shockwave...who was armed to the teeth and grinning wildly as he threw me a tee shirt. On it was written in big bold letters...COPS DO IT IN KEVLAR. On the back, a cartoon police officer giving a very well endowed woman in a very, very tight dress, a ticket.
Katherine Hart took it all in with grace. Of course, I knew the minute I was alone with her I would not be given the same gracious treatment. I could see the lecture brewing in her eyes as we sat in silence in the limo to the airport, I could feel the tension as she attempted to keep the conversation non-confrontational.
I knew it wouldn't last.
"...Alabama? Really, darling..."
It took me the rest of the flight home to convince her that I wasn't sleeping with Wayne, nor was I seeing the 'the color blind fellow with the strange sense of humor'. Thank god the doctor told her that I needed to stay calm and keep speech to a minimum or I am sure things would have escalated to the point where I would have gladly jumped out of the plane...parachute or not.
'My delicate condition' probably also explains why, for the most part, I have been treated quite pleasantly this whole week. I have been wined and dined, sent shopping, visited the spa, gone to the theatre...and been able to catch up with some old friends. It was so nice that I almost let my guard down...almost. I am a Hart after all. I know all the tricks...and this one was as transparent as the scope on my colt.
My suspicions were confirmed when I walked into the salon and found two generations of Hart women sitting around the Louis XIV coffee table, calmly waiting for me to join them.
Imagine, if you will...a room containing the likes of Alexander the Great, Napoleon, and Genghis Kahn...and you will have some inkling of what it is like to watch the female Harts interact. Which one am I? I suppose Napoleon...exiled from power and destined to die without ever revisiting the glory of my youth. Wasn't he poisoned on Elba? I should start checking my tea for unusual residue...
Or perhaps it is more metaphorical in my case...that they are poisoning my mind rather than my body. I mean, all the money that was thrown at me this weekend can only mean one thing...they wanted me back and were pulling out all the stops in order to tempt me back into the fold.
And what a temptation it is!
Why?
Why do people buy lottery tickets? Why does everyone dream of being rich...of living the high life. Because its fun that's why! You can't imagine the power it gives you, the sense of freedom. Nothing is out of your reach!
To be honest, though...it's not all about the money. Being a Hart is a challenge, a constant struggle to remain on top. It's exhilarating...and as much as I rebelled against it I still yearn to be back in the game. Washington DC was just a taste...a wetting of the palette. My mind yearned to be put to the test again.
It's in my blood.
The Hart 'Coven', as my father used to call my Mother, Grandmother and Late Great Grandmother when they met for tea every week, are the epicenter of the family...all of them direct descendants of the Hart line. Those wives that married in were not included in the elite circle however sharp their minds or pedigreed their lineage, nor were their daughters.
I am the last living direct female descendant...I was to be the youngest member of this little circle.
They say behind every great man is a great woman. Although the extensive Hart business and financial holdings are run by the men of the family, it is the women who quietly steer the course from behind the scenes. Powerful, intelligent, sly and downright ruthless, the Hart daughters subtly guided the hands of their husbands and brothers from generation to generation. When it became socially acceptable for women to work and pursue a career...my mother was the first to enter the executive offices and boardrooms to play directly with the big boys, and took the company straight to the top.
I have two Uncles...John and Edward...both successful in their own right...both superb businessmen and politicians...and BOTH seek my mother out before moving on any big decision. This is not done out of fear or historical precedent...but out of respect. For all her faults, my mother is a very successful and skilled player...as was her mother and her mother's mother and so on and so forth...back as many generations as I can remember.
...and my grandmother tells me I have it in me to outshine them all.
My generation has proven to be a disappointment to the family for the most part. My cousin Matt is the only one that went into the business, while his brother Peter decided on a career in medicine. Cousin Mark is a successful entertainment lawyer in LA, leaving Hart Co and his father after having worked for the corporation from the time he was teenager. They had such high hopes for him after he graduated from Harvard...but he chose a different calling. Of course, all these careers were 'socially' and 'financially' acceptable so their choices were acknowledged without much of a fuss.
Ed Junior is another story altogether...spoiled and ill tempered he became the poster boy for rich disenchanted youth. Last I heard Uncle Edward had him in rehab again...this time for Heroine.
Funny...they didn't disinherit him! No...army girl here is considered to be the blackest of the black sheep in this family!
The more I think about it, the more certain I am that they are trying to pull me back in. How else would you explain the strange conversation I just had.
"We understand your tour will be up soon. I was wondering if you had any plans..."
"I suppose I..."
"Sit up straight, dear...a lady never slouches, it's very unbecoming..."
"As I was saying, I suppose if my present assignment is still available I will continue on indefinitely..."
Silence.
"...and this young man of yours....Dashiell is it? Are we going to meet him anytime soon?"
"I thought you didn't approve."
"Well, your grandmother and I have discussed it at length..."
"I'm sure you have..." I muttered quietly into my tea, stopping as my grandmother fixed me with a glare.
"...and having an officer in the family is not THAT much of a hardship. In fact, MANY of the prominent families have a Colonel or General in the pedigree. He has been invited to the White House after all...and a Rhodes Scholar..."
I could have left the conversation at that. Honestly...I could have smiled and nodded politely and they would never be the wiser. Warrant Officer technically HAD the word 'officer' in it...and as brilliant as the two of them might be they would never figure it out until it was too late.
I would like to think that they were trying to mend the rift that had formed between us, and I don't doubt that somewhere in the back of their minds this sincere motivation played a part. There is also no question in my mind that I miss my old life...this week has hammered home what a dyed in the wool snob I really am. Scarlett points it out all the time and I always flat out deny it, but truth is she is right. The clothes, the cars...the whole damn lifestyle...I love it!
I also know enough to realize that nothing comes without a price. As much as I would love to regain access to the bank account and all the power that comes with the Hart name, the strings that come attached would end up choking me. It would be like selling my soul!
Trade my independence for financial power? Throw away everything I have worked for? Everything I have accomplished? Give up Dashiell?
Not in this lifetime!!!!! Nor in any other for that matter...
I sat up straight and smiled my most pleasant smile.
"He is not an Officer..."
Both my mother and grandmother went rigid at exactly the same moment and stared at me with twin expressions of disgusted amazement...
"Not...an...officer..." my mother whispered, pausing on every word as if trying to absorb some shocking news.
"And he isn't from an East Coast family either...he's from Kansas..."
"...Kansas..."
Well...Rhodes Scholar was forgotten at that moment. I could just imagine the thoughts going through their heads as I sat in front of them smiling smugly. To them, Kansas meant bible-belt hick. And enlisted...oh boy! Hah... I should get Flint to come to the door in a pair of overalls and a rifle to greet the family with a 'Howdy, y'all'!
The conversation went downhill from there.
So now I find myself in my room alone, scribbling furiously in this Journal as I wait for Julian to pick me up and take me somewhere to clear my head. I don't know whether to be angry or sad. Sad, I guess.
And it's not because of the opportunity I just threw away. I gave that all up long ago and while it's disappointing I am actually looking forward to returning to the life I have made for myself. What saddens me is that I was shot; that I nearly lost my life...and all my mother has done is play her games.
I wish she loved me for who I was instead of who I 'should' be. I wish I had a mother who saw me as her daughter and not some powerful pawn she could use to her own ends. Does she even love me? Why didn't she come to hold me or comfort me as I struggled through the pain of my injury instead of using it and the fear and doubt that accompanied the accident to try and sway me back to the dark side? Why doesn't she ever tell me she is proud of what I have accomplished? Why?
God I miss my father so much. I might as well be an orphan for all the Hart's care about me. Sure, my cousins and I get along well...but if push comes to shove they will tow the party line I am sure.
My Aunt Sarah tells me that deep down inside my mother loves me...that she just doesn't know how to show it. Se wants the best for me and doesn't really understand the choices I have made as it goes completely against everything she has known her whole life.
Did I hurt more than her pride when I left for Boot Camp? Somehow I doubt it...
The funny thing is, the first night I was here I remember partially waking from a pain killer induced sleep to find her sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my hair with tears in her eyes. I thought it was a dream at the time...the image was so foreign to me.
Could it be that it wasn't a dream after all?
I daren't even hope...
You'll never guess where I am...not in a million years...
I can't quite believe it myself!
I am at home. No...not Scotland, not home at 'The PITT' either. Yes...that's right...I'm in Boston. In fact, I am currently on an antique double bed in what used to be my room in this...the Hart penthouse. The house in the Vineyard is locked up for the winter months, and I was 'lucky' (if you could call it that) that my mother wasn't in France as she normally is this time of year.
How did I end up here? Well, that's a story in itself...one that is sure to get my temper going again. After tea with my mother and grandmother, I can tell you my back is up quite a ways...so I doubt putting the events of the last week down on paper is going to make much of a difference. Any broken ribs that could pop out of place due to tension probably already have.
It is precisely this injury that sparked the unfortunate situation. Flipping back to my previous journal entry I see that I was still in the hospital when last I wrote. Moreover, it looks as though Flint had just entered the picture before I was forced to wrap up.
Flint...Dash...was nearly arrested for assaulting a police officer at that precise moment, and it was only Beachhead's quick reflexes and Shockwave's 'in' with the boys in blue that prevented a very ugly incident.
When he finally made it into the room and I caught sight of him, my heart leapt to my throat. His eyes were wild with dread and grief, his face barely hiding his anxiety. Here was a man skilled...nay, obsessive...about concealing emotion in front of his fellow Joes...a man who uses humor and arrogance to mask feelings of apprehension or fear...who stood before me a wreck, barely able to stand.
In fact, before I even had a chance to say hello he had fallen to his knees on the floor beside my bed...oblivious to the soldiers and cops gathered in the room. Grabbing my hand and squeezing it tightly, he began to babble incoherently about losing me. Somehow, I slowly managed to calm him down and piece together how he came to be here.
Poor Dash!
It seems that a sneaky CNN cameraman had caught my little 'accident' on tape before the FBI had a chance to stop him. Needless to say, media coverage of a hostage situation is inevitable, but one needs to keep reporters at arms length lest they inadvertently reveal plans of attack to the criminals inside. In any case, and unfortunately for me, by the time the camera was seized the footage had already been fed to the station and out to the television sets of John Q Public...including the one in the recreation room down in the PITT where Flint and his team were relaxing for a few hours before they shipped out on their next assignment.
According to Wild Bill, it took four Joes to restrain him when he saw me go down...and then another two to keep him from running out and taking off on the first chopper he could get his hands on.
He was in no state to fly.
Flint, stoic, fun loving, tough as nails soldier, lost it.
No one knew what to do with him. Christ, all of them were thrown for a loop! The three people who would know how to handle Dash were unavailable and no one else could get near enough to even try and calm him. Duke and Roadblock were both down in Florida training for Star Brigade...and for all intents and purposes they all thought I was dead. DEAD! Killed then and there.
God! Flint thought I had been killed! He had no way of knowing I was wearing a flak jacket...he had no way of knowing I was alive, if not well, in a local civilian hospital...
...he had no way of knowing because he couldn't get in touch with our team. He had no way of knowing because 'I' ordered Chuckles not to divulge my condition to the brass back at HQ.
Boy...was he PISSED at me when he found out about that.
I considered keeping that little bit of information to myself, but realizing that Phil was going to keep quiet about it even with Flint about to tear him another asshole, I decided to come clean. It's funny...less than 48 hours before I would have wanted a front row seat for that action. Instead, I bore the full brunt of Flint's tirade...and let me tell you, after what I just put him through I truly deserved it.
After waiting for what seemed like hours for any information about our status, and being forced to watch me fall in an ungraceful heap over and over as the clip reran on pretty much ever station, Flint could sit idle no longer. Problem was, he really COULDN'T leave the base. The powers that be expected him to leave with his team in less than 24hrs...no exceptions.
Of course, the 'powers that be' in this case had never run up against a bull headed, grief stricken Joe Warrant Officer...one who was well liked and respected by his team...whose men would go to bat for him no matter what the cost because they knew he would do the same if situations were reversed.
So it was that Wild Bill flew him into Iowa. So it was that Beachhead accompanied them, scanning the police radio frequency once they came into range and calling every hospital in the immediate vicinity looking for word.
So it was that he ended up here on the floor next to my bed, shaking as he gently stroked my head...trying to get as close to me as possible without hurting me. Had he not been warned he likely would have scooped me up right then and there, crushing my ribs yet again as he hugged me close as he is wont to do when he is feeling particularly upset...and at that moment he was MORE than particularly upset.
I felt AWFUL!
Too bad Dash is not very skilled at playing the guilt card. He had me by the 'proverbials' for a good while there; I would have done anything for him! I was feeling terrible and despite my injury was at his beck and call! I had never seen him like that...truth was it scared me. He was so upset that he could hardly string two words together. If the conversation at the White House didn't convince me of the sincerity of his feeling for me, the scene in the hospital room certainly did!
That said, the moment he pulled himself together (which I have to say was very soon after I had sufficiently reassured him that I was still among the living and planned to stay that way for some time) he managed to do the one thing guaranteed to make me mad as hell.
He called my mother.
Yes...Dashiell Faireborn...my 'working class' boyfriend and taboo lover got on the phone to Boston and told Katherine Hart to come and pick me up in Iowa. This after ordering, not suggesting or asking politely, ORDERING me home on sick leave.
Ooooo...if I wasn't still feeling guilty about the whole 'keeping my injury a secret' thing I think I would call him up right now and rip his head off. Sure...it's all fine and good for him! HE is in a jungle somewhere in Bali living it up among the leeches, poisonous insects and COBRA snipers while I have to be subjected to yet ANOTHER evening at a five star restaurant where my life is placed under a microscope and dissected piece by piece...each one coming up more 'repulsive' to the socially sensitive Hart's than the other!
Granted...she had no idea who she was talking to. She keeps referring to him as Mr. Flint, and is convinced he is nothing more than my commanding officer. It seems Dash kept the conversation short and professional. I suppose I should also be grateful that they didn't cross paths at the hospital...I was in no condition to mediate the inevitable confrontation between these two very strong and willful personalities. Flint had left reluctantly soon after making the arrangements that saw me safely home. Had it been possible I think he would have stayed by my side until I was on my feet...but given the legality of his hasty departure from the PITT and the importance of his current mission, he had no choice but to head back to base with Wild Bill, leaving Beachhead behind to help Chuckles wrap up as well as ensure I not slip out before my mother arrived.
I should add...and I hate to admit this...that he was...grrrrr...not wrong...to call. If HE had seen me go down on national television...he figured chances were my mother had as well. Disguises and acting aside, the expression 'not even my mother would recognize me' proved to be a figure of speech in this case!
Sure enough...my cousin Matt had watched the whole thing on unfold on CNN and within an hour the entire Hart clan were ready to send in the lawyers. That said, although Flint reassured my mother of my health and well being, deflecting a potentially crippling lawsuit, the whole episode did little to boost my families perception of my career.
I still cringe when I remember her arrival at my bedside, entering the hospital room in typical flamboyant yet classy Hart fashion. Dressed to the nines in a lovely navy blue Donna Karan pantsuit and tasteful Ralph Lauren overcoat, she looked like a million bucks (which is probably what the outfit ended up costing).
She took two steps into the room before she stopped and took in the scene. I was sitting up right on the bed, maps laid out before me...with Beachhead positioned cross-legged at the foot. Never one to let a moment pass without trying to make my life as miserable as possible, Wayne was determined I should go over (and over and over) the mission and figure out my mistakes and determine when things went wrong.
"I'll tell you when things went wrong...when the first bloody bullet hit me, that's when!" I thought to myself as he glared at me, reading my thoughts.
"Don't give me that look! Broken ribs or not I'll have you on the floor doing 60 before you finish the next thought! I swear, woman...Didn't your daddy ever tell you to learn from your mistakes!"
Grrrrrr.
But I digress.
My mother looked at Beachhead, then at me, then back to Beachhead...and I could practically see the gears beginning to work in her head. She sniffed, shook her hair out, and sighed in exasperation.
"Really, Alison..."
And in that moment, I was no longer an experienced soldier, well schooled linguist and accomplished actress of thirty. No...I was a little girl of four caught playing in the mud in her Versace-Bebe jumpsuit.
Beachhead got up and introduced himself and my mother took his hand firmly, the model of poise and dignity as she discreetly looked him up and down. She retained the friendly smile when Chuckles walked in wearing what must have been his loudest shirt yet, followed by Shockwave...who was armed to the teeth and grinning wildly as he threw me a tee shirt. On it was written in big bold letters...COPS DO IT IN KEVLAR. On the back, a cartoon police officer giving a very well endowed woman in a very, very tight dress, a ticket.
Katherine Hart took it all in with grace. Of course, I knew the minute I was alone with her I would not be given the same gracious treatment. I could see the lecture brewing in her eyes as we sat in silence in the limo to the airport, I could feel the tension as she attempted to keep the conversation non-confrontational.
I knew it wouldn't last.
"...Alabama? Really, darling..."
It took me the rest of the flight home to convince her that I wasn't sleeping with Wayne, nor was I seeing the 'the color blind fellow with the strange sense of humor'. Thank god the doctor told her that I needed to stay calm and keep speech to a minimum or I am sure things would have escalated to the point where I would have gladly jumped out of the plane...parachute or not.
'My delicate condition' probably also explains why, for the most part, I have been treated quite pleasantly this whole week. I have been wined and dined, sent shopping, visited the spa, gone to the theatre...and been able to catch up with some old friends. It was so nice that I almost let my guard down...almost. I am a Hart after all. I know all the tricks...and this one was as transparent as the scope on my colt.
My suspicions were confirmed when I walked into the salon and found two generations of Hart women sitting around the Louis XIV coffee table, calmly waiting for me to join them.
Imagine, if you will...a room containing the likes of Alexander the Great, Napoleon, and Genghis Kahn...and you will have some inkling of what it is like to watch the female Harts interact. Which one am I? I suppose Napoleon...exiled from power and destined to die without ever revisiting the glory of my youth. Wasn't he poisoned on Elba? I should start checking my tea for unusual residue...
Or perhaps it is more metaphorical in my case...that they are poisoning my mind rather than my body. I mean, all the money that was thrown at me this weekend can only mean one thing...they wanted me back and were pulling out all the stops in order to tempt me back into the fold.
And what a temptation it is!
Why?
Why do people buy lottery tickets? Why does everyone dream of being rich...of living the high life. Because its fun that's why! You can't imagine the power it gives you, the sense of freedom. Nothing is out of your reach!
To be honest, though...it's not all about the money. Being a Hart is a challenge, a constant struggle to remain on top. It's exhilarating...and as much as I rebelled against it I still yearn to be back in the game. Washington DC was just a taste...a wetting of the palette. My mind yearned to be put to the test again.
It's in my blood.
The Hart 'Coven', as my father used to call my Mother, Grandmother and Late Great Grandmother when they met for tea every week, are the epicenter of the family...all of them direct descendants of the Hart line. Those wives that married in were not included in the elite circle however sharp their minds or pedigreed their lineage, nor were their daughters.
I am the last living direct female descendant...I was to be the youngest member of this little circle.
They say behind every great man is a great woman. Although the extensive Hart business and financial holdings are run by the men of the family, it is the women who quietly steer the course from behind the scenes. Powerful, intelligent, sly and downright ruthless, the Hart daughters subtly guided the hands of their husbands and brothers from generation to generation. When it became socially acceptable for women to work and pursue a career...my mother was the first to enter the executive offices and boardrooms to play directly with the big boys, and took the company straight to the top.
I have two Uncles...John and Edward...both successful in their own right...both superb businessmen and politicians...and BOTH seek my mother out before moving on any big decision. This is not done out of fear or historical precedent...but out of respect. For all her faults, my mother is a very successful and skilled player...as was her mother and her mother's mother and so on and so forth...back as many generations as I can remember.
...and my grandmother tells me I have it in me to outshine them all.
My generation has proven to be a disappointment to the family for the most part. My cousin Matt is the only one that went into the business, while his brother Peter decided on a career in medicine. Cousin Mark is a successful entertainment lawyer in LA, leaving Hart Co and his father after having worked for the corporation from the time he was teenager. They had such high hopes for him after he graduated from Harvard...but he chose a different calling. Of course, all these careers were 'socially' and 'financially' acceptable so their choices were acknowledged without much of a fuss.
Ed Junior is another story altogether...spoiled and ill tempered he became the poster boy for rich disenchanted youth. Last I heard Uncle Edward had him in rehab again...this time for Heroine.
Funny...they didn't disinherit him! No...army girl here is considered to be the blackest of the black sheep in this family!
The more I think about it, the more certain I am that they are trying to pull me back in. How else would you explain the strange conversation I just had.
"We understand your tour will be up soon. I was wondering if you had any plans..."
"I suppose I..."
"Sit up straight, dear...a lady never slouches, it's very unbecoming..."
"As I was saying, I suppose if my present assignment is still available I will continue on indefinitely..."
Silence.
"...and this young man of yours....Dashiell is it? Are we going to meet him anytime soon?"
"I thought you didn't approve."
"Well, your grandmother and I have discussed it at length..."
"I'm sure you have..." I muttered quietly into my tea, stopping as my grandmother fixed me with a glare.
"...and having an officer in the family is not THAT much of a hardship. In fact, MANY of the prominent families have a Colonel or General in the pedigree. He has been invited to the White House after all...and a Rhodes Scholar..."
I could have left the conversation at that. Honestly...I could have smiled and nodded politely and they would never be the wiser. Warrant Officer technically HAD the word 'officer' in it...and as brilliant as the two of them might be they would never figure it out until it was too late.
I would like to think that they were trying to mend the rift that had formed between us, and I don't doubt that somewhere in the back of their minds this sincere motivation played a part. There is also no question in my mind that I miss my old life...this week has hammered home what a dyed in the wool snob I really am. Scarlett points it out all the time and I always flat out deny it, but truth is she is right. The clothes, the cars...the whole damn lifestyle...I love it!
I also know enough to realize that nothing comes without a price. As much as I would love to regain access to the bank account and all the power that comes with the Hart name, the strings that come attached would end up choking me. It would be like selling my soul!
Trade my independence for financial power? Throw away everything I have worked for? Everything I have accomplished? Give up Dashiell?
Not in this lifetime!!!!! Nor in any other for that matter...
I sat up straight and smiled my most pleasant smile.
"He is not an Officer..."
Both my mother and grandmother went rigid at exactly the same moment and stared at me with twin expressions of disgusted amazement...
"Not...an...officer..." my mother whispered, pausing on every word as if trying to absorb some shocking news.
"And he isn't from an East Coast family either...he's from Kansas..."
"...Kansas..."
Well...Rhodes Scholar was forgotten at that moment. I could just imagine the thoughts going through their heads as I sat in front of them smiling smugly. To them, Kansas meant bible-belt hick. And enlisted...oh boy! Hah... I should get Flint to come to the door in a pair of overalls and a rifle to greet the family with a 'Howdy, y'all'!
The conversation went downhill from there.
So now I find myself in my room alone, scribbling furiously in this Journal as I wait for Julian to pick me up and take me somewhere to clear my head. I don't know whether to be angry or sad. Sad, I guess.
And it's not because of the opportunity I just threw away. I gave that all up long ago and while it's disappointing I am actually looking forward to returning to the life I have made for myself. What saddens me is that I was shot; that I nearly lost my life...and all my mother has done is play her games.
I wish she loved me for who I was instead of who I 'should' be. I wish I had a mother who saw me as her daughter and not some powerful pawn she could use to her own ends. Does she even love me? Why didn't she come to hold me or comfort me as I struggled through the pain of my injury instead of using it and the fear and doubt that accompanied the accident to try and sway me back to the dark side? Why doesn't she ever tell me she is proud of what I have accomplished? Why?
God I miss my father so much. I might as well be an orphan for all the Hart's care about me. Sure, my cousins and I get along well...but if push comes to shove they will tow the party line I am sure.
My Aunt Sarah tells me that deep down inside my mother loves me...that she just doesn't know how to show it. Se wants the best for me and doesn't really understand the choices I have made as it goes completely against everything she has known her whole life.
Did I hurt more than her pride when I left for Boot Camp? Somehow I doubt it...
The funny thing is, the first night I was here I remember partially waking from a pain killer induced sleep to find her sitting on the edge of my bed, stroking my hair with tears in her eyes. I thought it was a dream at the time...the image was so foreign to me.
Could it be that it wasn't a dream after all?
I daren't even hope...