"Miracourt? It's an old-style French bobbin lace—similar to lille lace." She batted her eyes and added, "I'm sure that makes it all much clearer to you."
He cocked his head and gave her a penetrating look. "Ohhh, yeah."
One thing Quinn did remember about her: She never lost her cool. And yet here she was, for the second time in twenty-four hours, with heightened color in those nicely shaped cheekbones of hers. Feeling suddenly confident about the prospects for that nighttime date, he murmured, "So—are we all set?"
"Let me get my coat," she said, and off they went.
To the drip-drip-drip of melting snow, they strolled past storefronts decked out for the season, with Olivia grading every window display they stopped to view.
"Not enough vertical."
"Needs a backdrop."
"Great use of color."
Window shopping, that's what they were doing. Quinn was utterly charmed by the concept; he'd never done it before. He threw a five-dollar bill into a Salvation Army bucket and thought to himself, I could get used to this. He was especially pleased that Olivia was inclined to saunter. That wasn't the drive-ahead girl he remembered at all.
In a merry mood, she reached behind him and gave a little yank on his ponytail. "What's this thing all about?" she asked.
And then she slipped her arm through his.
She had Quinn on the ropes. He didn't know which of the hits to respond to first; all he knew was that he never saw them coming. He lied about the ponytail, making something up about a centennial celebration back in California, and as for the arm that was looped through his—he decided simply to savor the heat. So bemused by her was he that he hardly registered the occasional glare aimed his way.
They reached the turnoff for the bistro, but Olivia had other ideas. "That Entre Nous is such a pretentious little place," she said, which naturally made Quinn feel pretentious as well. "Let's grab a couple of deli sandwiches and go back to your car. I have a surprise for you that I think you'll really like."
His disappointment fell away, replaced by curiosity, and he agreed to the terms of her counteroffer. They picked up two monster pastramis on rye and a couple of cartons of milk, then doubled back to the parking lot. He wasn't crazy about driving Olivia around in a lowly pickup truck—hence the choice of a restaurant in town—but she didn't seem to mind.
"Is this the one that got the windshield bashed in?" she asked as she climbed into the passenger seat with their food.
Ah, Keepsake.
"The very same," he said, giving her a bland look. The expression on her face was guileless, but he decided that she was simply a damn good actress. "So. Where to?"
"The gardener's cottage," she answered, breaking into a sudden, broad grin. "I think you know the way."
At first he said nothing. Then, quietly, "You can't be serious."
"Of course I'm serious!" she said, laughing, and then she realized that he had no stomach for going there.
"Quinn, it doesn't look anything like when you and your father lived in it," she said in a more earnest tone. "It's a guest house now. My mother has done it completely over. Really, you won't make any associations at all."
Annoyed that she seemed to think he was an emotional wimp, Quinn put the truck in gear and said, "You misunderstand my reluctance. What I mean is, do your parents know you're doing this?"
Even worse. Now it sounded as if he were worried about coming over to play without her parents' permission. Frustrated, he said, "Liv, haven't you noticed? I'm public enemy number one in this town. I'm assuming that your parents are on the long list of people who'd like to see me leave, not the short list of people who're glad to renew an old acquaintance."
"I have no idea how my parents feel," she said, dismissing the subject. "They're not in the habit of saying."
He wasn't surprised; they never were in the habit of saying. "You heard about the effigy?"
"Yes, I did. I wasn't going to bring it up."
"Then why did you bring up the windshield?"
"I wanted you to know that I knew. It was less painful to do that with the windshield than with the effigy."
Jesus. Definitely not a California girl. Dizzy from breathing the rarefied air of her Yankee scruples, Quinn sighed and said, "All right. We will go to the gar—guest house."
The drive out of town was short; upper Main wasn't that far from the quaint shopping district. The street itself took a sharp turn past a rather grand driveway flanked by two massive granite gateposts—the entrance to the Bennett estate. For reasons he couldn't define, Quinn had so far avoided that end of Main. Hastings House, a block or so down the hill, was the nearest he'd gotten, and even there, Quinn had felt edgy.
Olivia punched in a code and the heavy iron gates that blocked the drive swung slowly open. Quinn drove through them, noting with satisfaction that the landscaping had suffered since his father's tenure. It wasn't so much that the big copper beech was gone—over that, he felt genuine sorrow—as that the grounds simply didn't look loved anymore. Not the way his father had loved them. Francis Leary had been devoted to his job as gardener for the Bennetts; he'd loved every hosta, shrub, and ivy leaf as if it were his own. Like a country doctor, he had felt the need always to be there, which is why he rarely went out on his one day off.
And then came the discovery of Alison in the quarry, and the first round of questions from the police, and the humiliating confrontation between his father and Olivia's father immediately afterward. Quinn could still remember every word of it. There had been no presumption of innocence, no strong expression of support by Owen Bennett; only a cold, seething declaration of shock and anger.
After that came the coup de grace: Francis Leary was fired. Owen Bennett wanted him and Quinn out of the house within twenty-four hours. Quinn could still see his father standing in the small living room of the cottage with his head bowed, just ... taking it. Quinn had been so frustrated by his father's meekness that he had charged at Bennett with every intention of knocking him down and killing him, but his father had called him back with a single syllable: "Son."
Such memories consumed Quinn as he parked the truck in front of the cottage that had been built expressly for lucky gardeners to live in. Farther up the winding drive was the main house, blessedly obscured from Quinn's view by a massive bank of rhododendrons. With any luck he'd be able to get in and then out of the cottage without the Bennetts being any the wiser.
Maybe to Olivia the house looked different, but not to Quinn. True, the paint scheme had been changed from a drab gray to a pleasing slate blue with ivory trim and ruby-red shutters. But from the gingerbread gables to the diamond-paned casements, the Hansel and Gretel cottage looked like ... well, like home. Home before the troubles came and forced them to leave it forever.
"You're very quiet, Quinn, and it's making me nervous," Olivia said as he stared at the impossibly charming house.
Quinn tried to lie himself out of his mood. "I thought I heard a mourning dove calling, and it's way too early in the year—that's all."
Olivia seemed relieved. "Come on in, then. You won't believe what I've got for you." She scrambled out of the front seat and by the time Quinn caught up with her, she had fished a key from her bag and was letting herself in.
She was right: The cottage didn't look or feel or even smell the way he remembered. The plain white walls were gone, and so was the vague but pervasive mustiness. All the dark trim had been painted out, and floral wallpaper made the place look both cozier and yet somehow larger than when he lived there. There was more furniture, much of it rattan and wicker. The lighting was warm and discreet, the refinished floors gleamed like spread honey.
And the smell was downright fragrant: Quinn could swear it was coming from the wallpaper. Whereas before the cottage had had a kind of bland, rental quality to it, now it could probably hold its own in the pages of House Beautiful.
Quinn gave the poofy, flouncy fabric over the windows a wary nod and asked, "Your work?"
There were miles of it, florals and stripes and plaids everywhere Quinn looked. To him it was overwhelming, but what did he know? "That easy chair looks familiar," he ventured.
"Well, okay, that is from before," Olivia confessed. "It's been slipcovered."
"My dad used to like to read in it," Quinn said quietly. He tried to picture his father sitting in the chintz-covered chair with a book about Frederick Law Olmsted on his lap, but he came up empty. The room belonged to women now.
Quinn turned to Olivia, who was watching him with an intensity that surprised him. Again the color sprang to her cheeks. Again he took heart.
"You're right about this place," he mused. "I feel as if we're standing in some parallel universe. Everything's the same—and yet it's not the same at all." On a whim, he touched her cheek lightly with the back of his fingers and said softly, "Especially you."
She didn't pull away, but her lashes fluttered down in a gesture that struck him as both shy and seductive at the same time. What was it about her? She was driving him quietly crazy.
She said, "And yet you're just the same as I remember."
Quinn shook his head. "No. Not the same at all. Seventeen years ago, I wouldn't have dared do ... this," he said, lowering his lips to hers in a kiss. It was lightly given, the kind of kiss a very cool quarterback might give a slightly geeky classmate—but it left Quinn's heart pounding wildly in his chest.
He pulled back, as if he'd got a mild shock, and repeated with wonder, "Not the same at all."
Somehow Olivia didn't seem nearly as self-conscious as he was feeling. Those long, thick eyelashes fluttered back up, revealing eyes that were dark, dancing, forthright. She didn't say a word, only lifted her arms around his neck and pulled him back for another kiss—this one hot, hard, and wet.
Sacked!
But not for long. Still reeling, Quinn felt a rush of testosterone and saw a sudden vision of the end zone in his mind's eye as he caught her in his arms. He was determined to score. His mouth claimed hers with a roughness that was not him, and yet when he felt her gasp, then yield to it, he knew that she was as willing as he was able. He backed her against the sofa and she crumpled into it, lying on her back, legs bent at the knees, her feet on the floor. He fell on top of her as if she were a loose ball that he didn't want anyone else, ever, to possess.
"Liv, Liv, where have you been?'' he said in a muffled voice as he kissed her throat, nipping, tasting, then soothing with more kisses. He was wild to have her, then, there, anywhere. He gave no more thought to her parents up the hill than he once had to fans in the bleachers; he was focused solely, strictly, and very irrationally, on the soft, sweet-smelling body that was arching restlessly beneath his own. His hand ran up the outside of her leg, but outside of her legs was not where he wanted to be.
Good God, son, what are you doing?
Quinn's head shot up. His father's voice was too loud, too clear, to be ignored. He very nearly said "Dad?" but then he realized it was the house. Chintz or no chintz, the gardener's cottage was so bound up with Francis Leary that part of his soul was still drifting through its rooms.
"Oh, damn," Quinn murmured. He lifted his weight from Olivia and propped himself up on one elbow.
"What?'' she said. Her eyes, huge, took on a tragic cast.
"Nothing," he murmured, gently raking her hair away from her face. She was so beautiful, so vulnerable just then.
So utterly seducible. "This is not the best place," he said at last.
"It's fine, sure it is," she argued, still breathless.
He could see streaks of green in her eyes. How had he never noticed before? "You're so beautiful."
She gave him a rueful smile. "I can tell."
"If we were anywhere else ..." He traced her reddened upper lip with the tip of his finger. "I asked you before if you were married, but ... are you seeing someone?"
"Seeing someone?" she said, a little blankly. "Do I act as if I am?"
He couldn't believe it. For Olivia Bennett not to be claimed, not to be taken—well, he just couldn't believe his good luck. "Plan to see me, then," he whispered to her. "Often."
She snapped back into focus. "You always were a cocky son of a bitch." The palms of her hands were flat against his chest. She used them to push him away, but not so violently that he had to consider it a rejection. It was more like a gesture of miffedness.
She sat up alongside him and raked her fingers through the curls of her hair—which remained exactly the same as before—and then she straightened her sweater and stood up. "I have absolutely no idea why that happened," she announced.
Oh, yes; definitely miffed. Quinn refrained from reminding her that she was the one who had trumped his kiss with one that had left them both senseless. He said with a shrug, "I assume you have to beat men off with a stick every day."
Her response to that was a wry smile, but he could see that her humor had improved. "C'mon," she told him, taking his hands in hers and pulling him up from the sofa. "I promised you a surprise."
"And, boy, I got one."
"Not that, dope." She began pulling him toward the bedroom, the bedroom that used to be his.
Flirt, imp, femme fatale—she was all of those and yet none of those. Completely bemused now, Quinn let her drag him along. One thought, and one thought only, possessed him: If I can just channel all that energy of hers into sex, somewhere safe ...
"Surprise!" she cried, gesturing toward a three-board bench at the foot of the bed.
He stared at the bench in a state of amazement. There, polished to sunshine brightness, was arrayed every trophy and citation he'd ever won. His father had cherished them until their nighttime flight out of Keepsake, and Olivia apparently had appointed herself keeper of the flame. Quinn hadn't thought about the awards in seventeen years. Now, here they all were, lined up like golden ghosts to mock his thwarted ambitions:
STATE ALL-STAR FOOTBALL TEAM
CHAMPION DEBATE TEAM
STATE ALL-STAR FOOTBALL TEAM
FOR HIGHEST ACHIEVEMENT IN MATH
MVP, KEEPSAKE COUGARS
MVP, KEEPSAKE COUGARS
DISTINGUISHED ACHIEVEMENT, LATIN STUDIES
"Pretty impressive," she said, beaming.
"Uh-huh."
Quinn picked up the biggest trophy, an ungainly, gaudy tribute to his prowess in Latin, of all things. He'd taken the course as an extracurricular activity because he thought it would help him in law school. But that was before he became disillusioned with the concept of due process.
He put the trophy back down and glanced at Olivia, who was standing alongside him with a proud look on her face, her arms folded across her chest in a self-satisfied way that he remembered well.
"So," he said, turning his back on the bench, the bed, and her. "Wanna have those sandwiches now?"
Chapter 6
"Exhume her? Are you insane?"
Quinn Leary sat in Chief Vickers's office with thighs apart, his fingertips making contact across the divide there. His broad shoulders hulked forward in a relaxed, almost insolent way as he contemplated the dumbfounded police chief. Quinn wasn't exactly enjoying the encounter, but he wasn't exactly in pain.
"It seems like the obvious solution. They say my father murdered Alison because she was carrying his baby and had threatened to tell the Bennetts. I say that's horseshit. A DNA test ought to settle the matter once and for all."
He reached into his pocket and came up with a plastic film canister that he tossed on the police chief's desk. "Here. A snip of my father's hair. I can tell you where to find more," he said dryly, "if you need to verify that it's his. The sooner we resolve this, the better. I plan to stay in Keepsake awhile, and—let's face it—you can't afford too many more episodes like those trashed
trophies. Sooner or later, someone is going to get hurt."
Vickers barely glanced at the container. "Who told you about the trophy case? We're not letting that out."
Quinn shrugged. "It's a small town."
Someone had broken into Keepsake High and spray-painted all the football trophies in the trophy case. Worse, they'd smashed in all the team photos, many of them signed. Quinn had heard it from Mrs. Dewsbury, who had heard it from the janitor's sister—but Vickers didn't need to know that.
The chief rocked back in his chair. After a thoughtful pause, he said, "What do you really want, Quinn? Why are you here?"
Quinn nodded at the container sitting on the desk blotter. "I told you: to clear my father's name."
"What difference does it make? He's dead."
"It makes a difference," Quinn said, almost wearily. "You're a son. You're a father. How can you not get it?"
"Suppose we leave my family out of this."
The chief's son Kurt had been one of Quinn's teammates: a fullback with good potential but with a chronic need to walk on the wild side. Quinn had heard (again from Mrs. Dewsbury) that after he and his dad fled Keepsake, Kurt Vickers had turned from alcohol to serious drugs—another casualty blamed on Quinn. The list kept getting longer.
Quinn said, "How do I make my request official?"
The chief snorted. "Not by bringing it here. Take it to the D.A. if you feel a burning need."
Quinn stood up and took the plastic container back. "Okay. That's what I'll do."
He was halfway out the door when Vickers said, "Francis Leary did it, Quinn. You just can't bring yourself to believe it, that's all. But the evidence is there. Alison confided to a friend that she thought your father was a hunk. He was seen staring at her just a little too keenly. The rope that hanged her came from his potting shed. Fibers from it were found in his truck. No one could corroborate his alibi for the time of death. And last of all, he ran. Innocent men don't run."
"I repeat: horseshit. That's not even decent circumstantial evidence, and you know it."
Keepsake Page 6
