Keepsake

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  And yet there she was, too tired to do any of them. All she could do was negotiate. "Quinn, I want some answers. Before anything else can happen, I want you to expla—"

  "Shh. Let me make it up to you ... for before. Shh. I won't insult you by saying I'm sorry. The words aren't adequate for what I've done."

  He let out an odd little laugh, as if he were indulging in his own private joke. And then he said in an aching voice, "I love you, Olivia. I love you so much ... so much! you're everything to me." Holding her close, he caressed the back of her hair and whispered, "I love you more with each breath I take. Please believe that. No matter what happens, please believe that."

  She nearly broke down in tears. Now he had to tell her? Now, when she felt as drained as a pool in January? She had been waiting to hear those words from him for seventeen years. Perhaps not consciously—but somewhere buried deep in her psyche, there had always been an awareness that other men were a waste of time. Only one was a match, more than a match, for her. And now she knew, beyond a doubt, that Quinn Leary loved her.

  So why wasn't she jumping with joy?

  She didn't know what to say to him—he seemed to want her to say nothing—so she snuggled against him and murmured innocently, "Are you hungry for that pizza yet?"

  "Nope," he said, lifting her face to his. "You?"

  She wasn't queasy anymore, but: "No pizza for me."

  "I've got a better idea," he said, lifting her effortlessly in his arms.

  "What? Lasagna?" she asked with a tired smile.

  "Not exactly," he said, headed for the stairs.

  "Fisherman's Platter?"

  "Keep babbling, woman; it'll make the climb easier."

  "Quinn, no," she said, laughing despite her exhaustion. "You can't keep doing this! I'm too heavy!"

  "Granite is heavy. You're a basket of laundry."

  "You say that now, at the bottom of the stairs; what happens when we both go tumbling ass over teakettle from the top?"

  "Then we'll die in one another's arms."

  "You say that now, at the bottom of the stairs."

  "Shh."

  He carried her up and no one fell, and then he carried her into her bedroom, just as he had their first time, and laid her on the bed, just as he had their first time. On New Year's Eve they had been wild and hungry and just a little bit drunk. Tonight they were tired and sorry and just a little too sober. But what they lacked in fire, they made up for in tenderness. Quinn loved her, and she loved him, and every touch, every kiss, every caress as they made love was wrapped in that declaration, one for the other.

  I love you, Quinn. I love you. When Rand wouldn't let me in his treehouse and you built me my own, I loved you for that.

  I did it because I loved you, although at the time I thought it was just to spit in your brother's eye.

  And when you left those bright red roses in the Maxwell House can on the table in my treehouse? I loved you for that.

  You knew it was me?

  Who else? Not my brother!

  That time you fell out of the treehouse, my heart stopped.

  My mother told me you were a hero, carrying me home. I was always too embarrassed to thank you. Thank you. I love you.

  And I was always too embarrassed to thank you for defending me when Old Man Ryckhart accused me of stealing his power saw.

  One of Rand's friends framed you, but I have no proof. Rand defended you, too, Quinn. You probably don't know that.

  Shh. What's past is past. I love you. I love you.

  They fell asleep in one another's arms, two lovers who agreed, if only for the night, to spend it in that treehouse of theirs.

  ****

  Olivia awoke before Quinn did. It was early, but she knew that he'd be spending the morning getting Mrs. Dewsbury settled in from the hospital, and she wanted to do something lovely and domestic for him first: make breakfast. After the mortifying empty-cupboard episode on New Year's Day, Olivia had made a point of stockpiling every breakfast item she could think of. She wasn't in such great shape for throwing together a lunch, and God forbid she should have to make dinner—but she could do breakfast in style now.

  She eased the comforter back, leaving an exhausted-looking Quinn quietly snoring on his side of the bed, and went downstairs to take sausages and a can of OJ out of her freezer. After starting the meat defrosting in the microwave, she made up a pitcher of the juice, which she left on the counter to breathe. After that she got the coffee going. She was thinking omelettes. How hard could they be? For some reason she was truly enjoying puttering about in her kitchen.

  The reason was sleeping upstairs in her bed.

  It was chilly in the house; she needed her robe. Back up the stairs she went. The robe was in her bedroom, hanging on a funky clothes tree that she'd found while cruising the Brimfield flea market with Eileen one fine day in May. In the glow of the hall light, she tiptoed across the room and was in the process of wrapping herself in floral flannel when the timer on the microwave sounded.

  Beep, beep, beep, beep. Not especially loud—but Quinn shot up in bed as if four different cannons had blasted. He looked disoriented, even spooked. Olivia knew the look from the day before; she had hoped never to see it again. But then he spotted her standing near the bed, and his demeanor relaxed.

  It felt so very good to see that happen. She grinned and whispered, "Good morning, pizza man."

  "It can't be morning," he said with a moan as he dropped back on his pillow. "I feel as if I've been shoveling snow all night."

  "Then go back to sleep." She pulled the covers over him and kissed his brow. "I'll let you know when breakfast is ready."

  "Mmm." He yawned heavily and said, "Who's cooking it?"

  "Hey! I am," she said, sending an accent pillow sailing over his head.

  He chuckled; it was sweet music to her ears. She was on her way out to the kitchen to cook up her first storm ever when she spied something shiny on the white carpet beneath the chair over which Quinn had folded his pants.

  "Huh." Like a trout after a bright, shiny lure, she swooped down on it. "Quinn? Look what I found on the floor. Is this a class ring?''

  His head came up. Propping himself on his elbows, he said in a surprisingly tense voice, "Yes. It's... mine."

  "But you told me you'd thrown your ring off a bridge," she said, moving toward a lamp in the hall.

  "I—that was a figure of speech, that's all," he said. He threw back the covers and got out of bed.

  "This isn't your ring. It couldn't possibly fit your finger—now or then." She stuck it under the light for a closer look.

  "Jesus Christ, Liv! Do you have any concept of personal property?" he said, coming after her.

  "It's from our year," she said, reading the date on the side of the stone. She began rotating the band, looking for initials. Quinn snatched the ring angrily away from her, but not before she had a chance to read them.

  "O.R.B. Owen Randall Bennett," she said with a puzzled look at Quinn.

  "Oscar Reginald Baxter. Orville Raymond Bonaparte. Obadiah Rufus Blackw—"

  "Very funny," she said, trying to snatch it back without success. "There were no Oscars, Orvilles, or Obadiahs in our class. This is Rand's ring. But Rand told everyone he lost it swimming at the quarry. How did you end up with it? Quinn?"

  Her voice had been edging higher with each succeeding sentence. By the time she got to Quinn's name it sounded shrill, even to her.

  He looked so determined not to tell her anything. His eyebrows were drawn together, his mouth was clamped shut, his breathing was labored. His eyes glared at her through a curtain of suspicion. Prisoners of war must look that way all the time. The rising panic she felt was balanced by rising anger, and both were overwhelmed by plunging hopes. What kind of relationship could they possibly have if he regarded her as his number-one enemy?

  "Damn you, Quinn!" she cried, hurling the words at him like dinner plates. "How can you treat me this way? It's offensive. It's insulting. It's—
you said that you loved me!" she cried, because for her, it all came down to that. "I would never do this to you! I would never shut you out from something that was eating at me!"

  He stood there, shirtless and in his drawstring pajama bottoms, looking more than ever like someone in shackles. Oh, how she dreaded that look, that posture.

  "Quinn, Quinn, we can't go on this way," she said, shivering despite the robe she wore. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to steady her nerves. "Please—if you love me, tell me: Where did you get that ring?"

  ****

  Quinn tightened his fist around the ring and wondered why the floor didn't just open up and let him drop straight into hell. Apparently it was someone's plan that he should writhe on earth for a while first. He stared at the face of the only woman he would ever love, stared at her dark mop of curls and her blazing look of hurt and the way she bit her lip, trying not to cry, and he thought, this is the way to make me burn alive: force me to watch her suffer.

  "I can't tell you," he said at last, in excruciating agony himself. "Please, Liv, don't ask."

  Her sigh was quick and frustrated. " You would want to know!" she cried. "You would demand an answer!" She turned away, unable to look at him anymore. He saw her clamp her hand over her mouth and bow her head, as if she were going to be sick.

  The worst of it was, she was right. He would want to know. He would demand an answer. Did she deserve anything less than he himself would expect? He had grown up with her; he had watched her struggle every day to be accepted as the equal of the males around her. The town princess she might have been, but he had never known either girl or woman who wanted less to be sheltered, less to be coddled. Just give it to me straight. It was her credo in life.

  But still he couldn't tell her. Some instinct in him that ran deeper than logic told him it was better not to disillusion her.

  He saw her shoulders lift with the huge, deep breath she took before hauling out the last big weapon in her armory: the ultimatum.

  She turned slowly around to face him. Her chin was high, her gaze steady and true as she said, "This all has to do with Alison. Tell me where you got the ring, Quinn," she said gravely. "Tell me, or it has to be over between us. You know that it has to be."

  It was over between them whether he told her or not; that was the agony of it. The only question was, should he let her continue living in blissful ignorance? If—when—she found out about her brother someday, would she hate Quinn still more for not having told her?

  It was a measure of how much Quinn respected her that he thought she would.

  "Myra gave it to me," he said at last.

  It took her aback, but not for long. "Myra! Then she stole it!"

  "Alison gave it to her."

  "Alison! Then Alison stole it!"

  "Your brother gave it to Alison."

  Her head was spinning now. "What? That doesn't make sense. Why would Rand give his ring to my cousin?"

  "He loved her."

  "Of course he did. We all did. But not to give her his class ring."

  "He loved her. He loved her the way a man loves a woman. The way I love you."

  The emotional body slam sent Olivia staggering. Her mouth fell open in shock and anger; she clutched at her lapels in a huddle of denial. "How can you dare say that?"

  "Ask Myra."

  "Myra lies! Everyone knows that! You can't believe Myra. She lies! Look what she said about being the one to take your ... take your-—she'll say anything to be the center of attention. You said so yourself!"

  "I believe her," he made himself admit. "She knew too many details."

  "You're naive, Quinn! She made them all up!"

  "I'm naive?" he said with gentle anguish.

  "All right, fine!" Olivia conceded. "I'm naive! At least I'm aware of it But you! You'll believe any—" She stopped and sucked in her breath, stunned by yet another thought. "When did she tell you this?"

  "Last evening."

  More shock, new fury. "And you went from hearing that vile slander straight to my bed? How could you?" she cried. "When you knew what this would do to you and me... to me and my family. My God... I can't believe this! You go dragging your feet through a muck of lies and then you march right in and make love to me?''

  In his black despair, Quinn saw black humor. "That's not quite true. I didn't have any luck the first time I tried, remember?"

  He was all too aware that he had felt miserably unable to make anything happen then. He had tried to bully himself into potency, which was absurd; he couldn't have made love to her in that frame of mind in a million years.

  And meanwhile, Olivia was staring at him with a look that transcended shock: It burned with loathing and contempt. Maybe it was better that way. If he were forced to back away from her, bowing and scraping and with cap in hand, at least he'd have an excuse to resent her. It wasn't much, hanging that old princess label on her again, but it would have to do.

  "Get out," she said in a shaking voice. "Just please get dressed and get out."

  It was time to do just that. He had overestimated her. He shouldn't have been surprised by that, and yet he was. Surprised—and bitter. She should have respected him enough to know that he wouldn't tell her something so appalling without knowing it was true. As it was, Rand's letter was burning a hole in his pocket. He had no idea what he was going to do with it.

  Olivia tailed after him into the bedroom and stood there as Quinn pulled on his trousers right over his PJs. He was in a hurry. He wanted to sail out of there on a wave of resentment; he knew it would be easier that way.

  But Olivia had never been one to make things easy.

  "You have no proof, you know," she said, practically taunting him about it. "Only one woman's word, and a ring that could have come from anywhere. Maybe Rand just thought he lost it. It could have fallen off his finger onto the blanket before he went swimming at the senior picnic. How would he know? He's a guy; they're always losing things. Then she picked it up and worked out a whole fantasy for herself. Myra had a thing for Rand; everyone knew that. She probably resented that he hardly looked at her, and she made up the story. Made it all up! It's the obvious, logical interpretation of events."

  In self-imposed silence, Quinn pulled on his undershirt and shot one arm, then the other, into the blue sand-washed shirt that Olivia had liked so well on him.

  She circled him the way a country lawyer would, pointing out his flaws for an imaginary jury. "You know I'm right, Quinn. If this were about anyone else, you'd use your formidable powers of logic to figure out the most likely, the most logical scenario. You'd reach the same conclusions I just did."

  He tucked his shirt into his pants and tightened his belt, all without looking at her.

  "But no-oo. You're determined to clear your father's name at any cost. What's wrong? You couldn't wait for the exhumation? You had to jump at this outrageous, sordid version of events? It doesn't bother you that you're being irrational?''

  He patted his pockets. Wallet? Pen? Comb?

  "How unlike you, Quinn, to be irrational. You, the finest thinker at Keepsake High."

  He looked around the room. Anything left? Nope. He traveled light. The razor, the toothbrush, the roll-on—to hell with 'em.

  She stopped her pacing and pointed an accusing finger at him. "You know what I think? I think you're looking to sabotage my family in any way you can. It bothers you—doesn't it?—that they're well regarded around here. You think that by tearing them down, you can somehow build your father back up. It doesn't work that way, Quinn. I hate to keep harping, but again—illogical."

  Should he say good-bye? Interrupt her harangue? Probably not. She wouldn't hear him, anyway. He glanced at the door, ready to make his break.

  "Myra's a liar," she said, faltering a little. "If not a liar, then ... then at least an exaggerator of the first order. You probably just misunderstood her, Quinn," she said with an anguished look. "Men don't speak the same language as women. Haven't you read Deborah Tanne
n?"

  Tannen. As if.

  He sighed.

  For whatever reason, that got Olivia going again. "At least admit you could be wrong!" she cried. "Is that so much to ask? You're being so irrational, Quinn. Think about it! Someone would have picked up on the two of them. Some old biddy would have got wind of it and gone straight to my mother—or my aunt. You can't keep a love affair secret—not around here. Look at us! The whole town knows!"

  He allowed himself to respond, not to what she said, but to the pleading tone in her voice as she said it. "You could have had enough faith in me to believe me, Liv," he murmured.

  One little opening. That's all he gave her. One tiny opening. It ended up being the perfect place to drive the last nail into the coffin of their relationship.

  "Believe you? Why should I? Myra's a known liar. The story's incredible. And there is no proof! You. Have. No. Proof. Show me the damned proof." she shrieked, rushing at him with a shove of frustration as her rage came crashing through her veneer of reason.

  Caught off guard by her ferocity, he staggered back. Something in him snapped, a seventeen-year-old rubber band wound a little too tight. "You want your proof so goddamned much? Here," he said, reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out the folded blue sheet and flung it at her. "Here's your goddamned proof!"

  He walked away. She could read it or she could flush it, he didn't care. In the hall, he stopped long enough to slap Rand's ring down on the table. Let her deep-six it in the quarry if she wanted to. Anything to bring this sorry adventure to an end.

  He was outside, five steps from his truck, when he heard a window above him being thrown open. Despite himself, he looked up at it.

  "You couldn't let well enough alone!" she screamed, obviously ready to break down altogether. "You couldn't just prove someone's innocence. Not you! Not the mighty Quinn! You had to take it one step further! You had to prove someone else was guilty! I hope you're happy now! Damn you, Quinn! I hope you're happy!"

  He felt as if he'd been shot between the eyes. His last words to her were: "I didn't call Myra, so help me God. She called me."