Keepsake (36 page)

"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 Tannen?"

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."

But Olivia couldn't hear him, not above her own heartrending wails.

It wasn't definite that
Rand
killed Alison. There was no proof.

After a morning of emotional devastation, that single uncertainty was all that Olivia had left to cling to. So many other horrors were certain now. It was certain that
Rand
was the father of Alison's baby. That Olivia's relationship with her family was changed forever. That she and Quinn were through.

She spent hours of heart-wrenching tears and unbearable agony holed up in her townhouse before being thrown into a sudden, violent panic.

The ring
... the letter. They're evidence that could be used to indict Rand.

It was the most obvious danger in the world, and it had taken her most of the day to see it.

She scooped up the letter and the ring from her bed and began rushing around her townhouse looking for a hiding place. A closet? A vase? A bag of A & P coffee? Her jewelry box! Yes, somewhere obvious like that; the police would never look there. Of course they would! Somewhere else. The box of Kleenex on her nightstand? No one would ever look there. No, too risky! What if she threw the box in the recycle bin by mistake when the Kleenex were gone?

What if she did? That would be the best thing—to get rid of the evidence. She didn't even know if the letter was
real. She was assuming it had come from
Myra
, along with the ring. Maybe
Myra
had forged it!

She studied the letter through swollen eyes. It was
Rand
's handwriting, all right, as distinctive as a thumbprint. She ran to the cupboard and grabbed a box of matches, then lit one and held a corner of the letter in the flame. It caught.

What was she doing? She couldn't do that! It was destroying evidence, against the law! She smacked the letter on the countertop and, even more panicky now, put out the smoldering flame with the sleeve of her robe. The last
I love you
was scorched, but not
Rand
's signature. So deep was Olivia's despair that she didn't know whether she should feel happy or tragic about it.