Keepsake (42 page)

It was the perfect place: private, but too haunted by memories of Quinn's father for Quinn to try any funny business.

"Miracourt is open late tonight," she added. "I won't be able to meet you there until ten. Park off the estate somewhere and then walk in."

"All right, I'll see you then," Quinn said, searching her features for some sign of welcome.

He didn't find it.

****

By the time nine-thirty rolled around, Olivia had already made a quick trip home to change from her slacks—obviously too tight—to a denim jumper with an empire waist, which she slipped over a black top and tights. It was the kind of outfit she'd wear on a cool night in front of a fire with someone she loved.

The night was cool, anyway.

She drove to the cottage second-guessing herself the whole way. What if her mother had guests? What if she decided to drag them down after dinner to ooh and ahh over some new antique in her charming guest house? Olivia thought about it and decided that if that were the case, she would simply introduce Quinn to everyone as the father of her forthcoming baby, say good night, and the hell with them all.

I will not put this baby through any more stress. This baby comes first.
It was such a new priority in Olivia's life, and it was all the more fierce for being new.

She drove through spitting rain to the entrance of the estate, then punched in the security code that activated the low iron gates, closing them again after she let herself in. The Hansel-and-Gretel cottage was enveloped in blackness; she had forgotten how dark that part of the estate could be. With neither flashlight nor umbrella, she had to pick her way carefully to the front door. Angry, tense, made more jumpy by the swaying moans of the trees around her, she rooted through her bag for her key, then fumbled for the lock on the darkened stoop. To the west, thunder rumbled behind flashes of light.

Getting closer.

In her hurry, she dropped her keys. "Shit!"

"Liv—?"

"Yah!" She jumped half a foot before whirling around to face the looming shadow that was Quinn. "What're you
doing,
sneaking up on me like that?"

His voice was bran-muffin dry as he said, "Sorry. I was trying to be discreet. I guess I should have shouted your name from a hundred yards away."

"Oh, never mind. Let's just get inside."

She picked up the keys, plucked the cottage key from among them, and unlocked the door. Pushing it open, she let Quinn precede her; presumably he remembered his way around.

"Shall I turn on a light?" he asked from inside the dark hall.

"I'll do it."

Olivia stepped over the threshold in a state of high alert. That wasn't just some burglar or serial killer waiting for her; it was Quinn Leary. Her heart was pounding loud enough to be heard up at her parents' house. Olivia took a deep breath to calm herself, but all she accomplished was to inhale the scent of Quinn. It rocketed her back to dark and intimate times; she felt a spasm of hatred for him, hard on the heels of her lust.

How could he do that to her? How could he whip her around emotionally like that? Just...just standing there!

It's not him, it's the hormones, stupid. Try to remember that.

There was a fifteen-watt lamp on a semicircular hall table that stood under an oval mirror just inside the door. Olivia turned it on and Quinn stepped back from her with what she took to be exaggerated, ironic courtesy.

Immediately Olivia went around and closed the shutters, top and bottom, in the two sitting rooms that fed into the
hall. She didn't bother turning on any other lights.

"We can talk in here," she said, beckoning him to have a seat in the parlor.

He declined her choice of a chair for him—too late, she remembered that it
had been his father's favorite—
and sat on the love seat instead. It was Olivia who took the easy chair, covered now in unmanly chintz.

The moment had the feel of a summit meeting between warring allies. If there was some way to ease the tension—a joke, a pleasantry—Olivia couldn't think of it. She was like a wader trying to get her footing in shifting sands and roiling surf. She didn't have energy for anything except to keep from getting knocked down and sucked out to sea.

"The baby is due September thirtieth," she announced, no doubt unnecessarily. "Everything looks fine so far. And by the way, I do not plan to find out its sex beforehand."

"It's a girl."

"Is that so?" she said. "Well, gee, now you've ruined the surprise for me."

"Sorry," he said. He drummed his fingertips on the rolled arm of the loveseat. "It's just that I know."

"September thirtieth," she repeated, looking around for the thread of her thought. "Naturally I don't expect you to contribute to his support. You know as well as anyone that I'm perfectly capable of earning all we'll need. And, of course, I have expectations."

"Do your parents know that you're pregnant?"

"They do not. Yet."

"Then I don't think you should be so quick to count on those expectations."

"And I don't think you should be so quick to judge my parents. They would never let their granddau—son starve, or go to any college that wasn't Yale."

"I'm sure you're right," he said, taking the hit. "But as I've seen firsthand how fickle life can be, I'd feel more comfortable if my daughter had a little something in the bank."

"Stop it, Quinn. Stop calling h
... it
... your daughter."

He looked at her with edgy surprise. "But the baby is mine. And the baby's a girl. I believe that makes her my daughter."

Another wave washed over Olivia, this one of resentment. How dare he stroll back to Keepsake and begin lording it over her? She had been brought up by an authoritarian. One in a lifetime was one more than she needed.

She stood up. "I know how tenacious you can be, Quinn, and frankly, I'm not prepared to fight you. I don't need any more stress. So, yes, you can set up a trust fund at the appropriate time. Our attorneys will be in touch. In the meantime, I would very much appreciate it if you'd leave Keepsake as quickly and quietly as you came," she said, turning away.

She was being ironic, of course; by now everyone in town knew Quinn had returned. As for leaving quickly, she had no hope at all that he would do it, but that didn't stop her from trying. With her arms folded across her chest and her back to him, she said to him for the second time in her life, "Please? Would you please just go?"

A mistake, to turn your back on an enemy that was once an ally.

She felt his hands touch her shoulders lightly as he said her name, and she reacted explosively, whirling out of his reach and shouting "No!
No
!
at him the way she'd been taught to do at an attacker.

After their formal, civilized exchange, her eruption seemed all the more shocking. Quinn looked stunned, then offended, by turns. He put his palms face out to her, reassuring her in a scathing way that he meant no harm.

"Listen to me," he said. "Just
... listen. I came back because you and I, the two smartest kids in school—and, I'm sure we thought, on the planet—have managed, either accidentally or on purpose, to get you pregnant. That is a fact. You are carrying our child. I can see it in your face
... in the way you carry yourself
... in the way the wheels of your mind turn in a different way now.

"Which means that I am part of your life whether you like it or not. I wish you liked it, Liv. God knows, I wish you did," he said in a husky plea. "Just
say the word
... one simple 'yes'
.
..."

Her icy silence was far more final than any shouted "No, goddammit!" could be.

"All right, all right. I understand. I do. But in the meantime, I am
here.
I'm not going to
California
before the baby is born, and—truth?—not after. I'm here. I'm here for you, and I'm here for her. This child is going to have a mother
and
a father in her life. Not like me. I'm here, Olivia," he said, watching her warily. "Deal with it."

Her plan for dealing with it was not to deal with it at all. Compared to everything else that had rolled over her so far, he was a tsunami. She didn't dare try standing up to him. Her only chance—and it was slim—was to run.

Which was what she did. "Do what you want," she told him. "But don't plan ever to see me again. Whatever you have to say, it will have to be through an attorney."

All of his composure, all of his confidence, suddenly dissolved. In a voice thick with emotion he said, "Livvy
... Livvy, don't do this! You were entitled to cut out my heart and hurl it to the winds, but this
... Liv, it's a
baby,
for God's sake
... yours and mine, conceived in love
... more love than we'll ever have for anyone else but her
... for other babies of ours
... Liv, can't you see that? Don't, don't do this. Don't cut yourself off from me."

"What do you expect me to do?" she cried. "You've made my life completely unbearable. I'm going to have to get through it as best as I can. The baby is my biggest complication—and my only consolation. And if I—"

What was she doing? She wasn't fleeing anymore; like a fool, she was trying to face him down. Run.
Run.

"Go away, Quinn.
Please
? So that I can lock up here and get on with my life?'' She was losing her footing, slipping in the shifting sands of her loyalties. Tears welled up. She wiped away one that spilled over.

Quinn, who had not dared to touch her during his impassioned plea, took her hand and dropped a feathery kiss on the wet spot, and then, even more tenderly, kissed the tiny red blister on the edge of her little finger.

Closing her eyes to hold back other tears, rivers of them, she let him have his way this one, this last, time. She could feel his warm breath on her fingers, hear his voice whisper, "I love you," as he relinquished her hand. But she didn't see him leave, because she couldn't bear to watch.

She kept her eyes closed until she heard the door of the cottage shut behind him, and then she collapsed on the love seat that he had vacated. In misery, she slid her hand over the soft brushed cotton of the upholstery, searching for his leftover warmth. But Quinn had been out of it too long; all traces of him were gone.

Olivia allowed him time to walk down the hill and off the estate, and then she went out into the hall where she took one last look around at the flowered walls, overstuffed chairs and well-worn antiques of the cozy cottage. She would not come here again.

A clap of thunder made her jump. She wanted to get home, to hide under the covers, to put this latest and most searing trauma behind her. She wanted to sing soothing songs to her baby and think happy thoughts of impending motherhood.

Instead she turned off the lamp, opened the door, and stepped over the threshold into the arms of a living nightmare.

"Inside, bitch!"

It was his voice more than his hold on her that terrified Olivia. It was crazed and singsong and out of touch. If only she didn't know it so well!

She tore loose from his grip, surprising him with her strength. Her mind shut down in denial as her body reacted on automatic:
No, this can't be happening. To the car, to the car.

She made it to the car, made it to the door, made it to the handle on the door.

And then he had her again.

He yanked her by her arm hard enough to pull her off her feet. She stumbled, fell to the ground on one knee, felt something tear and heard something crack, and then she was being dragged back in agony to the cottage she had just disavowed. She got out a single cry for help before he slapped her with his free hand, slapped some stars into her, and then got a firmer grip around her, muffling her mouth and dragging her the rest of the way easily. She tried to bite. No good; he held her too tightly for that.

What, what—what could she do? Kicking, screaming, biting, all those tricks—useless! She cursed her small size
... karate
... why hadn't she learned? Her heart was thundering, her lungs laboring, as he kicked open the door and threw her inside.

He lunged after her, an easy prey: his eyes were adjusted, his own strength intact. But she eluded him again and staggered from sofa to table to chair to table, overturning whatever she could in his path. Eventually he tripped, swore, reached out, grabbed her ankle and caused new and more wrenching pain as she went nose down on a musty oriental carpet. She should scream—but who had the time? She was too busy trying to claw out of his grip.

She pulled her ankle free of his hold but he caught her other one, and this time he had her. He mounted her from behind, crushing her under his weight and straddling her the way he would a horse. "Make a sound... and I'll break your neck," he said, even more out of breath than she was. He grabbed one of her hands, then the other, and twisted them behind her back. In two quick seconds she was handcuffed. Handcuffed!