Keepsake

Wonderful, witty, humorous writing

--The Romance Reader
 

KEEPSAKE.
 
It's not a hand-made quilt, or an ivory pin, or a pretty small box for treasures
....

It's the name of a postcard-perfect town in
Connecticut
.
 
From its quaint gazebo to its white-steepled church and village green, Keepsake is the kind of place most would love to call home.
 
It's home to Olivia Bennett, the town princess who has a charming shop there.
 
It was home once to Quinn Leary, the son of her family's gardener:
 
Quinn fled as a teenager with his father who was accused of a murder he didn't commit.
 
And Keepsake is home, still, to someone with mayhem on his mind.
 
When Quinn returns after an absence of seventeen years, he has one desire:
 
to prove his father's innocence.
 
It's not until he sees his childhood school rival, now a grown woman, that he realizes he harbors another but equally passionate desire--and that the two are tragically at odds.

"Antoinette Stockenberg is one hell of a writer.
 
KEEPSAKE
lives up to its name:
 
it's a keeper.
 
The story is fast-paced and reflects a small
New England
town as few books do.
 
Olivia is a warm, intelligent heroine, and everyone will jump for joy after reading about Quinn."

--Harriet Klausner

"Ms. Stockenberg does a stellar job in this absorbing story that probes deep into the painful heart of a small community.
 
KEEPSAKE
is a keeper."
 
4 1/2 stars

--
Romantic Times
 

For Christine and Janine

The women of
Keepsake were afraid.

Young mothers moved cribs into their bedrooms for the night, and grandmothers jammed kitchen chairs against their back doors. Teenage girls agog with terror talked late on the phone with their very best friends, while their older sisters who lived alone made their boyfriends promise to stay over. The news that morning had sent shock waves of anxiety from Elm to upper
Main
: Alison Bennett's death was no suicide at all, but cold-blooded murder.

If Alison wasn't safe, who was? Her father was strict, her uncle was rich. She was the last girl in
Connecticut
anyone would have expected to find hanging from a rope above a quarry on a cold October night. That was the consensus as people turned off fewer lights than usual and tried to sleep.

No one wanted to believe that the murderer was one of Keepsake's own—but everyone knew which way the investigation was heading. Only one man in town had been questioned twice by the police about Alison, and that
was
her uncle's gardener.

As Keepsake tossed and turned, Francis Leary scanned the single shelf in his bedroom in the gardener's cottage at the foot of the Bennett estate, trying to decide which books to pack. It was an impossible dilemma, like choosing which of a litter of kittens not to drown. Tired, confused, overwhelmed by events, the gardener reached for his Gertrude
Jekyll, a signed first edition, and then wondered: Could he fit the Olmsted, too?

His son suffered no such agonies of indecision. With a lightly packed duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Quinn Leary poked his head into his father's room and said, "Dad, let's go." He was seventeen and more decisive than his father would ever be.

Francis Leary fully understood his own weaknesses and his son's strengths, but he dreaded the thought of what lay ahead: a stolen truck, a bus ride to nowhere, a life on the run. "Quinn, I know this is my idea, but... now I'm not so sure."

His son felt a surge of hope, tempered by exasperation. "You want to stay and take your chances? Fine with me. But the police will be here by morning. You won't have time to change your mind again, Dad. Understand that."

Put that way, the plan to run became more compelling. The gardener took a last look around and said nervously, "Let's go."

They locked up the cottage and waded through a sea of unraked leaves to the pickup truck, registered in the name of Alison's uncle up the hill.

Up the hill, in a bedroom with high ceilings and a marble fireplace, the dead girl's seventeen-year-old cousin and classmate lay awake in her four-poster bed as she listened to the trees bend to the moaning wind. Olivia Bennett was despondent over the loss of her cousin and shocked at the news of her cousin's pregnancy—but Olivia, who lived closer than anyone to the suspect, had no fear of him. Francis Leary had been her parents' gardener for ten years, and Olivia was con
vinced that she knew him well: g
ood men didn't kill.

At seven-thirty, Keepsake dragged itself out of bed after a night of no sleep, only to find that the man it feared had fled in the night with his son. Part of Keepsake was relieved; but the other part, the bigger part, spent the next seventeen years sleeping with one eye on the bedroom door.

The
reindeer were
a
hit
, no doubt about it. Trekking through falling snow and fading light up the far side of Town Hill, Quinn could see a moblet of
young
children pressing up against a temporary pen and pitching kernels awkwardly to a pair of tame deer within.

Borrowed from a petting zoo, he figured. Leave it to Keepsake to do Christmas proud. He got a clearer view of the town's copper-roofed gazebo at the top of the hill and saw that Santa, holding court
within
, had a fair-sized crowd of his own: The line of kids waiting to read him their lists was impressive for a town so small.

From his vantage on the hill, Quinn studied the intersection—controlled by a traffic light now—that was the center of Keepsake, quintessential
New England
town. The four corners were anchored by the same historic white-steepled church, granite town hall, one-
story library and sturdy brick-
front bank as before. Quinn searched for, and found, the little drugstore where he'd hung out during his high school years. It was a CVS now, which meant the soda fountain would be long gone. He could almost taste the strawberry shakes that were the old place's specialty; it hurt to think that they were no more.

He scanned for more landmarks and was jolted by the perky pink-and-white logo of a Dunkin' Donuts. Like the CVS, it was a jarring reminder that time had passed. He was thirty-four now, not seventeen, and on a quest more grim than hopeful. He sighed heavily, then surveyed the crowd gathered to light the town tree.

Plunge right in, or hang around the edges?

Plunge.

The crowd was thickest near the unlit tree. Several hundred citizens were drinking hot chocolate while they waited, as they did every December, for the mayor to plug in the cord and kick off the holiday. The first familiar face Quinn saw belonged to a beefy citizen wearing a jacket in the town's high-school colors. The man had been there awhile: his green cap was white with snow. When he saw Quinn, he did a double take.

"Leary
...
?
  Leary!
What the
hell
are you doing here?"

"Coach," Quinn said, greeting him with a wary nod. "It's been a long time." He held out his hand.

Coach Bronsky stared at it as if it were a bloody stump. "You've gotta be kidding," he said with loathing. He swivelled his head left and right. "Where's your old man?"

"Beyond your reach now," Quinn shot back. "He died last month." He had wondered how he'd break that news to Keepsake. Now he knew.

"Dead!" The coach's face congealed into a dark pudding of anger and resentment. "You have a hell of a nerve, in that case. You think you can stroll up here
... announce that he's kicked the bucket
... and what? Have us carry you around on our shoulders again? You ran, Leary! You left us in the lurch. Left your team
... your town
... everyone. The two of you ran like a couple of scared dogs."

Quinn stood ramrod stiff under the attack, as if he were still a quarterback in the locker room after a so-so half. He didn't have to ask whether Keepsake High had won the state championship that year. The answer was a bitter, resounding no.

Offering no excuses, he said, "I'm not here either to apologize or to explain. I'm sure not here to gloat."

"Oh yeah? Then what
are
you here for?"

Quinn's response was a snort.
To find out who killed Alison. Shouldn't that be obvious?

"To look up old friends," he said after a deadly pause.

"You won't find any in Keepsake. Get the hell out. Now."

"Thanks for the advice—but I think I'll stick around."

With a snarl the coach said, "Vickers may have other ideas," and brushed past Quinn with the force of a fullback.

Caught off balance by the shove, Quinn staggered, but he managed to say cheerfully, "Sergeant Vickers! He's still around?''

"'Chief
Vickers now, pal." The coach muscled his way into the crowd, undoubtedly to spread the word.

Not exactly the welcome wagon, but it was about what Quinn had expected. He brushed heavy snow from his bound hair and the back of his neck and wished he'd bought a hat. Too many years in
La-La
Land
, he realized. He'd forgotten what a
New England
winter was like.

The cold wet snow set the mood for his next three encounters, the first of which was with the assistant librarian. When Quinn last saw her, she had been a thirty-year-old single woman who always had enthusiastic words of praise for a quarterback who actually read the novels and not the Cliffs Notes. The lady whom he approached was easily recognized as a grayer version of herself, but any enthusiasm was in short supply.

Quinn gave her a tentative smile anyway. "Hi, Miss Damian. Read any good books lately?'' It used to be a standard greeting between them.

The librarian stared over the rim of her uplifted paper cup. Her eyes got wide and she choked on her hot chocolate, then recovered enough to gasp, "It's you! My God, how did you get here?"

"American Airlines and Hertz," he quipped.

Her voice dropped a scandalized octave. "So your father's turned himself in! All these years people have been waiting, and now—"

"They'll have to keep waiting, I'm afraid. My father passed away last month."

She stared at him. Her distress seemed to increase. "Oh, but
... but how can we be sure?" she blurted out. "He could be a fugitive still!"

Quinn blinked. He hadn't anticipated that one. "Trust me," he said dryly. "He died in my arms on November twelfth."

"Yes
... yes, I'm sure you're right," she stammered. Then she threw down her cup and hurried away.

Quinn indulged in a wry smile. Freddy Krueger couldn't have frightened her more.

He reached down to the brown stain on the fresh-fallen snow and picked up the paper cup. Come the January thaw, he wouldn't want litter popping up all over the quaint town green. He was a gardener's son, and he'd been trained well.

He was at a loss during the next encounter. The woman clearly knew him—she was sneaking looks from the edge of the crowd—but he wasn't at all sure about her.

Finally he turned directly to her, a matronly woman whose apple-cheeked face was tightly wreathed in fake fur. "
Myra
? Myra Lupidnick?" he ventured.

"Myra Lancaster now," she said, coming forward with a nervous smile to shake his hand. "I thought it was you. How are you, Quinn?"

"Not bad. It's good to see you,
Myra
," he said with nostalgic affection. "Really."