Keepsake Read Free Page A

Lestring, Literary Agent, the engraving read, followed by an address and telephone
     number in New York.
    April nodded as she recognized the name. Sandra Lestring represented several well-known clients, including a couple of movie
     stars, politicians, and even a novelist or two.
    “A lot of people are still interested in anything to do with JFK,” the agent added.
    April smiled. “Thanks, but you’re too late. She’s already got an agent.”
    Sandra Lestring shrugged. “Nevertheless, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me in mind. You never know. Sometimes these things
     don’t work out.”
    “I’ll do that,” April said politely as the woman turned to leave the ladies room.
    Maggie was watching April in the mirror. Her huge brown eyes were round with speculation. “April? What do you mean, your mother’s
     got an agent? Who exactly is your mother? Is she in publishing? Jeez, April, is she here at the convention?”
    April met her eyes and nodded. This, after all, was why she had come all the way out to California for this year’s American
     Booksellers Association convention, leaving Brian, her business partner, to run the bookstore and deal with the customers,
     which was his special talent, anyhow. Brian could spend hours discussing the plot, characters, and every red herring of a
     fictional murder case with a happy group of middle-aged women who gathered around to listen to him lecture. He remembered
     whodunit in every Agatha Christie novel. He could recite Adam Dalgleish’s poetry. He seemed to possess intimate knowledgeof James Lee Burke’s New Orleans, and he loved to tell the customers that he’d once ridden in a taxi driven by Carlotta Carlyle.
    Brian knew the genre, and the customers adored him. It was good to know that she could leave the business in the capable hands
     of somebody she trusted.
    She glanced at her watch. In fifteen minutes, Rina, her mother, whom April hadn’t seen in nearly thirty years, would be making
     one of her rare public appearances.
    She was planning to confront her.
    Rob Blackthorn was staring at Jessie’s photograph again.
    Shouldn’t do this, he told himself.
    Pointless.
    Waste of time.
    Unhealthy.
    He should be beyond this now. Everybody said so. It had been nearly two years.
    He glanced over at the minibar, which was tastefully disguised as a cabinet in the luxurious Four Seasons Hotel in Newport
     Beach. It had been tempting him ever since he’d checked in the previous evening. The minibar key was on top of the chest of
     drawers, right next to the ice bucket and the wine glasses.
    Blackthorn glanced at his watch, which read 12:39 P.M. It was not 12:39. It was twenty to ten. He’d forgotten to set his watch to California time when he’d arrived last night.
    Only 9:30 in the morning, and he wanted a drink.
    Not that he had a drinking problem. That is, not anymore.
    Nah, man, you’re addicted to something else. Someone
else. You’re a Jessie junkie. Hung up on a woman who’s dead and gone. And there’s no damn Betty Ford Center to treat that.
    Blackthorn’s eyes flicked back to the minibar. Bound to be some Chivas in there. Chivas was just the thing to help him escape
     the fact that he was back in California, where Jessie had died.
    Jessie. Oh, Jesus. Jessie, Jess, Jess.
    The hell with it. He picked up the key, jammed it into the lock, opened the small refrigerator, and removed a tiny bottle
     of Scotch. He placed it on top of the TV, where he could admire its sensuous, dark golden color as the sun from the plate
     glass window struck it.
    You can look, but you’d better not touch, darlin’. You ever start drinking like those other idiots in your family and I swear
     I’ll come back and haunt you.
    That a promise?
    You won’t like my haunting. I won’t be one of those sad, wispy little ghosts. I’ll be a demon, clawing at you, destroying
     your sleep. So no booze. No sinking into the great Blackthorn Escape. Promise me.
    He’d promised, of course.