Keepsake Read Free

Well, Frank Leary was a wonderful gardener, and the Bennett estate hasn't looked as good since. Just last fall— early fall, mind you!—their latest gardener went and flat-topped every rhododendron he could reach. The things looked grotesque, and after the inevitable winterkill, they looked even worse. Well, never mind. How have you been, dear? How have you been ? " she demanded, squeezing his forearm through his thin jacket. "Oh, my," she added after she did it. "Do you still play?"
    "Football? No, I left that all behind me."
    "I always watch for you during the Superbowl."
    He laughed and said, "I have a masonry business. I do a lot of stonework. I guess that's what's kept me in shape."
    She pulled her scarf away from her face and snugged it under her chin. "And your father I just heard has passed on?"
    Quinn nodded. "Last month," he said quietly. "Of a stroke. He didn't linger long ... two and a half weeks."
    "I'm sorry, dear. I know how close you must have been to him."
    Somehow Quinn didn't want to talk about it, despite—maybe because of—the sympathy he heard in her voice. He said, "Can I get you something? Hot chocolate?"
    "Actually, I've brought my own refreshment." She reached into the leather handbag that was hooked on her walker and came up with a silver hip flask. "Blackberry brandy is what warms me these long, cold nights."
    She tipped it in Quinn's direction. Startled, he shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm driving," he said, wondering about her own ability to operate a walker while under the influence. His old teacher and mentor had always been a free spirit. Obviously that hadn't changed. "How did you get here?" he asked. He wouldn't have been surprised if she'd told him on a Harley.
    "The senior citizens' van," she said with a sigh of disgust. "I flunked my driver's test last year. Macular degeneration in my left eye. And the right one's fading fast," she added. "I can barely read large-print books with a magnifying glass anymore, but I keep trying." Lifting the flask, she glanced around, then took a single prim sip, screwed the cap back on, and tucked the silver container snugly in her purse. "Well, my dear! How long will you be staying?"
    He wished he knew. He had a business to run back in California . "That's up in the air. I've just paid a visit to an uncle in Old Saybrook. He's my father's brother and is ailing himself. While I was in your neck of the woods, I thought I'd drop in just to ... to ..."
    "To see who got rich, who got fat, and who got out?"
    "All those things," he said, smiling. She was making it so easy for him to lie. "And I wanted Keepsake to know that at least one chapter in their history had ended."
    "And a sorry chapter it was, condemning your father without a trial! I hope you don't think we were all so foolish," she said, straightening her tiny frame behind the walker.
    His response to that was drowned out by the amplified thumps on a microphone being tested for sound. Mrs. Dewsbury explained that the thumper was Keepsake's current mayor, Mike Macoun. Quinn had a vague memory of the man, a restaurateur who was undoubtedly well connected both then and now.
    After a pretty little speech in favor of Christmas, the portly mayor took one cord and plugged it into another cord, and the twenty-five-foot balsam fir lit up to happy oohs and ahs from the crowd. It was a tree for kids, not grown-ups, all buried in red bows and gaudy colored lights and topped with a giant, lopsided star. There was nothing chic or understated about it, which pleased Quinn. He was tired of the white lights his upscale clients favored.
    Someone shot off a cannon and the mayor declared that Keepsake's holiday season had officially begun. Almost immediately, the crowd began thinning. The snow was beginning to pile up, and people were anxious to get on with their chores.
    "Where are you staying, Quinn?" the elderly woman asked.
    "Let me think, it's newish ... the Acorn Motel."
    "Heavens, don't be silly. You're not