The Tenderness of Thieves (7 page)

“I know. Anything.” My hand was already on the doorknob, turning it. “I wish I wasn’t your only witness.” I said this in a small voice, so small I don’t even know if he heard me. “I wish with all my heart that the only other witness wasn’t dead,” I added in an even smaller one, before I was through the door and pushing my way outside into the gray of the cloudy day.

That night, I’d fallen asleep by accident. Head resting against the wall of the reading nook, face turned away from the lamplight. It was only a nap, but it was long enough that when my eyes blinked open, the short hand of the big antique clock on the wall was pushing ten p.m.

“Shit,” I said to no one, my voice carrying through the grand, empty house, the shelves of books all around me eventually swallowing the sound.

The snow outside was coming down heavy now, thick and fast around the streetlights. There were two lonely cars parallel parked on the road out front, already buried in white. It was so quiet, as though the snow silenced the world, a mother’s great long
shhhh
to her sleeping child as it fell toward the ground.

My phone blinked with a message. Was I so out of it that I hadn’t heard it ring? I pushed the button for voice mail and listened.

“Hi, sweetheart, guess who?” said the voice of my mother. “I’ve tried your cell several times, but the ringer must be off. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we are getting a surprise storm, and I’m worried about you being out so late. And before you hem and haw and even though I am still youthful enough for people to mistake me as your older sister, I
am
your mother and it’s my duty to worry. Can you please call me and let me know you’re all right? Love you!” There was a
click,
and the voice-mail system offered me a slew of options—save the message, erase the message, forward the message, followed by three more possibilities that I stopped listening to.

I called home. It barely rang once before my mother picked up.

“Sweetie! I’m so glad to hear your voice.”

“I’m
fine,
Mom,” I said in a tone that told her to stop being crazy. “Don’t worry about me. I’m here late all the time, remember? I love this house.”

“Yes, but not in a snowstorm.”

“They didn’t predict snow.”

“But that doesn’t mean it isn’t piling up outside,” my mother said. “And how do you plan on getting home in this? Hmmm?”

“I’ll walk, like always.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.” She was doing her best
I’m your mother
impersonation. “Not in this mess.”

“Ma—”

“I’m calling your father. He will come pick you up.”

“Don’t bother Dad! He’s working.”

“Exactly. Which means he’s already out and about and you’ll get picked up in a big safe police car that can handle this blizzard. My little Jeep is a death trap in snow like this, and I don’t want to risk it.”

I stood by the window, taking in the scene outside again. It
was
piling up fast. If I tried to walk, I would be shin deep in snow the whole way, with all the watery slush freezing at the bottom. “Fine. Call Dad.”

“Good. Though, let the record show that I was going to call your father either way, even if you did not acquiesce.”

I laughed. “That sounded very TV-lawyer-ish.”

“That’s excellent since I’ve been practicing,” she said, though the worry was still clear underneath the humor.

“Ma, I’m going to go now.”

“All right,” she sighed. “Just promise me you won’t go out in this until your father shows up. I don’t know how long it will take him to come get you, but you stay put until his car pulls up.
Inside
the house.”

“Yesss,” I agreed.

“I love you, Jane.”

“I love you, too.”

We both hung up.

The clock said it was five past ten. Everything was lit by a ghostly bright glow from the snow. As the minute hand made its way toward ten fifteen and onward to ten thirty and ten forty-five, I returned to my reading, occasionally glancing outside to see if my father had arrived. The hands of the clock passed eleven. A few more minutes went by, but not enough that the big hand reached a quarter after.

Then something strange happened.

The lights at the front of the house went out.

It must be the storm, I thought as I looked into the darkness of the snow and the night, trying to make out something, anything at all, now that the O’Connors’ front lawn had disappeared into blackness. A power outage. A tree fallen across wires, the weight of the ice just too much. But then I remembered the glow of my desk lamp—no, I saw it—falling across the stack of books. My coffee mug. The skin of my own hands. Illuminating the reading nook where I sat. A new thought, a question really, came to me:

Why had the lights in the front yard gone out, but not the house ones?

Why the outside, but not the inside?

Could they be on different electric grids?

That must be it, was the next thought to cross my mind. I considered calling my mother, calling my dad, too, but then decided that would be overreacting. It was just a couple of lights. The clock on the wall said it was well after eleven. My father’s police car would be pulling up any minute.

I decided to get back to my reading while I waited. I’d only turned a single page when something else happened to pull me away again, something that frightened me for real this time.

The light on the desk went out.

The darkness around me was complete.

I reached for my phone.

Quickly, I texted my father.

Daddy, are you close?

H
ANDEL DISAPPEA
RED FROM my
life as suddenly as he’d appeared. Completely and totally. A week went by with no word from him and, in the summertime, that felt like a month. Signs for the upcoming Fourth of July festivities were being posted around town. Somehow I’d thought Handel and I would run into each other again, accidentally, which was when we would decide to go out a second time.

But this didn’t happen.

It wasn’t like we’d exchanged numbers, or that it even crossed our minds to do so. Handel was still on the list of people I needed to run into coincidentally, and without coincidence to bring us together, I was left to wonder if our date had been something imagined. Twice I’d gone down to the wharf hoping to catch a glimpse of him, and once to Levinson’s to get another roast chicken, as if this was a magical combination that might produce Handel Davies walking through the door of the deli. In the end, all my efforts amounted to nothing.

My friends were split in their opinions about the situation.

“Stop thinking about him, Jane.” Michaela stared at me hard before she turned over onto her stomach, flicking a few grains of sand from her beach towel. “It just means it wasn’t meant to be.”

“I wasn’t thinking about him,” I protested, far too forcefully to be believed by anyone. Not even Bridget. But then, Bridget wasn’t having any of this
Handel and I aren’t happening
business. She was too romantic to let it go.

“It’s okay if you were, Jane,” she said, all consolation and understanding. “In fact, if I were you, I’d go find him. He’s probably down at the docks, working.”

Tammy snorted. Looked at Bridget. “What are you, the lame-boy-excuse police?”

Bridget ignored her. “Or he’s probably just busy.”

This made Tammy snort a second time.

“Or he’s probably just hanging around with a cross section of the town delinquents,” Michaela offered, her voice muffled by the towel.

“Point taken, M.” I hugged my knees. Rested my chin on them. Squinted my eyes against the sun. “The short reprieve you gave Handel is now over, and you’re back to disliking him.”

“You got it,” Michaela said, lifting her chin just long enough to get these three words out.

Tammy’s face got serious. “J, how do
you
feel? Are you disappointed?”

Bridget watched me. Michaela made a show of shifting onto her side so she faced away from us.

I turned to Tammy. “I am, kind of. No, not kind of, definitely. There was something special about that night we hung out.”

“You were so excited about it,” Bridget reminded me. “I hate to think that the bad boy isn’t going to turn out to be a prince.”

Tammy was about to snort again—I could see she wanted to—but she held off. Bridget was just being Bridget—sweet and romantic and meaning well. She always wanted a happy ending for everyone, and Tammy knew when to stop riding her.

“Well, just because he’s of the boy species doesn’t mean he doesn’t get nervous like we do,” Tammy said, surprising all of us, I think. Michaela shifted. This time she turned toward us and sat up on her towel. “Maybe you intimidated him, Jane,” Tammy went on.

“What?” I shot her a look. “Me, intimidate
Handel Davies
? I don’t think so.”

“She might be right,” Bridget said. “You are, like, perfect, and all that. Totally hot with good grades and going to college”—this comment made me roll my eyes, but Bridget went on, uninterrupted—“and here comes Handel Davies, townie, fisher-boy from a notorious family, who’s going nowhere else.”

“You mean, nowhere but jail,” Michaela said in a huff.

Bridget and Tammy both shot her a look that said
shut up.

I was about to respond when a tennis ball, ratty and torn, landed next to Tammy, just missing her leg, which made her shriek in disgust. It was followed by a big golden retriever running up, well, to retrieve it, its owner close behind, trailed by two friends. Two of the three were African American: the first one, the dog owner, light-skinned; the other darker; and the third one had the same coloring as Bridget. All of them were male, and all of them were obviously from out of town—far enough out that they were rich. You could see it written all over them. Plus, they carried lacrosse sticks. No one around here played lacrosse.

“Oh Lord,” Tammy said as they headed our way. The dog panted next to her leg, and she patted its head absently.

The problem with out-of-town boys is that they always think they’re better than us, better than everyone who’s grown up around here. They go to their fancy schools and do their fancy activities and drive their fancy cars, and this makes them feel like it’s okay to treat us like we’re lesser somehow—less educated, less sophisticated, less valuable as people. More gullible about everything, especially when it comes to why they are paying us attention. It never seems to occur to them we might be as intelligent as they are. That we might be going places they’d never dreamed about, even with all their fancy money. And when they come to our beach, trying to mix with girls like us, it generally means trouble and broken hearts. We might be townies, but we still deserved respect.

Before they reached our beach setup, Michaela rolled her eyes. “Do boys actually think they’re not being obvious when they use the
Whoops, can you give me back my tennis ball/Wiffle ball/baseball?
approach at the beach? I mean, it’s as bad as the
Do you have a light?/Do you know what time it is?
winter-season approach.”

“Shhhh.” Bridget’s eyes locked on the boys. “They’re cu-ute.”

“Don’t forget,” I whispered to Michaela. I held the tennis ball to the dog’s mouth, then dropped it to the sand, where it immediately picked it up. “There was a time, not long ago, when we would have cut off an arm for any attention whatsoever from even a single boy, regardless of the lameness of the approach.”

“Yeah.” Tammy adopted a bored look on her face, sunglasses on. “That was then, this is now, and this sort of attention is getting old,” she finished under her breath.

“Not for me,” Bridget sang softly. “Never for me.”

“Sorry to bother you,” said their leader, the light-skinned one and the tallest of the three, the one who looked like he must work out in one of those fancy gyms with machines designed to help sculpt muscles for athletes. Dark brows slashed over dark eyes and a bright broad smile. The lacrosse stick hung at his side. “Eric and I were playing fetch, and my last pitch went awry.”

“Awry?” Tammy was all suspicion and distrust. I could practically hear her eyes rolling under those dark glasses.

“What? Lacrosse fetch?” Michaela asked.

“Your dog’s name is Eric?” I asked next, surprising even myself with a question that might easily be mistaken as an invitation for further conversation.

“Jane, that’s his friend’s name, obviously.” Bridget had strategically positioned herself on her towel, one gorgeous leg outstretched, the other bent at the knee. She alternated her attention between each of the three boys now that the other two had joined their leader.

The one with the dog grinned, his smile turned up to blinding. His father must be an orthodontist—he looked too rich for him to be a regular dentist. “Eric, come here. Stop flirting,” he said, patting his thigh. The dog, obedient and wagging his tail enthusiastically, returned proudly to his owner. Bridget’s eyebrows went up. “I’m Miles. This is Logan”—he nodded toward the boy on his left, the Irish-looking one who smiled on cue—“and this is Hugh,” he finished, nodding toward the boy on the right, the one with the darkest skin, who also smiled.

Tammy laughed in disbelief. “Oh Jesus, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“What?” Miles asked, like he really didn’t know she was referring to their names, the kinds of names only the rich give their children.

“Just ignore her,” Bridget said, trying to salvage the situation. “What brought you guys to this beach?”

The dog dropped the ball at Miles’s feet. “Exploring the rest of the town. That sort of thing.”

“We heard the girls were prettier over here.” This from Logan, in a tone of voice that dripped
entitled asshole.

Tammy got up from her towel, all confidence and sexiness and grace. “I don’t have any patience for rich boys slumming it over here with us townie girls.”

“Ouch,” Miles said, but he never lost his smile.

Bridget opened her mouth in protest but stopped short of actually saying anything when she saw that both Michaela and I were starting to get up.

I brushed a few grains of sand from my legs. “I’m suddenly hungry.”

“I’ve got frozen candy bars dancing in my little head,” Michaela said, her left hip jutted to the side.

“Our treat,” Miles offered, in a voice that said he was sure he wouldn’t be refused. “It’s the least we could do after disturbing your peace.”

“No, thanks,” Tammy said. “I’ve saved just enough pennies that I can afford some chocolate all on my lonesome. What about you girls?”

I smiled. Tammy’s haughtiness could be annoying, but sometimes it was the best part about her. “I might need to borrow a penny or two, but I think I can manage.”

Michaela shifted her sunglasses up so they pulled her hair back from her face like a headband, showing off her brown eyes. “I’m good for an extra dime if you need it, hon.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Clearly outnumbered, Bridget finally joined us, though reluctantly. “Maybe another time,” she said to the boys sweetly.

The four of us headed toward the snack bar, taking our time, knowing full well those boys would stand there and watch us walk away, taking in our bodies, mostly bare except for the bikinis each of us wore, long hair swinging across our backs, side to side with every step. We may not be rich like they were and we might just be townies like everyone else around here, but we knew where our power lay, and we were doing our best to learn how to use it.

It was in moments like these that I got a glimpse of the Jane I used to be before everything changed direction. The Jane who stuck with her friends no matter what, who would never let a bunch of boys come between us, who told and trusted her friends with everything. When you’ve done nothing wrong, it’s easy to act that way. Carefree and confident. It was good to see that girl again, that version of myself. To remember that she was still there after all these months, that maybe I could call her up if I needed her and she would respond as though she’d never left. I just hadn’t been looking in the right place.

• • •

Missy Taylor was coming out of my house just as I was returning from the beach. She was struggling with a garment bag that lay stretched across both arms. I sized it up quickly. Wedding dress. She was only four years older than me. Blond and perky. The cheerleader type in high school.

“I didn’t know you were getting married,” I said, helping her with the door. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” she said, whether for the help or the congratulations was unclear. The freckles on her face were dark from time spent in the sun. “The wedding is next week. Your mother didn’t tell you?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Well, it’s nice to know that someone in this town doesn’t gossip.”

I laughed. “My mother treats her client relationships like a lawyer or a doctor does. Total confidentiality. Whatever is discussed in the fitting room stays in the fitting room.” I paused, thinking about whether this was completely true, of if there were any loopholes in the policy. “Well, unless she hears something about me. Then client confidentiality goes down the drain.”

Missy smiled. “Good to know. I think her exception is forgivable.”

“Don’t know if I agree. Who’s the groom?”

“Oh, he’s from out of town.” Her tone was almost apologetic. “He’s really sweet. Different from the boys around here, you know?”

“I’m sure he’s great. I like the boys around here, though,” I added. Then I thought about Handel, how he hadn’t been in touch. Maybe I should take a nod from Missy.

She cocked her head. Took me in with her big blue eyes. “There’s a whole world out there beyond this town, Jane,” she said, as if I might not have heard this before, as if four years and a proposal of marriage made her decades wiser. “You should go exploring. You especially.”

“Hmmm. Well, good luck next week.”

Missy stared at the thick garment bag in her arms like she’d just remembered it was there. “Right. I should go. So much to do in only a week. Tell your mom she’s a genius. Bye!”

I gave her a wave. “Bye.” Then I went inside. Kicked off my flip-flops. Felt the comforting grains of sand on the floor underneath my bare feet. It was still summer. There was still plenty of time for things to happen. Good things. “Hello?”

“I’m in my office,” my mother called back. “Come visit your beloved parent.”

My bag made a soft thump when I dropped it. I continued to shed things on my way to the sewing room. Hair band. Sunglasses. As usual, my mother sat amid a sea of fabric. This time it was violet chiffon. “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re doing alterations for Missy Taylor’s bridal party.”

She stuck a pin into the hem of one of the dresses. “You missed out. An hour ago I had eight girls in this house, all of them draped in violet chiffon. That’s not counting Missy.”

“You fit nine people in here?”

She laughed. “Not just in here. In the living room. On the porch. Sitting on my bed. There was a lot of giggling and a bit of complaining about being forced to wear violet or being forced to wear chiffon or, with one of the girls, complaints about both. All whispered, of course, while Missy was out of earshot.”

“Out of earshot in this house?”

“She was in the yard investigating our flowers and thinking about whether to switch the ones in her bouquet.”

“I’m kind of glad I missed all of it.”

“You would’ve gotten annoyed.” My mother looked at me, eyebrows raised. “There were comments made about the sandy condition of our living room floor. There was actually an offer to sweep it up while waiting.”

I shoved a pile of fabric off a chair so I could sit, shin deep in a purple sea. “The nerve. What did you say?”