The Tenderness of Thieves (12 page)

W
HEN I GOT HOME
from seeing Handel, there was a surprise waiting for me in the living room—one I wasn’t sure what to think about. When I reached the front steps of my house, I heard voices coming through the open windows. My mother’s and someone else’s.

I hesitated at first but eventually headed inside.

“Jane,” Professor O’Connor said when he saw me. He got up from the couch in our living room, the springs groaning. It was strange to see him there, this big man dressed so formally, pressed into our little, sandy house. His hair had gotten grayer since the last time I’d seen him, and I was struck with the urge to weep.

“Hi, Professor O’Connor.” I hovered by the door. Dropped my bag to the floor.

My mother was in the kitchen, fixing coffee. “It’s nice of him to visit us, isn’t it?”

I nodded. I wasn’t sure what to do next, what to say, what to ask.

He stood there, waiting. Patient. Finally, he said, “I’m glad to see you, Jane. It’s been too long.”

I nodded again. Couldn’t find my tongue.

“I was hoping we could talk.”

My mother joined us while the coffee brewed, the machine stuttering to life in the kitchen. “Please sit,” she said to him. “Sweetheart?” she said to me.

Normally I would go heap myself onto the sofa, but it was odd to think of sharing our old couch with Professor O’Connor. I pulled up one of the wooden chairs from against the wall, where I usually piled my things when I came home for the day, and positioned myself on the other side of the coffee table. Professor O’Connor sat down again.

“How are you?” I asked, finding my voice.

“I’m all right, considering.”

“Considering?”

“That’s what I’m here to discuss. Molly?” He turned to my mother, asking permission to say whatever it was he was here to say.

Her face was blank. “Go ahead.”

“What’s happened?” I cut in quickly, even as I wanted to cover my ears to shut out whatever came next.

Professor O’Connor leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped. The wrinkles lining his face left tiny shadows across his skin in the light of the table lamp. “It seems the police have a new lead.”

“Really?” I asked, feigning surprise. I’d given it to them myself after all.

His eyebrows went up. “They haven’t been in touch with you about it?”

“No,” I said, which was only half a lie. I’d been in touch with them, and all Michaela’s dad had done was leave a message confirming he’d gotten mine.

My mother chose this moment to get up and go to the kitchen to pour the coffee, even though we didn’t need it. It was too hot for hot coffee. “Milk and sugar?” she called back to Professor O’Connor.

“Just black, thanks,” he said.

She returned with three mugs, placing them on the table, mine so light with cream it was practically white. No one moved to touch them, the steam rising up through the air. A shiver ran through me despite the humidity, and I realized that my legs were shaking. I leaned over and grabbed one of the mugs, put both hands around it, the burn along my palms soothing me a little. “So what’s the lead? Do they know who it is?” I asked.

Professor O’Connor glanced away a moment, his profile stark in the glare of the lamp. Then he let out a big breath. “They wouldn’t tell me. I honestly don’t know where it’s taken them.”

“Wait—what?” I was confused. “I don’t understand.”

“The police won’t give out specific details, not even to me,” he said. “I was hoping you might already know what was going on.”

My back was straight against the wooden chair. I looked down at my hands, so tight around the mug I thought it might shatter from the force. I did know, of course. I’d given them a significant detail to look for and a name on top of it, one that must be panning out if Professor O’Connor was here talking about leads. But for some reason I couldn’t manage to make myself confess all I knew—suspected—right now. I placed the mug on the coffee table, folded my hands in my lap, then unfolded them again. “But why wouldn’t they tell you, of all people? You were the victim,” I said, leaving myself out of the equation. “They should trust you,” I added, even as I kept up my lie of omission.

“I don’t think the police not telling me about the lead means they don’t trust me,” he said. “Or you, Jane. It’s everyone else in this town that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?” This question came from my mother. A worried look had settled over her during the conversation.

Professor O’Connor leaned forward. Rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands. “You know how everyone is around here. Everyone knows each other, everyone gossips. Word gets out fast, and the police seem to think whoever did this might live very close.”

“How close?” my mother asked.

I took the coffee mug back into my hands, warming my palms. As close as the McCallen brothers, I thought right then. I couldn’t stop shivering, even though it was anything but cold.

“It’s very possible that Jane—that you and I”—he nodded at my mother—“might be acquaintances with the attackers.”

At this, I stood, the coffee sliding right out of my hands onto the floor. The mug cracked in half. I bent down to pick up the pieces. Watched the milky liquid run in every direction. My mother got up and ran to the kitchen for something to help clean the mess.

“Jane,” Professor O’Connor said, his face a mask of worry. “I’m not saying this is definite—the police still don’t know who it is—but you need to be careful. I want you and your mother to be safe, and I’m concerned that you won’t be until the police catch whoever did this,” he added, in a way that said he wished this weren’t true.

My mother returned with paper towels. She crouched down, glancing at me, in between sopping up the puddle of coffee.

I stood, the two halves of the cracked mug still in my hands. “But there’s so much I don’t remember. And I was blindfolded.”

“You may have seen something and not realized it,” Professor O’Connor said. “And you heard everything.”

I didn’t respond. This part was true.

“There’s another reason I’m here,” he said next.

My mother took the pieces of mug from me while I watched her, frozen. Waited for Professor O’Connor to go on.

“Martha and I have wanted to invite both of you over for a long time now,” he began gently. When I inhaled deep and quick, about to protest, he stopped me with his hand. “I know you might not be ready yet, Jane, and I respect that. But I think it would be a good idea for you to stop by someday soon for a visit, the sooner the better. We could all have dinner.”

My mother glanced up at him. “Is there any particular reason that’s necessary?”

He hesitated. “It might help her remember.”

“Mm-hmm,” I said, but shaking my head no. “I’ve already remembered everything I can. I’m done remembering.”

“I wouldn’t push you, but—” Professor O’Connor stopped.

“But?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know.

“The police think it would be a good idea as well.”

Anger flashed through me, searing my insides. “The police made you come here?”

“No, no.” He sighed long and big. “I wanted to come. I’ve wanted to see how you are for a long time. But it’s my worry that finally brought me, and the fact that maybe the police are right and a visit might jog your memory a bit. It also might make you feel better. Going back to the place where you lived through a trauma can get you started on your way through all that dread you feel. It was a trauma, Jane, that night, a real trauma.” His voice was pained. “You were there to take care of our house. All alone and we didn’t think twice. Martha and I feel so terrible we put you in such a vulnerable position. We should’ve hired someone older. We weren’t thinking.”

My mother took her seat. “Everyone’s blaming themselves,” she said, frustration in every syllable of her words. “Jane blames herself, you’re blaming yourself, I blame myself for not picking Jane up the second it started to snow. But the only people we should be blaming are the ones who did this.”

Professor O’Connor stayed silent.

“You really think it would help Jane to go to your house?” she asked.

“I do,” he said.

My mother looked at me, then at Professor O’Connor. “Can you give us a few days to think it over?”

“Of course,” he said. “I should be going now, anyway.”

Professor O’Connor’s posture, usually so straight, was hunched. He seemed weary and sad. I felt the urge to weep again. He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Jane, you must promise not to give away details about what happened that night to anyone other than your mother or the police. We don’t want you or anyone else in danger.”

“She understands,” my mother said, answering for me, her tone tight with worry.

I nodded to show that I did, too. “Thank you for coming,” I whispered to the professor, my voice nearly gone.

“I wish I’d done it sooner.” He got up. “I think about you all the time.” He turned to my mother. “It was good to see you, Molly.” Professor O’Connor turned to me now. “It was good to see you, too, Jane. I’m sorry for everything.”

He was at the door in two long strides and was almost gone, but I stopped him just in time. I placed a hand on his arm, and as soon as I mustered the courage, I gave him a hug. He wasn’t sure what to do, I think, not at first, but it only took a second before he pulled me in tight. For a moment, just a quick one, it could have been my father with his arms around me, and this feeling—I held on to it for as long as I could before it faded away.

• • •

“I’m going to bed,” my mother said shortly after the professor had left, her voice heavy, her steps heavier. She wiped a hand across her eyes, then ran it through her hair.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “Good night.”

I stood there, in the middle of the living room, thinking awhile.

Trying to decide how I felt.

In some ways, certainly not in the ones that Professor O’Connor had intended, his mandate—
don’t talk to anyone about that night other than the police or your mother
—had unwittingly offered me a way to assuage my guilt for not telling the people around me all I knew, all that I suspected. The notion that I should keep quiet for my own safety gave me permission to do what I’d wanted to all along, to let whatever was buried deep down in my memory about that night in February, hidden in the darkness, sink even further away from the present until it disappeared altogether.

When I finally went to bed, when I slipped my body between the sheets, they felt as cool and soothing as the mandate to keep silent about things. Everyone always spoke about how talking was supposed to make things better, but no one ever told you how silence could be healing, too.

• • •

The next morning, as I got ready for the beach, I put on my favorite string bikini, the same one I wore on the day when Handel first spoke to me. After I left the house and got closer to the ocean, I pulled my T-shirt over my head and stepped out of my shorts even as I continued to walk, the sand greeting my toes with soft sighs. I tossed my hair once, then again, its texture velvety against my shoulders and bare back. As I made my way toward my girls, there was a strut in my step, the ties of my bikini bouncing along the tops of my thighs. The stares from the boys were blatant as I passed, and I drank them in like lemonade.

“Hi, ladies,” I said when I reached Michaela and Tammy and Bridget. I saw Seamus loping toward us from the water, and noticed his towel and flip-flops laid out next to Tammy’s.

“Hey, Jane,” Seamus said when he reached us.

I went to him and gave him a little hug. “I feel like it’s been ages since you’ve shown up unannounced at the house.”

Seamus blushed. “I’ve been . . . kind of busy.”

I glanced over at Tammy, who was suddenly preoccupied with her magazine. “I bet.”

Bridget smiled up at me from her towel. “You seem happy today.”

“I am,” I told her, removing my sunglasses from my eyes. “I really am,” I said, and then lay on my back to soak up all the bright sun.

T
HE GIGGLING CO
MING FROM
my mother’s sewing room was becoming unbearable. An entire wedding party—four bridesmaids plus the bride—was getting their measurements done and talking to my mother about dress styles and possible designs. They spilled out into the living room, which was why I’d taken refuge on my bed, staring into my closet and wondering what a girl wears on a group date to a place like the Ocean Club. I thought of that woman heading into Christie’s the night I’d seen Miles valeting, the way she’d walked along in her tight white dress and those heels, gripping a matching white clutch in her hand. I didn’t have anything like that. It just wasn’t my style. Well, it wasn’t anyone’s style around here.

“Oh, that’s so beautiful,” one of the girls in the wedding party cried out, followed by a lot of
ooh
ing and
aah
ing from the others.

Though I didn’t really want to enter into the fray of Mom’s current clients, whenever I was in doubt about attire, she was my consultant and savior, so I decided to brave the sewing room situation.

A pretty girl with long red hair, all spirally curls falling everywhere, was sitting on the couch in the living room. She looked up from a sketch in her lap as I passed through. Her face was freckled. “Hey there.”

I searched the catalog of town families stored in my mind, trying to locate her among them, but came up with nothing. “Hi. Are you the bride?”

She shook her head. “No, that’s Jenny. She’s in there with your mother and the rest of them. I’m just a bridesmaid.”

“Can I see?” I asked, gesturing at the sketch.

“Sure.” She handed it over.

My mother always outlined the designs for her clients as many times as necessary until they were satisfied. I could already tell this one was complicated, and what’s more, three separate fabric swatches were stapled to the paper, all in different shades of green, and this was only for the bridesmaid dresses. That meant the bride had money. Lots of it. “Pretty,” I said.

“Your mother’s kind of a genius. She’s determined to make everyone in the wedding party happy, and you know how difficult that can be.”

I laughed. “She’s good at what she does,” I said as another shriek followed by more giggling spilled out of the sewing room. “All right, I’m headed in there.”

“Good luck,” the girl said, taking the sketch back.

“Mom?” I called, with a knock on the partially open door. The rest of the talk inside quieted.

“Yes, sweetie?”

“I need you a sec. Non-emergency, though. If you’re too busy, no worries—”

The door swung open. A beautiful young woman stood there, long straight blond hair flowing down over her shoulders. Perfect pale skin. “You must be Jane,” she said with a smile. “I’m Jenny Nolan.”

Her recognition surprised me. My mother didn’t usually talk about me to clients unless someone brought me up first. There was something familiar about this woman, too, but I couldn’t tell what. And the name rang a bell. “Hi. You must be the bride. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

I glanced past her, seeing my mother in conversation with another of the bridesmaids. “Has my mother been talking about me?”

“No, don’t worry. She hasn’t been gossiping.” Jenny cocked her head, her eyes assessing me. “It was my aunt who told me about you.”

“Your aunt?” I racked my brain, trying to come up with a Nolan that I knew in this town. Then I remembered Billy Nolan, Handel’s uncle who died. I wondered if Billy Nolan was her father or an uncle. That explained the familiarity in her features. “Your aunt is Handel’s mother. Handel Davies?”

She laughed. “Yes. Is there any other Handel around here?”

I smiled, loving the idea that I was so important to Handel that his cousin I’ve never met had been discussing me with his mother. “I guess not.”

She looked me up and down, unabashed. “Well, you’re just adorable,” she said. “Word gets around in our family about who the baby brother’s been seen with around town, so of course you’ve come up in conversation. My aunt likes the idea of Handel going out with someone like you. Handel’s a good guy, deep down. He just needs someone to redeem him from those brothers of his. Maybe you’ll be the one to save him.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. I wasn’t sure what to say in response to all this information, especially the part about my potential role in Handel’s future. My mother’s conversation with the bridesmaid halted during Jenny’s speech. She was looking at me now, a curious expression on her face. I still hadn’t responded when Jenny spoke again.

“You should give Handel another chance,” she said.

I looked at her quizzically. “Another chance at what?”

“You know, go out with him. First dates don’t always go that well, but sometimes second dates are the charm,” she sang. Her bridesmaids responded to this with knowing laughter. “After all, that’s how I ended up with Charlie,” she went on, who I assumed was the groom. “If I’d given up on him after the first night we went out, there’s no way we’d be walking down the aisle together this August.”

“Right,” I said, my face growing hot.

“I’m glad to finally meet you. You needed your mother, right? Let me get out of your way.” Jenny Nolan stepped aside, and I saw that there were three other faces checking me out. The bridesmaids were apparently also interested in seeing the girl who was going out with Handel Davies. Or at least had gone out with him once as far as they knew.

It made me wonder how they’d look at me if they knew I’d seen Handel more than once—three times in fact. How when I went to bed at night all I could do was think about kissing him, dream about the press of his mouth on my neck, his fingers on my skin. That sometimes I thought maybe Handel would be the one to save me, and not the other way around.

“Jane,” my mother said. “You had a question?”

I suddenly wanted out from under all this scrutiny. “Um, actually, I’m fine. You’re busy. I can take care of it myself.”

With that, I closed the door and hurried through the living room, the girl with the red curly hair watching me differently now. She must have heard Jenny Nolan’s comments.

Suddenly, I felt special. In a way that I liked.

• • •

Sometimes, I can be a really good pretender.

Like when I arrived at the Ocean Club in a tight black tank minidress that shimmered with glitter, wearing black heels on my feet, as though this was how I usually dressed to go out, as though the clothes I had on were designer as opposed to discount, as though I was born to date rich boys like Miles and not townie boys like Handel Davies. The stones in the bracelet around my wrist were fake, of course, and I wondered how many people in this place looked at me and knew this instinctively, knew that, despite my attempts to fit in, I didn’t really belong. That not one of us did. But my girls and I were all going to act like we did for the night. Act like we did for the boys.

Sometimes that’s just what girls do.

“Don’t you look hot,” Bridget said when she saw me. She was waiting at the entrance, with all its stonework and glass.

I smiled, twirling the loop of the tiny black bag I had around my finger. “You too, B.” Bridget was always gorgeous, but when she dressed up, she was stunning. There was something about all that fair skin that made her seem lit up from the inside. It gave her a vulnerability, too, that made the boys want to protect her.

Bridget’s eyes went to my neck. “Pretty,” she said. “It’s good to see you wearing that.”

I nodded. Fingered the tiny mosaic heart that lay against my skin, all shades of ocean and sky. Bridget knew what it meant—knew what it meant that I’d worn it, too. Tonight, when I was getting ready, I’d decided it was time to begin some things again, to try starting over bit by bit, remaking myself, now that so much in my life was just at the beginning. Now that Handel and I were at the beginning. The necklace my mother had given me to replace the one that I’d lost seemed a simple place to start. So I took it from the drawer where I’d hidden it and clasped it at the back of my neck.

I let the heart go. “Where are the others?” I asked.

“Michaela went to the ladies’ . . . ,” Bridget said.

“And Tammy just got here,” said Tammy from behind us. She glanced around, staring at the large floral arrangement on a nearby table, brimming with white calla lilies. Tammy gave each of us a quick hug, and Michaela, too, when she returned from the bathroom.

“We’re not at Slovenska’s anymore,” Michaela trilled.

“Yeah. Or Twin Willows,” Tammy said.

We stood there awkwardly. “This is weird, isn’t it?” I asked.

Bridget giggled. “This is fun. I like getting dressed up.”

Michaela made it a point to look at each of us. “I think we dress up nice.”

“Well, obviously,” Tammy said. “And apparently, when we dress up, we all agree to wear black.”

This got another nervous laugh from everyone.

I eyed Tammy. “Does Seamus know you’re here tonight?”

“Why would Seamus care?” she shot back. “And,
yes,
he does happen to know. I saw him before coming here.”

“Really!” Bridget was about to push Tammy for more information, but Tammy shot her down with a glare. “Fine,” she harrumphed. “I’ll ask later.”

“So, what’s next, J?” Michaela asked.

“I suppose we should see if they’re outside on the deck,” I said.

“Ooh, fancy,” Bridget said, immediately turning to go. She headed through the restaurant with the kind of confidence I was lacking at the moment, so I felt grateful she’d taken the lead. The three of us followed after her.

The restaurant was filling up for the evening, alive with people chatting and eating, seeing and being seen. The Ocean Club was one of those places that wanted to seem no-frills and casual, a place where you could go following a long day in the sun at the beach, your bathing suit peeking out of your cover-up and your flip-flops still donning your sandy feet. In reality, it was anything but. Its patrons, especially the women, put on their evening best and were dressed to compete with one another for most glamorous, most elegant, most sexy, like they were there to steal each other’s spouses and boyfriends and even one another’s friends. Cutlery clinked daintily against china, and finely manicured nails flared out from hands holding crystal wine glasses. Hair was done up and perfect, everyone posturing for one another.

The four of us might not be regulars, but we filed through that room like we deserved the admiration of everyone in the place. More than one woman glared as we passed, and I’d like to think those stares were more about how we were stealing some of that coveted male attention and not related to the cheap fabric of our clothes. We went out onto the deck and made our way through the crowd. There were twinkle lights strung up in the trees and delicate lanterns hanging from their branches. The effect was beautiful. “Hey there!” someone called out.

We turned toward the voice, and Miles caught my eye. He was standing near the railing of the deck and waved us over, dressed in a button-down shirt and jeans, the typical prep school–boy uniform. He looked casual, but somehow he still had money written all over him. Maybe it was his good looks, maybe it was his confidence, or even his charm, but whatever it was, I almost wanted to turn back the way we came. Who were we kidding, imagining that the four of us could—or even would
want to
—hang out with guys like Miles? His friends were with him, the two we’d already seen at the beach and a new one, all of them wearing more or less the same outfit.

I took a deep breath and gave Miles a nod. Now it was my turn to be the leader. “This way, girls,” I said with a reluctant shrug. We wove our way through the hands holding fine glasses, brimming with wine or cocktails. Miles and his friends were drinking beers so casually they didn’t seem to realize they were underage. The four of us were unprepared in this regard. It wasn’t like we needed fake IDs in the downtown bars, and mainly people hung out and drank on the beach or at people’s houses.

“Hey,” I said when we reached them, wondering what came next—a hug? A kiss on the cheek like we lived in Europe? A handshake? These options seemed awkward, so I stood far enough away from Miles that only words could comfortably be exchanged.

Miles grinned. “You made it.”

“Obviously.” I tried to return the smile. Tammy cleared her throat, and I remembered to introduce my friends. “This is Tammy, this is Michaela, and you remember Bridget,” I said, gesturing at each of them. Only Bridget’s little smile and wave was genuine, and Miles’s friends’ eyes were glued to her now. I was sure they thought she was adorable because, well, she really was.

“And you are?” he asked me.

I laughed as I realized I still hadn’t told him my name. “Jane. Now it’s your turn,” I said to Miles, nodding in the direction of his friends.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jane,” he said wryly. “You remember Logan and Hugh,” he said, pointing to the two boys who’d been with him during that first conversation on the beach. The friends each had that jock look and the bodies to match, muscled arms peeking out of their finely made, finely cut shirts.

“Not really,” Tammy said. Then I elbowed her and Bridget elbowed her at the same time, and she flinched. “Oh yes. Of course I remember. Now it’s all coming back to me.”

Sometimes Tammy’s dry attitude rolled up into all that natural suspicion was hilarious. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.

Miles obviously wasn’t taking Tammy’s sarcasm personally. He just kept on grinning, his dark eyes dancing as he finished the introductions. “And this is James,” he said about the fourth boy, with reddish-blond hair and the faintest of freckles dotting his skin. If he wasn’t dressed in such expensive clothing and hanging out with the other three, he could pass for an Irish townie. “What would you girls like to drink?” Miles asked.

I bit my lip, then just said it. “None of us have fake IDs.”

All four boys’ eyebrows went up in surprise, like they might have practiced the reaction. “How is that possible?” asked the one named Logan.

Michaela rolled her eyes. “We don’t usually hang out at bars like this.” Her tone implied that this should already be evident and that, in fact, we were above such places.