The Tenderness of Thieves (17 page)

I
WAS THINKING WE
could go to this place near the docks to eat,” Handel said after we left the beach. It was evening. We headed toward the wharf. “It’s kind of hidden—I bet you don’t know it. You hungry?”

“I could eat,” I said, reveling in the wonder of spending an entire day with Handel, a day that had been wonderful from the start. He had his arm around me again, and our pace was slow, leisurely, like we had all the time in the world. My flip-flops slid across the concrete of the sidewalk. “Though it’s tough to imagine there’s a place in this town I don’t know about.”

Handel grinned at the ground. “You wait. I’ve got secrets for you.”

My heart was pounding. “Yeah?”

“This way,” he said, and led me toward an area near the docks that I’d always thought was deserted. “Under here,” Handel directed when we reached a part of the beach where the dock rose up over it on thick wooden pilings.

“There’s nothing—” I started, about to protest there wasn’t anything but beach on the other side followed by a long jetty of rocks that stuck out into the ocean, dividing one town from the next.

But Handel had disappeared. After I passed the last piling, I looked right toward the water and left toward the seawall towering above. Then I noticed the buoys stacked like a welcome sign in front of a wooden shack almost hidden from view. I saw Handel pass by the doorway, stop, backtrack, and beckon, so I went to join him. I ducked inside after him, and the remaining sunlight of the day was cut away by the thick boards that made up the roof of the little house.

A pile of sand on the floor marked the entrance. Whoever maintained this place didn’t care if it got everywhere, just like at home. Two lightbulbs hung naked from the ceiling, and a makeshift bar divided the room in half, with a few stools in front of it. Behind the bar was the bare bones of a kitchen—a silver sink and counter where some dishes had been piled to dry and a short fridge at the back, a wide chopping block for cutting with a set of knives standing at its corner to the left, and what looked to be a small oven and gas stove to the right. A round outdoor grill was shoved into a corner, the kind you had to light the old-fashioned way and took forever to catch but was always worth the work because it made the food taste so good.

I slid onto one of the stools in front of the bar. “What is this place?”

Handel was opening a cooler packed to the brim with ice. He dug into the middle and pulled out a giant codfish and laid it on the chopping block. “It’s a place for us.”

“Us?”

He glanced at me before pulling out the biggest knife I’d ever seen, like a cleaver, but with a fat, curved blade. He put on a pair of thick gloves and began to expertly gut and clean the fish, removing its head and tail, which he dropped into a bag and shoved in the fridge. “The guys who work on the boats. We can come here whenever we want to cook up the day’s catch. Make some dinner. Drink some beers. Hang out. You know.”

I watched as Handel carefully pulled out the skeleton of the fish, then went to work on the smaller spines. “Am I allowed to be here?”

Handel turned for a sec, grabbed a pan blackened with use, and threw it on the stove, turning the flame to high. “You are if you’re with me. There’s some beer in the fridge. Help yourself, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love one, too.”

“Sure,” I said, coming around the bar, still watching Handel deal with the fish, picking out the tiniest of the bones. I was used to watching this—we lived in a fishing town. But there was something fascinating about seeing Handel Davies doing it, and for the purpose of what appeared to be our dinner. A dinner he was going to cook for me. A dinner cooked by a boy who’d never spoken to me before only a few weeks ago—no, that hadn’t even known I was alive before then. The fridge was packed with beer, the bag with the fish head and tail shoved into the only remaining space. I grabbed two and opened them, leaving one at the edge of the chopping block for Handel. Then I returned to my perch at the bar. “Are you bringing the leftovers to your mother for later?” I asked, referring to the head and tail, which people around here used to make stock.

He grinned. “Yeah. I keep her in good supply.” He slipped the glove from his left hand and took a swig of beer. “She’s a fine cook.”

“From the looks of it, so are you.”

“Nah,” he said, his eyes on me now. “It’s just knowing how to clean the fish right, then some high heat and salt. There’s no skill in that.”

I took a sip of my beer, breaking our stare. “Maybe. We’ll see, I guess.”

“We will.” Handel threw two long, thin pieces of fish into the pan, where they made a satisfying sizzle. He began opening and shutting cabinets, pulling out plastic spice bottles and a couple of plates. While Handel cooked, I got up and stood in the doorway, staring out at the ocean, watching as the last of the day’s light seeped away. I couldn’t stop smiling; I couldn’t stop glowing, really; and I couldn’t stop loving the fact that Handel felt like he was wholly mine. Unlike before, when I was unsure what to call us, I suddenly knew that I
had
him—had him like I’d never had a boy. And he had me, too. There was no doubt about this, either. All my worries, the despair of that night in February, the danger everyone feared would rear up in front of me like a killer wave, it all seemed so distant now, like I might have imagined it, and I loved that Handel did this to me, too, that he
gave
me this.

Eventually, the delicious smell of fish pulled me from these thoughts, from the sounds of the ocean and the breeze rolling across the evening. I was just in time for Handel to place a perfectly charred fish in front of me at the bar, a couple of lemon wedges on the side. A big bowl of potato chips followed.

Handel pulled up a chair next to mine and began squeezing some lemon over his own dish. “I hope you like it,” he said.

I detected a trace of nervousness in Handel’s tone. That I made Handel nervous meant that he really liked me, that he really cared about what I thought. “I’m sure it will be great,” I told him, but that was before the first bite of dinner melted in my mouth. “I meant
amazing,
” I corrected. Suddenly I was ravenous.

The two of us ate in silence, the only sound the
clink
and clatter of cutlery. After a while I spoke again. “I really like this place.” My fish was nearly gone.

So was Handel’s. He speared the last of it with his fork. “Good. Me too.”

I set my empty plate to the side. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Handel took a sip of his beer. “I thought about bringing you the first night we went out, but I decided maybe it was too soon.”

“Really?”

He nodded.

I grabbed the two dirty plates from the bar and brought them to the sink. I was about to turn on the water when Handel stopped me.

“I’ll do that later,” he said. He placed a hand on my back. “Let’s you and I go sit on the beach. It’s a nice night.”

I could barely breathe with him touching me.

I followed Handel out of the shack. He’d grabbed a blanket from a small wooden chest against the wall and carried it between his left arm and body. When we reached a spot that was tucked away from the prying eyes of our town, we set it out on the sand. Then we sat down and started to talk, watching as the moon showed its crescent self. It wasn’t long before Handel leaned forward, kissing me softly at first, then less so, his fingers brushing the tender indent at the base of my neck, hovering over the top button of my shirt, hesitant.

All day, ever since our time at the beach, I’d been replaying in my mind the thought of Handel’s hands doing this very same thing, this act of undressing, even a little bit, that before now only I was permitted to do. So I gave this power over to him with only the slightest of nods, and the softest of yeses, and that was all he needed to take the next step, to twist his fingers so that the first button slid from its loop and my shirt fell open just a little at the neck. I might have stopped breathing then. With his eyes on mine, full of just the sort of desire I felt, one by one he opened the rest until there weren’t any more left to undo.

My heart pounded. I was lit up like a star.

Handel smiled that nearly imperceptible smile again.

And then I dared to do the same to him, to start at the button at his neck and work my way down until I could slide his shirt open and run my finger from his chest to his navel, something I had never done before to a boy, had never dreamed of doing before this boy. We stayed like this for a long while, hands exploring, softly, slowly along tanned skin, like we had all the time in the world, lids lowered, smiling with pleasure, a smile I’d read about in novels but never understood until now, the most wonderful ache building all through my body. Eventually, finally, Handel’s fingers danced along the ends of my bathing suit ties, tugging, teasing, loosening. By the time the strings fell away down my back, I was the one reaching behind my neck and lifting it the rest of the way over my head, setting it aside.

“Jane,” Handel said after leaving a trail of kisses along my neck up to my ear.

“Yes,” I said, more of a statement than a question.

“I’m crazy about you.”

He said this so simply, so intensely, and I opened my eyes to look into his, feeling half like an animal and only half like the girl who I am. Chest heaving. Hair knotted and falling everywhere. Shirt hanging wide open and nearly slipping off my shoulders. Handel leaned down and kissed the skin around the mosaic heart. His fingers traced the curve of my breasts.

I closed my eyes. “I’m crazy about you, too.” My voice was hoarse.

“Would you believe me if I said that I’m falling in love with you? Or maybe . . . maybe I already am.”

I nodded, half dazed. Everything was full of feeling. The ocean. The breeze. The air. We lay against the blanket. Pressed our bodies together. I opened my eyes again. “Why wouldn’t I believe you?” I whispered in his ear.

Handel watched me. “I want you to feel special, Jane. I want you to feel perfect.”

“No one is perfect. I don’t want to be perfect.” I reached out, took his hand, and placed it on my stomach, just above the top button of my jeans. When at first he didn’t move, I pushed it lower, until his fingers were touching the round piece of metal. I wanted Handel’s hands everywhere. I’d allowed myself to imagine what this might be like, to have Handel wanting to do this to me, this thing that I knew about and talked about with the girls but had never done with anyone.

Then Handel said something I wasn’t expecting. “I think we should wait.”

“For what?”

He was silent a moment. “For the right moment. The right time.”

I pressed at his hand. Patience had long ago fled. “That time isn’t now?”

He took his hand back. Sat up. “Not yet.”

My breathing slowed. My heart didn’t. “Why not?”

“I want to know everything about you. And I want you to know everything about me.”

“Everything?” I said, half laughing at the impossible thought, half serious about what that would mean.

He nodded. Answered simply, “Yes.”

“What else is there to know?”

“Plenty.”

He trained his gaze on the water. The rhythm of the waves became audible again. I’d almost forgotten where we were, the sound of their crashing so far off in the distance, so far away that I’d stopped hearing it. But now it came back loud and clear.

“Okay.” I sat up now, gathered my shirt together, closing it over bare skin. “But I want this. I want you,” I added with confidence because I was sure it was true.

“I hope you still do once you get to know me better.”

I looked at Handel. Reached my hand to his face and turned his cheek so I could give him a soft kiss. “I will.”

His smile was almost sad. “Sometimes I wish we’d met under other circumstances.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, like if I was from a different town, a different life even. A different family for sure. And I came here for the summers and saw you for the first time, talked to you on the beach. Made you fall in love with me.”

My smile wasn’t sad at all, hearing this. “Half your wish has already come true.”

“I’ll never be like your friend Miles.”

I laughed. “I don’t want you to be Miles.”

“You say that now.”

“And I’ll say it again come the end of summer. And winter and spring, too.”

Handel leaned forward for a slow, heart-melting kiss. Then he pulled back. “I should take you home.”

My heart sank. How could I go home after all this? “Really?”

Handel did the buttons on his shirt while I watched. “I want your mother to like me,” he said.

“She already does.”

“I don’t want that to change.”

I grabbed my bathing suit top and shoved it in my bag. Closed the snap. Buttoned myself up. “All right. I’ll go.”

“I’m going to take your reluctance as a compliment.”

I smiled, the glow of the evening’s events returning and with it a kind of confidence that I liked. I turned to Handel. “You should.”

The way Handel looked at me then, I thought we might start up again, unable to leave each other. There was so much want between us, and it was exhilarating. It made my heart pound and my skin tingle and my body ache. It made me feel like a girl, too, a feminine thing, who suddenly knew just what the boys wanted. And more important, what she wanted from the boys. The great mystery finally revealed.

But just when I thought Handel was going to reach out to me, the want disappeared, replaced by a darkness, one I’d seen before in his eyes and one I was trying so hard not to see because I wasn’t sure what it meant, or if I wanted to know what was behind it, either. Instead of running his fingers along the side of my face or over my shoulder, Handel got up and walked me home.

• • •

That night in bed, half covered only by a thin sheet because of the heat, I lay wide-awake. The crickets were loud outside my window, singing their midnight serenade. My fingers went to the heart at my chest. Over and over my mind replayed the various moments of my evening with Handel, his lips on my skin, his fingers, and the mere memory made my body light up all over again.