The Tenderness of Thieves (15 page)

Bridget got serious. “Jane, you shouldn’t let him hang on to hope if he hasn’t got any. He’s a nice guy.”

Guilt sprung up like a weed. I tried to distract myself from it by focusing on putting up my hair. “I know he is.”

Michaela rolled over. Looked at me. “Unless Miles has a real chance?”

I finished fixing the knot, then shrugged. “I’m with Handel. We just went over that.”

“We’ve yet to see this for real, however,” Michaela said. “If you’re with Handel, then where is he now?”

“Working,” I said. “Why would you even ask that?”

“Do you know this for sure?”

“Yes,” I answered, even though I didn’t really know the answer. She was right. I just assumed that’s where Handel was. That this was where he was all day every day. “I thought you guys were going to try to be nice about him now that—” But I didn’t get to finish.

“Incoming,” Tammy interrupted, looking off into the distance, toward the lifeguard chairs at the far end of the beach. Miles and company were headed toward us. “From the left.”

“Ooh,” Bridget cried. “Make yourselves pretty for the boys!”

“Jane, since you’re not all the way toward love with Handel yet, why don’t you make yourself available to Miles,” Michaela suggested. “Maybe a little? That’s all I’m asking. A teensy bit.”

“I’m not justifying that with a response,” I said as the four of us watched the band of boys approaching, moving across the beach like the tide, picking up shells and sand and more than a few glances from the other girls lying out in the sun.

“Hello, hello,” Miles said cheerily when they reached us. Then he gave me one of those blinding, golden-boy smiles, the kind they must have you practice at prep school. “Can I sit here?” he asked, gesturing at the space in the sand next to my towel.

“Sure,” I said, smiling back, but immediately felt a little bit guilty about it. Bridget was right: Miles was a really nice guy, and he had no idea that right after seeing him last night, I’d gone out to meet Handel at his boat. I really shouldn’t lead Miles on. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t the kind of thing I did.

Miles and his friends set their towels in a circle around us, doubling our little beach setup. Miles sat down next to me, that easy smile never leaving his face. He didn’t seem to have a care in the world, and I realized right then that I liked this about him. It was infectious. Even a relief. Miles wasn’t even the smallest bit bad or dangerous, or from a notorious family like Handel. He was good all the way through like I used to be, a nice boy who thought of me that way, too.

So instead of telling Miles immediately and honestly that I had a boyfriend—well, more or less—I let myself soak up all the ease that was rolling off him in waves.

I have to admit, as I looked around at my friends who, despite their protests, were obviously enjoying this literal circle of male attention, I saw how simple it would be for my friends to approve of someone like Miles. How, if I chose him, I could have one of those fun summer romances I used to dream about when the boys didn’t know we were alive, the kind that aren’t weighty or dark or serious, but as light as the cotton candy they sold by the baseball field near the wharf. A tiny part of me wondered, too, if Michaela wasn’t a teensy bit right and I should leave myself open to the possibility of Miles, even if, in the end, it was really only a little part of me that thought this was a good idea.

“S
TOP FIDGETING,” MY MO
THER
said. “Do you want me to stick you?”

I looked down at her warily. “It’s hot.” She was holding pins dangerously close to my chest as she worked on the bodice of the wedding dress I was modeling. “If you stop threatening me with a sticking, maybe that will help with the fidgeting. You’re making me nervous.”

She took a step back and put her free hand on her hip. “How many years have you been doing this for me? And how many times has there been a pin-related injury?”

I rolled my eyes, the only part of my body I could easily move. “Once.”

“And that happened because?”

“Because I slipped off this pedestal thing you make me stand on.”

My mother went around to the back of the dress, stepping carefully around the train. She bent down to fix the snap on the bustle. “And you slipped off because?”

Thank God she was too invested in her work to see the expression on my face. “I slipped off because I was trying to get to the phone.”

“Exactly,” my mother said, her words slightly muffled. I didn’t need to look at her to know she had pins in her mouth. “It wasn’t me that was the problem.”

“Bridget had important news!”

“Not so important that it was worth a serious stabbing.”

I put my hand over my mouth, trying to hold back the laughter. Laughter would be bad right now. “Definitely not,” I admitted, the laughter spilling out of me, anyway.

My mother came around to the front of the dress again. “No giggling,” she protested, trying not to laugh herself. She stopped working for a moment. Looked up at me with a smile. “My silly daughter.”

“I’m not silly.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” she said. “Giggling and silliness are nice to see. It’s been a while since I’ve heard you so relaxed.”

I stiffened a little at this. “I guess so.” I didn’t want to think about the reasons why I hadn’t been silly lately. That same morning, I glimpsed a headline about the break-ins on the front page of the newspaper. I’d gone to retrieve it from the front steps, the clear bag it came in covered with dew.

SUSPECT IN RASH OF BREAK-INS TAKEN IN FOR QUESTIONING; POLICE WON’T REVEAL IDENTITY

My mother was still in bed, so she hadn’t yet seen it. I grabbed the paper and took it inside, shoved it far underneath my bed so she wouldn’t. Just like I’d erased the messages Officer Connolly had left on the machine about needing to talk to me before my mother knew they were there. If I avoided these things, I could almost pretend that life was normal, protecting myself and my mother from further worry.

“So, my darling daughter,” she was saying as she bent low to the ground to touch up the hem of the gown, “what are you doing for the Fourth of July? Going to the beach with the girls? Or anyone else?”

She didn’t mention Handel directly, but I could tell that she was fishing for information. Her tone said it all.

I felt my cheeks reddening. Even the thought of spending an evening with Handel was enough to make me flush with want, with all the desire I felt for him—an embarrassing reaction to have in front of my mother. “I’m going to watch the fireworks like always. Probably up in a lifeguard chair if I can get ahold of one.” If I just referred to myself, then I didn’t have to do the work of figuring out who else to mention in the equation—the girls, Miles, his friends, Handel. Handel and I still hadn’t made plans for that night, and Miles had already said he wanted to hang out with me if I was around.

“Hmmm,” my mother said, gently tugging along the edge of the fabric. She obviously didn’t believe I’d be spending the Fourth alone. She stood up and stepped back to admire her work. “Now,
this
is a beautiful wedding dress.”

The fabric was ivory, a thick rough silk, so thick that when my mother worked her magic she could mold it almost like a sculpture. It was strapless, simple on the top, and fitted all the way down my body to below my hips, where it belled out. No beads were sewn onto this one, no pearls or buttons or lace. The simple beauty of the fabric and the style are what made this dress stunning.

I looked at myself in the mirror on the far wall. “It really is.”

“Mary is going to love this design when she sees it. I’m feeling proud of myself, I have to admit.”

“You should feel that way.”

The doorbell sounded.

My mother put down her pincushion on the sewing table. “I’ll get it. Don’t move.”

“Yup, I’ll just wait here,” I said sarcastically as she left me trapped in all these heavy yards of silk, flowing down off the pedestal into a train that trailed off a good few yards behind me. I was so pinned that if I tried to remove the dress, I risked serious injury. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine!” I yelled after her, a bit grateful for the interruption, honestly, so I had time to banish my sexy Handel thoughts before I had to look her in the eyes again.

Then I heard voices.

One of them was male.

Maybe it was a fabric delivery.

But when my mother returned to the sewing room, singing, “Jane, you have a visitor,” along the way, I knew it wasn’t the deliveryman approaching or the mailman. Oh God, I thought. It’s Miles. He’s found my home address and surprised me with a visit.

But it wasn’t him, either.

“Hi, Jane,” Handel said, hovering in the doorway of my mother’s office, smiling. “I got the day off.”

I covered my mouth with my hand, unsure what to do. Unable to move.

“Jane,” my mother said from behind him. He stepped aside so she could come in the room. “You didn’t tell me you were expecting company.”

I removed my hand. “That’s because I wasn’t.”

“Right,” she said.

Handel’s eyes traveled up and down my body, then stopped when they met my eyes. “That’s a beautiful dress, Ms. Calvetti,” he added quickly.

My cheeks burned.

“And an even more beautiful model, don’t you agree?” she asked, glancing at Handel, who was still not quite inside the sewing room.

I wanted to die. “Mom!”

Handel laughed. “I thought that was already understood.”

My cheeks were on fire, even though I was secretly pleased by Handel’s appraisal. I gave my mother a look that said
we are going to have a serious chat about your behavior later.
“Um, can I get out of this dress now?” I asked her.

“I’ll go wait in the living room,” Handel offered. “Then maybe we can head to the beach?” he asked me.

I nodded.

“It’ll take a few minutes, just so you know,” my mother warned him. “These gowns are complicated.”

“I’ve got time,” he called out, already gone from the doorway.

My mother hadn’t moved. She studied me. One hand on her hip. “He’s nice, Jane.”

The blood that started to drain from my cheeks with Handel’s departure immediately returned. “I know.”

My mother began undoing the row of tiny pearl buttons all down the back of the gown. “And he’s
very
good-looking.”

“Mom,” I protested. This was going to take forever. There must be a hundred buttons for her to undo, and she’d only gotten to about five. I was trapped in this conversation.

“It was just an observation,” she said, the smile on her face audible in her tone.

“I could probably do without that particular observation about my boyfriend,” I said, finally able to breathe now that my mother was more than halfway down the bodice. “And please lower your voice.”

“So he
is
your boyfriend,” she said in a whisper. “Interesting. How come you didn’t tell me?”

“It feels kind of private.”

“Not private enough that he couldn’t stop by.”

She finished with the last buttons, and I let out a long breath. “I’m as surprised as you are.”

Now she got to work on the bustle, trying to let it down without losing any pins in the process. “Interesting.”

“You keep saying that,” I said.

“Because it’s true,” she sang.

My mother finished with the bustle and came around to the front of the dress again. Escape was in my near future. I could practically taste freedom. “Well, I’m glad I could add some excitement to your day.”

She stood there, looking at me. “Jane, you know you can talk to me about anything.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Including about the . . .
famous Handel Davies,
” she added, in an exaggerated whisper.

“Mom!” Maybe she was going to make me suffer in this gown all day. “Can you please help me here?”

She laughed gleefully.

“You know,” I said, about ready to step out of the dress on my own, yet finding I was still surrounded by so much fabric that this wasn’t about to happen easily and I didn’t want to ruin any of my mother’s work. “I always assumed that since you’re such a
young
mother that you would be much
cooler
than the other ones I know.”

My mother got a look of concentration on her face and started fiddling with the hem of the dress, studying it. “Really.”

“But suddenly I find that I am wrong.”

She took out a pin and wove it through the bottom of the fabric. “Don’t hurt your mother’s feelings,” she said.

“Right. Like you sound so hurt.”

“No. You’re right. I’m not. I’m enjoying this.”

“Mother!” She finally stood and gave me her hand so I could step out of the dress. When it was safely away from harm, I hopped down from the pedestal, threw on my shirt and shorts, and sprinted by Handel, who was standing near the screen door. I ran into my room and got dressed, gave myself a quick look in the mirror, and, satisfied, sprinted back to see my mother in the sewing room. “I’m leaving now,” I informed her.

“Jane,” my mother said, stopping me with her hand.

“What now?”

“You
are
being safe, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Oh my God. I’m not even close to needing to be. Can we please drop this?”

“Well, when you do get close, we should go to a doctor and make sure you have everything you need.”

“I am not doing this right now. I love you, bye,” I added, my cheeks as red as the bolt of taffeta leaning against the wall. I shut the door behind me, took a deep breath, and walked the very short four steps into the living room, where Handel was still waiting. “Please tell me you didn’t hear every word of that,” I said to him.

“I didn’t,” he said. But he was grinning.

“You’re lying.”

“It was a white lie,” he said. “I was trying to make you feel better.”

I covered my face with my hands. “I’m mortified,” I said, my words muffled.

“Don’t be. Besides, I told you the mortifying story about my name. Now we’re even. Your mother loves you. She just wants to know things about your life.”

I still didn’t remove my hands. I couldn’t look at Handel. My cheeks burned like I’d stayed an entire day in the summer sun without any shade or sunscreen. The only thing that was even the least bit consoling was the familiar grains of sand on the floor of the living room under my bare feet. Slowly, I uncovered my eyes. “You sound like you speak from experience.”

His grin slipped but only a little. “My ma wants to be a part of my life, too.”

“And is she? Does she know about . . . me and you?” I still couldn’t quite bring myself to say “us.”

Handel didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “Maybe we should head to a place where, you know, your mother can’t overhear our entire conversation.”

“I can’t hear anything!” my mother called from the sewing room.

“Yes,” I said immediately. “That’s a fantastic idea.”

“Have fun! Don’t be home too late!” my mother yelled out.

I slipped my feet into my flip-flops. “Come on,” I said to Handel, already opening the screen door. “Bye, Mom,” I called back to her.

Once Handel and I were outside, even in the heat, I could breathe easier—at least at first. Then I noticed how patches of the grass in our yard were growing out of control and others were burned from the sun. My dad had always been the one to come over and maintain it. I pushed this out of my mind, deciding I’d deal with it later. “Where do you want to go?” I asked Handel.

“I was thinking,” he began, then stopped.

“You were thinking . . . what?”

“That we should go public. Again.”

“Public,” I said. “About me. And you. Like before.”

Handel’s hand kept going to his back pocket. “Yeah. That we should stop hiding this. Us,” he added. “We started out that way, and I don’t think it makes sense to pretend we aren’t together.”

I looked at him. “You want a cigarette,” I said.

“How’d you know?”

“You’re nervous,” I said. “You always want one when you get nervous. Well, that and the fact that you keep the pack in your jeans pocket and your hand reaching for it gives you away.”

He hooked his thumb into his belt loop. “I’m not nervous.”

“But you want a cigarette.”

“Yes.” He glanced at the house. “But I’m not going to light one up in your front yard.”

“All right. Let’s walk somewhere, then. In public. Together.”

“Let’s,” he said.

“Here we go,” I said, then stopped at the edge of the grass, like it was a line of demarcation I wasn’t sure we should cross. “You’re really not worried about your friends anymore?”

Handel already had the cigarette out. The lighter poised. “I guess not.”

I took a step forward. Crossed that line. “What changed?”

“I don’t know. Things. Today life feels different for some reason.” Handel put the cigarette in his mouth. The flick of his lighter sounded. Then after one long drag, he crossed that line, too, joining me on the other side. “And it’s not right to hide. I want to do this right with you.” Handel’s eyes were serious. He took the cigarette from his mouth. “Jane, from the very first time I noticed you,
really
noticed you, I was sure you could only be good all the way through. I want that good to rub off on me, too.”

I reached out to him. “I’m not
that
good.”

“You are, though,” he said, and his hand closed around mine. “And I love it.”

Handel and I began our walk through town toward the beach. Once again, we braved the stares of the neighbors, the way they stopped sweeping their front porches and put down glasses of lemonade, pausing conversations to take us in as we passed. The daughter of a fallen cop, hand in hand with the youngest son of one of the town’s most notorious families. I was sure my mother would get more gossip in her sewing room, but then, she could say she already knew about it, how her daughter’s boyfriend was none other than Handel Davies, who’d stopped by the house to say hello and meet her.