The Tenderness of Thieves Page 3

  The screen door shut with a loud bang as I left the house, left my mother and Mrs. McIntyre to continue their gossip. Their words, though, trailed behind me as I walked, like the tail of a kite or the train of that ugly wedding dress. Pulling on me. Holding me down.

  February 19

  The night of the break-in I’d been out working, later than usual.

  Before everything happened, I house-sat for some of the wealthier folks in town. Took care of the dog or the cat when they were away. Watered the plants. Whatever they needed. I had no reason to worry about the darkness, not back then. Life was safe and secure, and everyone seemed like a potential friend, even the people I didn’t know very well. Or at all.

  This time, I’d been house-sitting for a professor and his doctor wife. The O’Connors. They were an older couple, one of my regular customers. They’d always been nice to me, the professor in particular. He knew I was college-bound, which was unusual for a town like ours, and that I studied hard and nearly always had my nose in a book. We’d talk about my latest read when we exchanged keys or met up for him to pass me a check.

  Their place was big, mansion-like really, with its three stories and tall columns that stretched across the porch. They lived in the nicest neighborhood in town, where all the houses had that majestic look, sturdy and graceful, with manicured lawns and tasteful architecture and New England charm.

  It was cold and rainy that day, and dark by half past five. The snow was melting, little piles of it like icebergs scattered across the lawn and dotting the tops of the bushes. Occasionally I glanced out the window from the third-floor reading nook of the professor’s library, watched the harbor far off in the distance, bleak and gray and lonely as the fishermen shut down for the night and headed off to the bars, the light bleeding from the sky. Sometimes I stayed there for hours, lost in one of the leather-bound novels the professor kept on the shelf by his desk. The O’Connors didn’t mind if I spent time there. The professor usually left out a stack of books for me with a sticky note attached to the one on top that would say something like FOR JANE CALVETTI’S PERUSAL AND EDIFICATION.

  It always made me smile.

  “Have a good time,” I’d said to Professor O’Connor as he and his wife were heading off on their winter vacation that same day. Their bags were packed, and they’d left their keys on the kitchen counter, right alongside the to-do list and instructions they’d written up for me. It was only six, but a single lamp by the fridge provided the only light in the grand, ghostly space.

  Professor O’Connor glanced at the list, checking its contents. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call us. All our numbers are right here.”

  “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” I said to him.

  “I left you some novels upstairs,” he said. “There’s one in particular I think you’ll like. It’s on top.”

  I looked up at his weathered face. I smiled. “Thank you.”

  He rapped his knuckles on the counter. “Not a minute past nine p.m. this week, Miss Jane,” he said in his best fatherly-sounding voice, returning the smile. “You need your rest.”

  “Yes,” said Dr. O’Connor, his wife. “I don’t want your mother at home worried about you being here.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “Not even a minute.”

  They hovered. Checked a few more things before they said their good-byes, and I locked the door behind them. Their footsteps echoed on the front walk, first loud, then more distant, until they disappeared altogether and I was alone in the house.

  I should have listened to them. Left before nine. Left when it was still safe.

  But I didn’t.

  By eight that night, the rain had turned to snow.

  I pulled on a thick gray sweater, the one I kept in my bag during winter. Tried not to shiver. The O’Connors had turned down the heat before they left, and I hadn’t bothered to turn it up. Soon I’d be able to see my breath in the lamplight. A thin layer of white covered the grass and floated over the wet of the street out front. The temperature was dropping fast. Everything would turn to ice during the night, and the world would have a thick coat of it by morning, the roads slick like glass and the trees turned crystal. The view out to the wharf was magical, the lights brightening the snowflakes as they fell across the ocean, where they disappeared into nothing.

  The book open across my lap had so occupied my attention that I didn’t notice the moment the rain became a snowfall, not until it was already coming down. The forecast hadn’t predicted a storm, but then, it was never right around here. When you lived next to the water, all kinds of weather blew in unexpectedly.

  I went to the kitchen and made myself some tea. Carried the steaming mug to the reading nook carefully. Set it next to the stack of books the professor had left me. Stared out the window some more at the snow and tugged my sweater tighter around my body. The tea warmed me as I sipped it, so much so that I had to stifle a yawn. Leaned my head against the wall for a minute, no, just for a second, to rest. Closed my eyes. Opened them to see the swirl of white. Closed them again. They felt so heavy. Sleep kept coming for me, tugging on me. It wouldn’t let me go.

  I don’t know when it was that I drifted off.

  All I know is that I did.

  FOUR

  I COULD SEE THE McCallen brothers hanging out on the corner of Maple just a half a block ahead of me, beers sweating in their hands, cigarettes pinched between their lips. Joey McCallen, the oldest, was as ugly as ugly gets. Thick square head, thick square neck, everything about him sharp edges and ninety-degree angles. He was covered in freckles so dense they were like spilled coffee across skin. Brendan, one of the middle brothers, had gotten luckier in the looks department with his sky-blue eyes and lanky build, but all five McCallens had menace permanently stamped into their expressions, even the youngest one. Seeing them made you want to cross the street, like they could hurt you with their stares, but of course, you didn’t. You were more likely to catch their attention that way. Not something anyone in this neighborhood coveted by a long shot.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I neared their corner. Slovenska’s Diner, the place I was headed, was just on the other side, so there was no avoiding those boys. I made a show of hefting my purse from one shoulder to the other, an excuse to cover up part of my body. I tilted my head to the side so my hair would cover up some more.

  “Hiya, Calvetti,” Joey said to me, his voice rough and deep. His brothers’ eyes kept darting my way in between long gulps of beer. Patrick, the youngest one, stared boldly.

  “Hi, Joey,” I returned with a nod, still on my way.

  The cigarette dropped from his mouth to the ground. He crushed the cinders under his foot. Watched me. “You being careful around town, aren’t you?”

  I stopped. There went the ice in my veins. I could almost hear the slushy rush of blood. “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

  “I don’t know, Calvetti. Gotta watch yourself, all right?”

  My next breath lodged in my throat. A perfectly smooth pebble. “What are you trying to tell me, Joey?”

  “Nuthin. Nuthin, really.” The menace in his eyes disappeared, traded for something more serious. Concern. “Just thinkin’ your father would want someone looking out for you.”

  I nearly laughed, despite the mention of my father. That my father, the cop, would ever want Joey McCallen worrying himself about me, was as unlikely as the Atlantic freezing over. “Why, Joey? Are you volunteering for the job?” I asked him, full of skepticism. For a second, it crossed my mind that maybe he was fishing for information, that maybe he knew something he wasn’t telling me. Maybe Joey McCallen was trying to trick me into talking. I filed this away to think on later.

  Joey was silent, as if a debate was raging in his head. Patrick leaned toward him, used his beer can to block their whispers. Then Joey looked at me. Shrugged. “I watch out for all the neighborhood girls,” he said with a sudden laugh, the worry dis
appearing as quickly as it had showed up. The rest of his brothers heh-heh’d.

  I rolled my eyes. “’Course you do.” I started on my way again. “See you later.” I threw those words over my shoulder, glancing back at the McCallens one last time before moving on, relieved to be putting some distance between us.

  It was right then that my attention landed on Patrick, snagged on the tiniest of details really, the black, heavy-soled boots he was wearing—boots that were not unusual in and of themselves. Plenty of boys around here wore them daily, even in summer when they worked on the docks. It was the quick flash of metal along the toes that caught my notice, momentarily blinding in the glare of the sun. My heart started running a race and the world seemed to spin. I put my hand out, pressed my palm against the white clapboard house next to me that served as the town post office. I waited a moment, steadied myself, decided it was just a coincidence. The entire night was such a blur in my memory that my imagination was playing tricks. But even as I told myself these things over and over, the pit in my stomach, the one that rooted itself there months ago and wouldn’t go away, had already grown a little bit bigger.

  I knew those boots.

  • • •

  The air-conditioning in Slovenska’s Diner did nothing to smooth the gooseflesh bumping across my arms and legs. The sign advertising this cool relief was three times as big as the information about the food. Tammy and Bridget were already occupying our favorite booth. Bridget had on a simple tank top and jean skirt, but with her fair skin and long hair, she managed to be gorgeous without even trying. Tammy had on the pale yellow sundress she bought the other day, and with the color she’d already gotten from the sun this spring, she was looking a whole other kind of pretty. Seamus and his friends Roger and Anthony were sitting nearby. Seamus had positioned himself so he had a nice view of Tammy; Roger and Anthony were angled so they could admire Bridget. Seamus waved when he saw me, and I waved at him but didn’t stop and chat. Bridget and Tammy were fixing me with stares that said something was up.

  “Hi, girls,” I said, determined to act normal. I slid into the booth next to Bridget. She always seemed a safer bet than Tammy.

  Bridget immediately launched into conversation. “Did you see the Mc—”

  Tammy halted her with a look. “Slow down, B.”

  “Yes, I saw the McCallens.” I shrugged. “What of it?”

  Tammy played with the spoon in her iced coffee, swirling it around and around. A milky storm. “They were just in a talkative mood, is all.”

  Bridget pressed her lips together, locking them shut.

  The waitress came toward us. I stopped her by gesturing at Tammy’s iced coffee. She turned and made her way toward the fridge. “How so?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.

  “Can I talk now, Tammy?” Bridget said, all prim and sarcastic. She took Tammy’s silence as a yes. “We were passing the corner, and the boys said hi, and we said hi back, of course, but then suddenly they wanted a conversation. Guess what about?”

  Before I could guess, Tammy leaned in. “Our friend Jane Calvetti.”

  The waitress plunked the iced coffee in front of me and headed off to another table. My heart sped up again, that flash of light from Patrick’s boot a glaring memory in my brain. “Why would they be talking about me?”

  “I don’t know, J,” Bridget said. “But they started asking us questions, like about where you were and how much we saw you and what you were up to these days. We didn’t say much, just answered as best as we could with as little information. I mean, we had to say something because it was the McCallens.”

  Tammy gave Bridget a sideways glance. “Mainly it was me doing the answering, Jane, because Bridget was too busy ogling one of the middle brothers. Jimmy, I think. Or maybe his name is Brendan. I get them all confused.”

  Bridget’s mouth was wide with protest. “I was not ogling!”

  “You were too,” she said. “You were giving him those sexy eyes you get when you think a boy is cute.”

  “I don’t give anybody sexy eyes.”

  Tammy cocked her head. Batted her eyelashes in imitation of Bridget. “Sure, Marcus!” she mimicked, her voice high and sweet. “I’d love to meet you in the janitor’s closet during fifth. As luck would have it, I’ve got a key!”

  Two rosy dots appeared on Bridget’s cheeks. “Tamra Komarov, you are not going to deny that it’s a good place for making out. You’ve spent plenty of time there yourself, courtesy of me.” She pouted. “I only go there because it’s private.”

  I nudged Bridget, grateful for the turn in conversation. Happy to help it along. “Calm down, B, it’s not a bad thing that boys fall all over you.”

  “Whatever.” Bridget sank farther down into the booth, arms crossed. The universal sign for this topic of conversation is over.

  Tammy’s attention shifted from Bridget to me. “Back to the McCallens.”

  “Joey talked to me, too,” I said with a sigh. “It was like he was being protective. I’m not going to worry much about it.” Even as I said this, I knew it was a lie.

  Tammy did, too. “What’s going on that you’re not telling us? Did something else . . . happen?”

  A chill spread over my skin, tiny peaks of unease. The diner was freezing. Hot coffee would have been a better order on my part. I pushed my glass toward Bridget, who’d drained her own before I arrived. “Have this, B,” I said, both a peace offering and a way to avoid answering.

  Bridget sat up again. Elbows on the table, hands around the frosty glass. She looked at me. “Did you know there hasn’t been, you know, another one since? There was an article in the paper about how, um, yours was the last.”

  Apparently my friends thought of the break-in as “mine,” too.

  Tammy leaned closer and whispered, “You don’t think the McCallens had anything to do with it, do you? Everyone’s always wanting to know what you remember about that night . . .” She trailed off.

  There it was. The opening to tell my friends everything running through my mind. An invitation from Tammy to confide my fears and suspicions. And I was close, I was nearly there, but then I couldn’t do it. “Nah,” I said quickly. Too quickly. I got up from the table. “I’ve got to go to the ladies’. Be right back.”

  The bathroom at Slovenska’s was like something out of the fifties. A mirror with big bulbed lights framing it. Chipped Formica made to look like marble surrounding the sink. Old tiled floor that used to be a deep red but had faded to a dull brown. A tall, overly green plastic plant sat in its matching brown plastic pot on the floor. I splashed warm water on my face. Patted my cheeks with a rough paper towel. If I only glanced at myself quickly, a familiar girl looked back, but if I stopped to stare too long, I saw someone I no longer recognized. A girl who kept things from her friends, things that mattered. But then, what if I told them about Patrick McCallen? What if I put them in danger by doing so? What if I made things more dangerous for myself? With a deep breath, I turned around and pushed my way through the ladies’ room door into the chilly diner again.

  Michaela had arrived while I was gone and was sitting in the booth next to Tammy. She sipped what remained of my iced coffee. Tammy and Bridget were probably telling her tales already.

  I put a big smile on my face as I approached. “So I have another story today, and it’s not as short as last time,” I said a bit too brightly as I slid into the booth. Before anyone could respond, I kept going. “Earlier, I was at the market picking up dinner and who should walk in but Handel Davies.”

  There was a short pause, then Bridget perked up. “Did you talk to him?”

  I could always count on B. “Yup. And this time, we exchanged more than names. He asked me out. He’ll be at my house to pick me up tomorrow at eight.”

  This got Tammy, too. “You. Have a date. With Handel Davies,” she said, all staccato and surprise.

&nb
sp; I nodded. Waited for Michaela’s critical commentary, but all I got was the angry sound of bubbling air as the last of the coffee was sucked up her straw. She shrugged. Looked at me with lidded eyes over the top of the glass.

  Bridget was nudging me. “Where is he taking you?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I hadn’t gotten far enough to wonder.”

  “You should wear something sexy,” Bridget said.

  Tammy was nodding. “Maybe that green slinky tank you wore to Spring Fling.”

  I gave Tammy a disapproving glance. “Well, I would, dear Tamra, however you borrowed it for your night that ended in the infamous skinny-dipping episode, and I haven’t seen it since.”

  Her mouth opened to protest, then she closed it. A pause. “You might be right about that. Sorry.” She smiled, closing her eyes. “I really did put it to good use that evening, Jane. Hmmm.”

  I shook my head and laughed. Tammy loved to dish about her boy escapades.

  Bridget giggled. Tossed a balled-up straw wrapper that hit Tammy in the chest. “Yes, we remember. In excruciating detail.” She nudged me gently with her elbow. “Now back to Handel and possible sexy outfits. Let’s discuss.”

  But I was focused on Michaela. She’d been staring at the wreckage on our table this whole time, as though crumpled napkins, coffee spoons, and scattered grains of sugar were more interesting. Her silence was driving me crazy. “Will you just say your judgments out loud, please? I know you’re thinking I shouldn’t be going out with him.”

  Michaela’s face remained blank; her olive skin—the same color as mine—wasn’t even flushed from the chill of the air-conditioning like everyone else’s. “I have nothing to say about this, Jane. Really.” She slid her glass of iced coffee to the side. “I’ll save my comments until you report how it went. Maybe Handel will turn out to be a sweetheart.”