The Tenderness of Thieves

by Donna Freitas

  “That sounds reasonable,” I said.

  Handel reached over and tapped the table in front of me. “Like Jane, for example. Do you know why your parents called you Jane?”

  The mention of my parents, plural, made me flinch the slightest bit. I shook my head.

  “You should ask your mom,” Handel said. “I’m sure there’s a story there.” He hesitated a moment, seemed like he wanted to say something else about this, about my name or my mother or my parents. But he didn’t. “My father was the one who named my older brothers. Aidan, Colin, and Finn.” Handel watched me with some curiosity, as though he wasn’t sure how much I already knew about his family. Or even wished that maybe I didn’t know much at all.

  I nodded to tell him I did know. Because of course I did. Everybody around here knew about the McCallens, the Sweeneys, the Quinns, and, lastly, the Davies boys. We knew their names, the parents, the brothers and sisters, even the grandparents if the family was second generation, and sometimes the cousins and uncles, too.

  “With me,” Handel went on, “my mother decided she was doing the naming and put her foot down about it with my father. I was due around Christmas, and every year my mother goes with my dad to the holiday sing with the symphony up in the city. She loves it, and he takes her to make her happy. Do you see where I’m headed with this?” He looked at me again, like maybe I could finish the story for him.

  A lightbulb had gone on. “I have an idea,” I told him. “Maybe.” I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily.

  He sighed. “Well, my mother’s favorite part of the symphony is at the end when they ask everyone to stand up and join in for the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus—”

  “By Handel.”

  “Yes. George Frideric Handel, to be exact. And that particular year, with my mother in her ninth month and nearing her due date, she was belting out the words next to my father, and apparently, I was kicking along to the music.” Handel’s skin flushed deep red underneath his tan. “This is getting too graphic. I’m sorry. I’m also mortified.”

  I burst out laughing. “You shouldn’t be. I’m enjoying this. I’m just surprised.”

  “Surprised? By too much information?”

  “No,” I said, trying to suppress the laughter that still wanted out. “I just thought you’d be different.”

  Handel’s eyes danced. “You’ve given me some thought? Before coming out tonight?”

  “I’m not letting you flirt your way out of finishing this story.” I fought the blush that threatened to compete with Handel’s own. “I want to hear it to its very end, even if it turns out to be more graphic.”

  “Fine,” he said, wiping a hand across his face like this might erase the flush in his cheeks. “The graphic part is over, though; don’t worry.” He took another long sip of his Coke and swallowed. “So my mother decided this was a sign, and that was the moment she decided to name me Handel. She figured if she named me after a famous German composer, then maybe I would be destined for great things.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  Handel stared at the remains of our dinner. “I hate the thought of disappointing her since it looks like I’m turning out just like every other Davies in the family.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Can’t help thinking it, though, you know? Now I’m just another townie turned fisherman—just one with a fancy name.” Before I could respond, Handel turned away, glancing at the water and the sky, which had turned the bright blue of evening, except for a rose-pink streak along the horizon. The stars were starting to come out. “You about ready to head?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  We got rid of our trash and began making our way farther down the sand toward the place where the beach got wider and the dunes got higher.

  “Thanks for telling me that story,” I said. “I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

  “I think you owe me one now,” Handel said with a laugh.

  A piece of clear blue sea glass caught my eye in the fading light. I bent down to pick it up. Inspected it, then put it in my pocket. Continued down the beach. “I don’t know that I have any stories quite that good.”

  He glanced at me quickly. “I know that’s not true.”

  The playful look in Handel’s eyes disappeared, swapped out for something more intense, and I wondered if the story he was sure I could tell him had to do with the night I didn’t remember as clearly as everyone wished, the same night I wanted to forget altogether. I forced a laugh. “You think you already know me that well?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe not. But I’d like to,” he added.

  My heart swooped.

  Handel stopped this time. Bent down to retrieve a flat object like a mushroom cap that seemed to glow. Held his hand out to me, palm open. Sitting at its center was a sand dollar. It was perfect. Fragile. Delicate. “Take it,” Handel said, everything about him soft, vulnerable, beckoning me like the open hand he offered.

  I picked it up, my index finger grazing his skin. “It’s beautiful.” I brought it close, admired the star that marked its back, the tiny hole meant for breath. Felt how light it was, an airy meringue from the sea. I pocketed it, nestling it next to the sea glass. “Thank you.”

  “Jane,” Handel said.

  I waited for him to go on. He didn’t. The evening light had reached that point where it seemed to make everything shimmer, turn the world to a mirage. “What?” I asked.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

  I drew an arc in the sand with my toe. Then drew another. Looked up at him. “Me too.”

  Handel’s brow furrowed. “No—I mean, yes, I’m glad you’re here, now, but I’m glad nothing bad happened to you that night . . . when . . .” He trailed off.

  I swallowed. “Let’s walk. It’s getting late.” I started off again.

  Handel followed. “You don’t like remembering it, do you,” he said. “Or talking about it.”

  I glanced at him. Saw how every one of his steps left an impression in the sand. “Would you?”

  “Sometimes remembering things can help,” he said.

  “Not for me.”

  Handel’s eyes were on me. “What do you remember, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Not much.” I stumbled. Caught myself. “Can we change the subject?”

  “Of course. Sorry.” Handel hesitated. “If you ever do want to talk about it, you can,” he offered.

  “Okay.” I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The air had a chill to it, and a shiver passed through me.

  “Jane,” Handel said as the dunes took shape ahead of us. “I really am glad you’re here. The world is better with you in it.”

  SIX

  GROUPS OF SHADOWS TOOK shape in the moonlight. Figures rose up from the dunes, shifting, appearing, and disappearing again. Handel and I started along the sloping sand, tall grasses on either side of us, forming a path.

  “You ever been here to hang out?” he asked. “I don’t remember seeing you around.”

  “No,” I admitted, slightly pleased Handel had memories about me, even if they were memories about my absence.

  “Sometimes it’s fun,” Handel said, turning slightly left so we could start our climb up the dunes. “And sometimes it’s not. We’ll see what it is tonight, and if it’s not so great we can leave.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He dropped his flip-flops to the ground and slipped his feet into them. Glanced down at mine. “You should put your shoes on,” he said. “Sometimes there’s broken glass.”

  So I did.

  We arrived at a big round clearing between the hills of sand, the sea grass at the center long ago stamped away by the feet of crowds partying constantly during the nights of summer. There were people everywhere, more than I’d expected, a lot of them guys, and all of them with big cu
ps in their hands or cans or bottles. Laughter scattered across the dunes, along with high-pitched giggling. A group of girls stared our way and whispered to one another. I looked around for someone I knew, and I recognized a few faces, but pretty immediately realized this was an older crowd. Girls and guys who’d graduated at the very least last year, if not a few years before.

  Handel looked at me, hesitant. “There are a few people I should say hi to. There’s a cooler with beers over there.” He pointed toward a place off to the side where there was still enough grass to hide everything. “If anyone gives you a hard time, just say you’re with me. I’ll be right back.”

  I nodded. Watched him walk off toward a series of shadows on the periphery. On the one hand, I liked that Handel wanted me to tell people I was here with him if they asked, but on the other, I was dismayed he didn’t seem interested in introducing me to his friends. I headed to the cooler, not so much because I wanted a beer but because I needed something to do. A few guys stood around it like guards, and it occurred to me I might not be able to just grab one, that I might have to pay. But the second I got close, one of them gestured at me and opened the lid.

  “What’s your pleasure?” he asked.

  There was a smile on his face, but not one that put me at ease. Even in the darkness, I could see his eyes running all over me, my arms, my legs, where the tank top I wore dipped low across my chest, the same place Handel’s stare had gone. With Handel I’d liked the attention; it made me feel bold and wanted, his gaze on my skin an invitation to become something more than I already was, to experiment with new versions of myself. But this guy just made me uncomfortable. For a split second, I wondered if he could have been one of the guys from the break-in. I shook off the feeling as quickly as I could.

  “I don’t know,” I said stupidly, wishing I had a sweater I could close over my neck.

  His eyes returned to my face. “Why don’t I help you find out?”

  “That’s all right.” I bent down to grab the first beer on top—a can of what, I didn’t know—careful not to let my top fall open, clutching it with my free hand. I didn’t need him looking down my shirt. “I can help myself.”

  He fit the lid back onto the cooler. “That’s too bad.”

  I popped the top of my beer, and it responded with a loud shhhhh. “No, really. It’s not.” I turned to leave, to find Handel, or really anyone else who seemed safer to talk to than this guy, but then he grabbed me, his fingers wrapped around my arm.

  “Don’t go,” he said. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

  “Get off me,” I said through clenched teeth. I yanked my arm away hard—so hard that his hand went flying into the air.

  “Jesus,” he said, shocked and annoyed.

  I didn’t care. I was already stumbling toward the other side of the dunes, trying to ignore the stares of the people who’d witnessed what just happened. I glanced behind me to make sure he wasn’t following me, when I bumped into someone else.

  “Sorry,” I said automatically, only to look up and find myself staring into the eyes of Patrick McCallen.

  “Jane Calvetti,” he said.

  I swallowed. Why had Handel left me alone like this?

  “Hi.”

  “What are you doing here?” He sounded surprised to see me. “Are those friends of yours around somewhere?”

  I kept my eyes level, refusing to check out his shoes, to see if he was wearing those boots with the metal toes. I couldn’t handle it right now if he was. “No.”

  “Did you come alone?”

  From his lips, the question seemed ominous, though his tone was friendly. “No.” I tried to remember to breathe. It occurred to me I should be listening to his voice, trying to see whether it was familiar, but it was so hard to concentrate. The world sounded like the inside of a conch shell.

  But Patrick was smiling at me—smiling kindly. “Aw, they went off and left you by yourself in this place?”

  He sounded so nice.

  I nodded slightly. Studied his eyes, so open, even sweet. He suddenly reminded me of Seamus. Then I let my gaze drop to the ground, and there they were.

  Those boots.

  My heart contracted. Squeezed tight, refusing to expand. Patrick’s demeanor together with the boots didn’t add up. “I should go find the person who brought me,” I said. “Handel Davies. He’s probably wondering where I’ve gone off to.”

  Before Patrick could respond, I walked around him and then kept on going, needing to be away from him as quickly as possible. I searched the shadows for Handel. I’d been having a good time earlier tonight, but now I wasn’t. Not at all. Everywhere around me I saw unfamiliar faces. Any of them could have been part of the break-in. My hands curled into fists.

  I forced my breath to slow. Tried to get ahold of myself.

  If I could just calm down, think straight, maybe everything would be okay again. After all, technically, nothing bad had happened. A guy flirted with me at the cooler, and I ran into Patrick McCallen, who—aside from what were ultimately unfounded suspicions at this point—had tried to be nice to me.

  I went to a place in the clearing where no one else was standing, one at the crest of the dune with a view to the ocean. I studied the waves awhile, focused on the sound of them crashing, and even took a long gulp of my beer. It was terrible, but at the moment, I didn’t really care.

  I was starting to feel better.

  But then a girl, familiar, but I couldn’t think of her name, older by a few years, was staggering around in the dark, a big cup of beer in her hand—or maybe it was something else—sloshing this way and that with her movements, liquid spilling over the lip down her arm and onto the beach. I stepped aside so we wouldn’t crash, but she followed and stopped in front of me, standing way too close—closer than a person who was sober would.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her words slurred. She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a lighter. She flicked it and held it up to my face, a tall orange flame burning between us. Her eyes were glassy in the glow, a splash of freckles bright across her nose and cheeks. “Wait—I’ve seen you before. You’re that girl that was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The one whose father—”

  Before she could finish, before she could say that word I knew came next, and before I could think better of it—I raised my arm high, and it came down fast, smacking away her cup. The unexpected swipe had stolen the rest of her speech. In her other hand she still held the lighter, but now her jaw was hanging open. “You bitch,” she slurred. “That was my beer!”

  Like I didn’t know this.

  Once again, I turned around and started walking the other way. There was nowhere safe for me to be.

  “That’s right,” she yelled after me. “Leave! You don’t belong here!”

  Despite being drunk, the girl was right. I didn’t belong here—I never would. It wasn’t my scene. Why had I come? Why had I allowed Handel to bring me? And why had he wanted to? I longed for the familiarity of my friends. Bridget’s easy laughter. Tammy’s sarcasm. Michaela’s protectiveness. Finally, finally, after what had seemed like hours but was probably only the span of a few minutes, I saw Handel. He was standing by himself, smoking a cigarette. He seemed lost in thought.

  I went straight up to him, and before he could say anything, I spoke. “I want to go,” I said. “Now.”

  He blinked, startled. “Is something the matter?”

  Yes. Everything.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. He sounded so concerned.

  I shook my head. “I just want to go.”

  “All right,” he said. “Give me a sec. I need to tell the guys we’re leaving.”

  I watched as Handel went to his friends, a series of shadowy figures, notable only by the occasional orange burn of their cigarettes, tiny fiery lights in the darkness. But I didn’t want to wait, not even a minute. I
started to walk, not with any particular direction, not at first, but then I was up and over the dunes on my way toward the water. The sound of the waves was so close, so constant. They drowned out the doubt and unease threatening me, carrying it away with the tide.

  A little ways ahead I saw a blanket set out on the sand, an abandoned towel forgotten by some beachgoer. It was an invitation, and I went to it, kicked my flip-flops to the side, sat down, legs outstretched, and leaned back on my elbows as though it was daylight and I was sunning myself. The night and the starlight and the familiar crash of the ocean in the dark knit themselves around me like a protective shield. After a while, I lay down completely, giving in to the way the beach called me to relax, my eyes on the sky, following the black shapes moving across it, summer storm clouds on a trip toward the moon. At some point soon, it was going to rain.

  “Jane,” I heard Handel call out from down the beach.

  I lifted my head slightly. Handel was a tall, moving silhouette.

  Soon, he stood over me, looking down at my stretched-out form. “Did I do something to upset you?”

  “I just . . . I just don’t belong there,” I said, then rested my head against the towel again.

  He was silent a moment, digesting this. “Did someone do something to you?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” I gripped the blanket tight in my fist. Then let it go. I looked up at Handel. “You know how you said that sometimes that place is really fun, and sometimes it really isn’t? Tonight, it wasn’t. And then, you left me all alone.”