Stealing Heaven (10 page)

"At least you got a good deal on it," I say, and she
sighs, drops her bag on the floor.

"At least it won't be for very long. Just looking around this
place makes me want a stiff drink. In

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fact, I'm going to go get one. You want to come?"

I shake my head. When she's gone I pick up one of the pictures and
pretend I know it, invent a world where I look out a window and know the view
is something I can see for as long as I want, for forever if I choose.

I wake up really early the next morning because Mom's coughing yet
again. She sounds terrible. I go check on her, see if she's awake, but of
course she's still asleep. I figure I'll go ahead and get up, make her coffee.
It turns out we're out of coffee and pretty much everything else, so I get
dressed and head into West Hill.

In the grocery store I grab food for me and coffee for Mom, then
head over to the aisle lined with cold remedies. I know she won't go see a
doctor. In fact, I'm not sure Mom has ever been. I don't remember any visits.

I've only ever been twice--once when I got poison ivy so bad my
eyes swelled shut (the woods in parts of Connecticut are a bitch) and once to
have my arm stitched up after that stupid poodle bit it. We had to drive a
hundred miles before Mom felt it was

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safe enough to stop, and I'd lost so much blood that all I
remember is waking up and seeing a nice even row of stitches wrapping across my
wrist and part way up my arm. The scar was hideously obvious for years, a deep
bruised red, but it's faded now, a pale line racing across my skin.

I didn't think it would be difficult to buy cough syrup, but then
I didn't realize there were about forty different kinds. Cough suppressant.
Cough expectorant. Six-hour, eight-hour, all-day.

"Hortense, you sick?"

I look over, see Greg standing there dressed in jeans and a
T-shirt, his cop shirt open over it. His last name is apparently Tollver. I'm
happy to see him. Not a good sign.

"Stop calling me that."

"What else am I supposed to call you?"

I ignore him and pick up another bottle. Bubble-gum flavored? I
can just imagine what Mom would say to that. I put it back down.

"Seriously, Hortense, are you sick?"

I gesture at his "outfit" and pick up another bottle.
"They let you go to work dressed like that?"

"No, they let me leave work dressed like this,

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Hortense. Trust me, you don't want that kind."

When I look over at him again he's grinning, and I can tell he's
totally aware of how much I hate the stupid name he's given me. I look at the
bottle I'm holding. It's "zany grape!" flavored and is actually for
children. I put it in my cart. "Shows how much you know."

"Hortense," he says, and I can actually hear my teeth
grinding together, "while you seem like a zany grape kind of girl, I doubt
even you want a bottle that's leaking." He reaches over and takes it out
of the cart. Purple goo is everywhere.

"Damn."

"How about this, Hortense?" He holds up a bottle of
ordinary enough looking cough syrup. "It's even on sale this week,
Hortense."

That's it. I can't stand that stupid name. "Danielle," I
say, and yank the bottle out of his hand. "And it isn't on sale, you
jackass. The one next to it is."

"Really?" he says, and looks closer at the shelf.
"You're right. Sorry about that. So ... Danielle, huh? You know, you kind
of look like a Danielle."

Crap. Crap, crap, crap. My name isn't supposed to be shared with
anyone, ever. And especially not with

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a cop. Now what do I do? Say it's not my real name? No, that would
be stupid. And suspicious. Better to act like it's not a big deal. "You
also thought I look like a Hortense."

"Nah. Nobody looks like a Hortense. Well, maybe she
does." He points at a woman in a lime green jogging suit. "But you
look like a Danielle. Or--" He tilts his head a little to one side.
"A Dani."

I stare at him, forgetting about the cough syrup and my monumental
screwup for a moment. I have always thought of myself as a Dani. Or, well, I've
wanted to be. If I ever became the kind of person who could run around using my
real name. Danielle seems so not me, is someone who lives in a house with a
white ruffled bed and a cat named Fluffy.

But Dani, that seems like someone I could be. Dani would have an
apartment with a comfy sofa. She'd have a dog and a job and all that normal
life stuff.

"I knew I'd figure it out eventually," he says, and
smiles. I almost--almost--start to smile back because it's nice to know I'm not
the only person who thinks I could be a Dani, and because his smile makes me
want to smile too, but then I catch a glimpse of a

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patch on his sleeve, one that spells out p-o-l-i-c-e'.

"You haven't figured out anything except how to be
annoying."

"See, I'm ignoring that because I know you don't really mean
it."

"You definitely haven't figured out mind reading."

He laughs. "That's probably true. So, how's your mom
doing?"

"What?" I'm stunned for a second and then remember that
I mentioned her the other day. First Mom, now my name. This keeps getting worse
and worse.

"Well, you seem fine. Annoyed, but fine. So I figure
..." He gestures at the cough syrup.

"Yeah, it's for her." I try and think of something else
to say, something that will change the subject and last just long enough for me
to leave without looking like I'm trying to leave. "What are you doing
here?"

"I love hanging out in grocery stores with paranoid
women."

I stare at him. He laughs again and says, "I'm just following
up on something. We got a call from someone at a party--the one you were at,
actually-claiming one of the catering crew was taking purses out of the
coat-check room. The guy works here, so

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I stopped by to see when he's working again."

"Taking purses? Really?" Mom always likes to know if
anyone else is working the area.

He looks at me, eyebrows raised, and I clear my throat. "I
mean, I didn't realize that crime was a ... thing around here."

"Once in a while." He runs a hand through his hair,
making it stick up even more than it already is. "I don't suppose you saw
anything at the party."

"Like what?"

He grins. "Like what we were just talking about. The
coat-check room, remember?"

"Why would I be hanging around there?" I say. "It
was a party. I was having fun. Besides, if someone was taking purses, all
they'd get would be lipsticks and maybe a couple of compacts--nothing worth the
time. If anyone was working the coatroom, chances are they were looking for
keys."

"Keys? But... oh shit. Keys! Of course."

"Exactly," I say. "And if they were dumb enough to
be seen, it's probably house keys and they were probably stupid enough to have
them copied nearby. If they were smart, they'd have just taken car keys from
the valet stand, copied them, and then put them

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back, because if you snatched the keys for say, five cars, and
then spread stealing them out over a couple of weeks to avoid paperwork for the
same kind of crime crossing anyone's desk--well, given the kind of cars around
Heaven, you could make a lot of..."

I trail off because he's staring wide-eyed at me. Why did I just
say everything I did? Why? What is it about him that makes me so...well,
stupid? "I mean, I'm just saying. It's a theory."

"It's actually a really good one."

"Urn. Thanks." The only thing I am actually thankful for
right now--and believe me, it's a small thing--is that Mom isn't here because
if she was...I don't even want to think about how mad she'd be. I might as well
have just taped a sign to my head that says, "Hi! I'm a criminal! Ask me
how you can be one too!"

"So, what are you doing today?"

"What ?" Why does he want to know that ?

"Today," he says. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I'm, uh, going home and"--I point at the
cart--"I'll put the groceries away, make Mom take some cough syrup.
Probably make a peanut butter sandwich and ... um. Well, eat it."

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He grins at me. "Have you ever been to Edge Island?"

"Edge Island?" Why is he asking me about an island?

"Yeah. It's not that far away--just an hour or so on the
ferry. I was thinking that maybe, since you've only got the sandwich-making
plans and all, you might want to go."

I look at him. He looks ... kind of nervous. I don't get it.
"You want me to go to an island with you?"

"Is this going to turn into a big extended question thing? I
mean, if I say, 'Yeah, with me,' will you say, 'What do you mean by "with
me"?'"

"Why would it turn into a question thing?"

He grins at me. "I don't know. Why would it?"

That grin again. I wish ...

Wait a minute. "Are you trying to ask me out?"

"At any point during any conversation we'll have is there a
chance that you won't reply to everything I say with questions?"

"So you weren't trying to ask me out?"

"I want you to know you're doing wonders for my self-esteem
here. Which means, before you ask another question, yes, I was. I mean, I
am."

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"Really?" No one's ever asked me out before. Hit on me,
sure. Groped me, absolutely. But asked me for a date? Never.

"What else would I be doing? See, now you've got me doing it
too."

"What would you have done if I said yes?" I shouldn't be
doing this, I know, but I really want to hear his answer.

"Probably asked you to repeat yourself in the form of a question
since it'd be the only way I could be sure of your answer. And look, I really
am sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything."

"So you don't want to go?"

"Are you saying you do?"

"What if I am?"

"You know, I don't have a question to reply with here, so I
guess if you're saying 'yes' in your own special way, we could meet back
here--well, not here, in the middle of the store where people are walking by
and looking at us but not saying hello--yes, I'm talking about you, Mrs.
Reynolds, how are you? --but in the parking lot. In like an hour?"

"An hour." He wants to go out with me!

"Yeah. So you can drive home and put your"--he

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looks into the cart--"genuine artificial cheddar flavor soy
protein snack crackers away. And pass out cough syrup."

"It doesn't really say genuine artificial cheddar
flavor."

"It does." He points at the bag. "So I'll see you?
In like an hour?"

"So we can take a ferry ride to an island?"

"Well, yeah," he says. "But we could also, I don't
know, talk or something."

"Sure, I'll meet you in an hour," I tell him, heart
pounding because I shouldn't do this but I want to.

And because I'm going to.

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14

I go home and put everything away. Mom comes downstairs, stops in
the living room, and stands staring at me, one hand resting on the sofa.

"What's up?" I ask.

"You look a little flushed. Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah. I'm going out for a while, but I'll take a cab, leave
the car here."

"No, take the car. I'm going to stay in today. This stupid
cold ..." She shakes her head. "It's disgusting. I can hear stuff
sloshing around when I breathe."

"When you breathe?"

"Yes. You want me to describe my phlegm to you or
something?"

"Oh yes, please. Look, if you've got stuff in there, maybe
it's the kind of thing that a doctor--"

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"It's not a big deal. It just feels strange. Is there any
coffee?"

"Just started a pot. While you're waiting, you can have some
cough syrup." I wave the bottle at her.

"Ugh. If I say no, are you going to dump it into my
coffee?"

"What do you think?"

Mom sighs. "Fine. I'll take some."

"Now?"

"Honestly, Danielle."

"Just take it. You wouldn't believe what I had to go through
to get it."

Mom pours some syrup into the little dosage cup and takes it. She
grimaces, then hands the whole thing back to me. "What you had to go
through to get it?"

I open my mouth to tell her about Greg but all that comes out is,
"It's a long story. A long, boring story."

"Well, then I definitely want to hear it."

"Funny. Going now. Don't forget to take more of this." I
pick up the bottle, look at the label. "Every four hours, okay?"