Stealing Heaven (5 page)

"You treat her right?"

"Absolutely. You know how I am."

"Yeah, a jackass," Mom said, but her voice was light,
like it always was when she talked to guys, and I heard them kiss. He'd just
fucked me and then gone and kissed her. He was okay with it. She was okay with
it. The only one who wasn't okay with it was me.

After he left, I told her I wanted to leave. I actually think I
said that we had to leave. She stared at me for a long time but finally said,
"Okay."

In the car, on our way out of town, she said, "You know, what
happened earlier, it's not something to worry about. I'm not upset. He's a
good-looking guy and it's perfectly natural that you'd--"

"Stop," I said, so angry I was shaking. "Don't say
... don't say another word." I'd never spoken to her like that before.
I've never spoken to her like that

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since. But I did then, and she listened. She's never mentioned it
again.

I get dressed and, at the last second, throw my swim-suit in my
bag. Just in case, I tell myself. I won't need it, but it's good to be
prepared. When I go back downstairs Mom's painting her toenails and looking
perfectly happy, like she didn't just dismiss me before. Like she doesn't know
why I'm so uncomfortable discussing her "love life." I grab the car
keys and head for the door feeling hurt and angry. Mostly hurt.

"Baby-"

"What?" I'm trying to sound furious but my voice comes
out watery, faint.

She gets up and walks over to me, moving pigeon-toed so she won't
smudge her toenails. It makes me smile in spite of myself. She sees my grin and
gives me one in return, wraps her arms around me.

"You know I can't do this without you, right?" she
whispers.

I nod, wondering if that's true, but for now, just glad to hear
her say it, and then rest my head on her shoulder. I'm taller than she is, but
she's always going to be a million times bigger than I'll ever be.

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When I get to the records office I can tell they'd definitely have
something on the Donaldson house, but the man working behind the counter has
the obsessive look of someone who remembers anyone who's ever asked him a
question. That won't do at all and so I head back to the car.

What I'm doing now is what I like best about what we do. It's
actually the only thing. Mom loves sliding into someone's house and making what
they own hers, but I like finding out when a house was built or how much the
real estate taxes were in 1922. I guess it's because I never went to school.
We've never stayed in one place for long, and the very few times anyone asked,
Mom just said she taught me at home.

And really, I guess, she sort of has. Mom says I haven't missed
anything by not going to school, that I know how to, read and write and figure
out our percentage from a sale to our fence and "that's more than most
people know, baby. Some kids go to school and leave not knowing how to write
their own name. You can do that and you can tell plate from sterling just by
looking at it. That's education." I guess she's right, but sometimes I
wonder what it would have

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been like to go, to have to rush down hallways between classes, to
have homework, to take tests.

Well, not the test part, though I did wonder about the SATs for a
while and even bought a practice book and took one of the tests just to see
what it felt like. It didn't feel like much of anything but I suppose that's
because I know I'll never do something like go to college.

I head to the library next but it's got lots of copies of the
latest bestsellers and not much else. Now I'll have to try historical
societies. I sign up to use one of the library's computers and when I leave, I
have the names and addresses of five historical societies to visit, all local.
I can't imagine the entire state has enough stuff to fill up five places, but I
guess people around here like their history.

My first stop is just outside West Hill. A plaque on the door says
the Wearing Society is run by volunteers and so I stand outside for a minute,
preparing for stories about grandchildren, cats, and cruises. But when I go in,
the woman working at the visitor's desk cuts me off in the middle of-my
carefully worded ramble (it's better if you sound unsure-- acting like you know
exactly what you're looking

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for is memorable, especially if what you ask about turns up robbed
a little later) by saying, "Yes, yes. You want the Donaldson house. We
have something in the reading room."

So I head into the reading room.

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8

The reading room is about the size of a closet, and the woman
working there takes a break from a complicated knitting project and rummages
around in a box for a while before handing me a small pamphlet.

"We're getting bookcases next month," she says.
"Donated by the ..."

I tune her out and nod politely, hope that whatever she's given me
to read is going to be worth the story (which seems to be about salt ponds) I'm
stuck listening to.

It is.

It's not a very long pamphlet, about fifteen pages, and the author
spends three pages talking about how he's related to the Donaldsons through the
marriage of a cousin a hundred years ago, and how that led to

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his interest in the Donaldson house, which "yielded gracious
permission to visit the estate." I grit my teeth--I hate how boring and
full of suck-up crap these things are--and turn the page.

I was hoping for a description I could use to create a basic
layout, but instead I get photos. Lots and lots of photos, pictures of what
seems to be every room of the house. There's even a floor plan with notes. I
skim them to see if there are any security references. There are, and the
author has even named the company that set up the current system. Mom's going
to be overjoyed.

I force myself to wait ten more minutes and then get up, pick up a
copy of some book they've got for sale. I ask if I can buy it, then hold up the
pamphlet and add, "And a copy of this too, if you have one."

I can buy the book, which the knitting lady tells me was written
by her brother, but the Donaldson pamphlet isn't for sale.

"I could make you a copy though," she says. "But
we'd have to charge you ten cents a page."

"Well," I say, trying to look thoughtful and not really
happy, "I guess that would be okay."

I leave forty-five minutes later, $43.50 poorer--

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that stupid book was $42--and my head full of stories about the
reading room lady's family. It seems their claim to fame is participating in
some Indian massacre that took place three hundred years ago. I wouldn't be
proud of that, but she sure seems to be.

In the car, I tuck the photocopied pages into the book and slide
it under the seat. I can't wait to show it to Mom. She'll be so happy. I pull
out of the parking lot and onto the road, humming under my breath.

Five minutes later I realize I've driven toward the beach, to
Heaven. There's no point in going. I've got everything Mom and I need. I don't
need to go to the beach now, especially not to hang out with someone. I should
turn the car around and head back to the house.

I keep driving. I change into my bathing suit in the lobby
bathroom in Heaven's inn, mixing with the tourists who've come to gawk and talk
about their sunburns, and then go to the beach. When I get there I stand
outside, on the sidewalk, hesitating. It was stupid to come, won't help with
what we're here for. I should just go.

"Sydney!"

Allison is waving at me. I stand there for a

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second, still unsure, then wave back and head onto the beach.

"There you are!" she says when I reach her. "I
thought maybe you weren't coming."

"I meant to be here earlier, but you know how it is."
Because I'm sure she spends lots of time being bored off her ass reading up on
old houses she and her mom plan to rob.

"Parents?" she says, making a face.

Okay, sure, why not? "Yeah." I mean, it is sort of true.

"Well, sit down. Larry Harrison just made his yearly
appearance and I need help coping."

"Why? Is he hot?"

She grins. "If you like seventy-year-old men who wear
Speedos."

I laugh and sit down next to her. "Sounds hot."

"I think even the ocean screamed. So what's going on with
your parents?"

"What? Oh, the usual. Blah blah do this, blah blah do
that."

"What do they want you to do?"

"You know, parent-type stuff." I'm not used to people
actually being interested in what's going on

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with me, and quickly change the subject to something safer.
"How are things with that guy? Brad, right?"

She grins at me. "I saw him! Last night I went into town with
the housekeeper and saw him at the grocery store. I asked him if he would meet
me here today and I could tell he was going to say yes but then he didn't. You
know what I mean, right? Sometimes guys say something, but you know they want
to say something else."

"I thought they just lied all the time."

She laughs and I shift a little, uncomfortable with the
conversation. With what I've just said. I don't talk about how I feel about
guys--I don't ever talk about anything real with anyone.

"Anyway, James can be overprotective and I think he might
have said something to Brad the last time we saw him. It's so stupid. I mean,
it's not like I'm going to marry the guy or anything. I just--a lot of people
around here are ..."

She makes a face. "It's like they look down on everyone. I
hate that. Plus"--she grins at me--"Brad is so adorable. I just have
to figure out a way to--I know! Okay, what do you think of this? I get up

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tomorrow morning and go running or something, end up by his
house--his family rents the same place every year, down by the big pond--do you
know the one I'm talking about? And then I can see him and-"

"For that plan to work, people would have to actually believe
you exercise, Ally." James has shown up, stands grinning down at us.
"Hey again," he tells me. "I'm glad you--"

"Did you say something to Brad?" Allison says, cutting
him off.

"I wouldn't do that." James sounds upset. "I know
you like him. But really, how well do you know him? I mean, hanging out once in
a while in the summer when we were kids....it's different now that we're
older."

"You say," Allison says sharply, and then rolls over
onto her stomach and closes her eyes.

James sighs. "Fine." He looks at me, smiles, and holds
out one hand. "Want to go for a walk, give Ally a chance to sulk in--well,
semiprivate?"

"I don't really feel like a walk." I try to sound
polite, but know I fail.

He tilts his head a little to the side. "You mean you don't
really feel like a walk with me."

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"That's right."

His face falls and he drops his hand, then turns and walks off
down the beach. I admit, he's hot and has the whole
slumped-shoulders-oh-you've-hurt-me thing down pretty well. But I also see he's
checking out girls who are walking by, smiling the way he was just smiling at
me. He could use lessons from Mom. The thought makes me laugh in a strange,
tight-throated way, and I look over at Allison, who is still lying on her
stomach. Her eyes are open though, and she's looking at me, a little frown on
her face.

"What?" I say.

She props herself up on her elbows and looks over at James, still
walking along the beach, and then back at me. "James is ... he knows he's
James Donaldson, you know? My dad says that--"

She keeps talking but I can't hear her. All I hear is one word.

Donaldson.

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9

Mom is home when I get there, lying on the sofa again. She sits up
as soon as I walk in though, and before I've even opened my mouth I can tell
she knows I've found something because a huge smile breaks across her face.

"Tell me, baby," she says. "Tell me
everything." So I do. Except I don't tell her about the beach, about how I
was just there and left in a hurry, saying I had to go and making up some lame
excuse. I don't tell her who I was with. I just tell her about the pamphlet.

"It's perfect," she says after she's looked through the
copy, and throws her arms around me. "You did good today. You did so
good."

I pull back and look at her. Her eyes are shining and I can tell
she's already planning.

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"So what's next?"

"You'll see, baby," she says. "In the meantime,
we're going to have to celebrate tonight. How does a lobster dinner
sound?"

"Sounds good. Where are we going?"

It turns out we aren't going anywhere because apparently I'm going
to the grocery store to get lobsters.