Stealing Heaven

by Elizabeth Scott

  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 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 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.

  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 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—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 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 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 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.”

&
nbsp; “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.

  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.

  “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.

  “Low profile now, baby,” Mom says. “We gotta start getting ready.” I want to ask if that applies to the bartender, but Mom is happy and I don’t want to spoil that.

  The grocery store is packed. I can’t find a space in the lot and end up parking by some town office across the street, have to back up and then pull into the spot again because the lines are so narrow. As I get out of the car I realize someone’s standing by my back bumper. Great. A lecture about driving from a cranky old person, or better yet, it’ll be someone who wants me to sign a petition against a traffic light or…wait a minute. I’d recognize that hair anywhere. It’s the guy from the other day.

  “What are you doing by my car?”

  “Hey there,” he says. His smile really is nice, though up close I can see his bottom teeth are just a little crooked. Somehow that looks okay on him though, sort of like the hair. I never think guys are cute, but he really kind of is. Which makes me feel strange.

  “Yeah, whatever. Again, what are you doing by my car?”

  He points at a sign above the parking space. It says EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  “So? I’m pretty sure there aren’t any employees here, what with the parking lot being empty and all.” I start to walk toward the store.

  “You shouldn’t leave your car here.”

  “I don’t think any fights are going to break out over the parking space.”

  “I’m just saying that if you don’t move your car, you might get a ticket.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Seriously,” he says, and he’s caught up to me, is standing next to me as I wait to cross the street. I look over at him. His hair really is weird. Not just the cut, but the color too. I thought it was brown, but now that he’s right next to me I can see there’s bits of dark blond and even red in there. I think I could look at him all day and worse, I want to keep talking to him. This has to stop.

  “Okay,” I say. “Seriously thank you very much for letting me know. Bye.”

  “You’re new to town, right?”

  Finally, no traffic. I start to cross the street.

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Are you here for the summer?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe yes? Maybe no?”

  “What are you, a cop?”

  No reply, and when I look over he’s grinning at me.

  Oh shit. A cop.

  “Don’t look so freaked out,” he says.

  Okay, damage control and then I’ve got to get away from him. “I don’t look freaked out.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “No, I don’t. And I’ll go move my car, all right?”

  “You don’t have to do that. No one’s at work in that office past three anyway.”

  “So you’re just giving me a hard time.”

  “No, I was just pointing out a sign.”

  “And now you’re what, following me?”

  He laughs. “Wow, paranoid too. I’m going to the grocery store and was cutting through the lot when I saw you.”

  “And talked to me.”

  “True. If it makes you feel better though, I also talked to Mr. Martin on my way here. He was waiting for his daughter to pick him up.”

  “Great. Bye.” Finally, I’ve reached the damn store. I grab a basket and move toward the back, hoping he doesn’t follow me. It just figures that he’s a cop. It really does.

  The seafood counter is crowded, but the cop appears to be done talking to me. Good. Really, it is. If only he wasn’t so cute. I wait while someone buys cod and someone else buys scallops and then someone complains about crabmeat. I don’t look around to see if a certain Mr. Strange Hair is nearby. When it’s finally my turn I order the lobsters and am told I have to wait while they’re steamed.

  “Fine,” I say, pasting a smile on my face, and wander around the frozen fish section. At least this way by the time I’m done the cop will be gone. I can’t believe this. I wish we’d never come to Heaven.

  The seafood counter lady calls me over and hands me the lobsters, all wrapped up and ready to go. I wait in line to pay and pick up a couple of magazines for Mom—she likes presents—and then head back to the car.

  The cop is there, sitting on my car with three bags of groceries around him.

  “Get off my—” No. No. Wrong. I can’t let him know I’m mad because he’s cute. And a cop. Be polite, get gone. Low profile.

  “Is there a reason you’re sitting on my car?” Better. Nice. Polite.

  “Got lobsters, huh?”

  “Yes. And I really need to…uh…get them home.” Even though they’re already dead. And cooked. Maybe he hasn’t noticed.

  “So, you live around here?” I think he’s noticed.

  “If I say yes, will you get off my car?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “What do you think?”

  He grins at me and gets off the car. That was easier than I thought.

  “I’m Greg. And you are?”

  “Leaving.” I unlock my door. “Can you move your bags?”

  “Sure.” He picks one up. “Anyway, like I was saying, I’m Greg. I work—” He points at the police station.

  “Yeah, I think I figured that one out already.”

  He grins at me again and picks up the other bags. “So where did you go to high school?”

  I ignore him.

  “I went to North Stonington. Graduated two years ago and then went to the academy.”

  “Right out of high school? Why?” I ask before I can help myself. I mean, I know cops have to become cops, but I always figured they did it after they failed at selling shoes or something.

  “I don’t know. I guess because my dad was a cop.”

  Oh goody, a law enforcement family. This just keeps getting better and better. His father is probably the sheriff or something.

  “So you’re telling me you and your family are cops and I’d better, what? Watch my step? Stay on the straight and narrow?”

  “‘Stay on the straight and narrow’? I’ve never heard anyone say that before. Other than on televi
sion, I mean. Anyway, I suppose I could put out a bulletin on you if you wanted. But then I don’t have a name to give.”

  “Gee, too bad.”

  “You’re not going to tell me your name?”

  “That’s right,” I say, and open my car door. “But if there’s anything else you want to tell me, you just go ahead and keep talking. When I drive away, I’ll still be listening, I promise.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Oh, where to start? Blood type? Birth sign?”

  He holds the door open for me as I slide inside, causing my insides to go all fluttery, and drops one of his bags. I hear the distinct sound of glass breaking.

  “Very smooth,” I say, and my voice actually sounds a little fluttery too.

  “Hey, at least I’m trying here. Also, AB and Gemini.”

  “I was kidding. Now if you don’t mind—”

  “Okay,” he says, and steps away from the car. “You have got to be a Cancer. Please notice that I’m not making any crab jokes.”

  “Except that you just sort of made one, didn’t you?” I shut the door, start the car. He knocks on the window. I ignore him.

  He knocks again. I put the car in reverse.

  “See you around, Hortense,” he says.

  I stop. I roll down the window. “Hortense?” My God, that’s worse than Helen.

  “Well, since you won’t tell me your name, I have to call you something.”

  “And that’s the best you could come up with?”

  “For now. Maybe when I see you again—”

  I roll up the window, start to drive away. I can see him in the rearview mirror. He’s gathering up his groceries. I didn’t realize so much stuff fell out of that one bag. I sigh, stop the car, and get out. I gather up two cans of green beans, a package of hamburger, and two boxes of macaroni and cheese and take them over to him.