"By two years. What's the big deal?"

"I don't know. Shouldn't he be in college?"

"I don't know."

"What do you know? Do you know anything about this guy you started a bitter argument with your mother about?"

I sigh. "I... no. That's not the point. It's not him. Not just him. She wants to control every little part of my life. She's always telling me what to do, demanding reports on where I go, trying to pick my friends, trying to push Lucas on me."

"Have you ever told her about Lucas?"

"She doesn't believe me."

Charity sighs.

"You know, I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but..."

"What?"

"I wish I had a mom like yours. My mother doesn't make me pancakes. She doesn't make me anything. She's either drunk or she's never home. I can't remember eating dinner with her after my Dad died."

I bite my lip. I don't know what to say to that. We pull up to Charity's house, and her uncle comes charging out.

"Young lady, where have you been?"

I step out and tell him the story before Charity gets a chance.

"What have I told you about going to parties like that? You don't even like that Lucas boy, and you were at his house?"

"Everybody goes to Lucas' house," she sighs.

"Do I smell marijuana?"

"No," we both blurt at once.

Don't look at her. Don't look at her. d.a.m.n it, she looked at me.

Her uncle sighs. "In the house, young lady. Now."

Charity meekly rushes inside, leaving me to face down her kin.

"Thank you," he sighs, catching me off guard. "She should know better. Sometimes I feel like I need to watch her every minute, but I can't. She's got to grow up sometime. All I can do is make sure she gets there and try to instill some wisdom in her. It's plainly working," he grunts, in a wry tone. "Sounds like you really saved her bacon. Thank you, Diana."

"Yeah. Anytime. I have to go."

"See you around, I hope. I don't know what she's going to do when you're gone."

As he turns and heads back up to the house, I head back to the car, drop into the driver's seat and lean on the steering wheel to catch my breath. Every time I breathe it feels like I'm sucking hot coals into my lungs, and my eyes burn. I sit back and think of what I'm going to say when I get home. I need some air.

I park on Main Street and get out, and walk. It's completely dead on Sunday. The town has Blue Laws, meaning nothing can be open except the pharmacy and gas station, so all the stores are dark. A hot breeze blows, and I feel like I'm walking through some desolated town in a cheesy post-apocalyptic movie. I certainly feel as bereft. I walk down the street to the bookstore, stop in my tracks, and blink a few times.

Part of me expected to see Apollo sitting on the bench out front, staring into the store. I should go, really. I should turn around and leave, not antagonize my mother anymore. If I talk to him she'll hear about it. Instead, I walk over and sit down next to him, staring straight ahead as he is. He's drinking something from a big bottle in a paper back. He burps, and I smell the acid sting of alcohol on his breath.

"You'd better be careful," he says in a slight slur to his voice, "I think I've been drinking."

"What are you doing?"

"This is the only place I know of to try and run into you. Why aren't they open?"

"It's Sunday?"

"You can't sell books on Sunday here?"

"You can't sell anything on Sunday here. Everybody's at church."

"You're not."

"Not my thing."

"Oh. Me either." He takes a swig. "Blackberry schnapps was a bad idea."

"Are you old enough to drink?"

"Legally? No. Practically? I've got years of experience, baby. When we lived in France I drank wine with dinner every night."

I perk up at that. "You lived in France?"

"Yeah. Also the Czech Republic, Spain, England, j.a.pan for a while, Australia. Only continent I've ever been to is Africa."

"You mean not been to."

"Yeah, that."

"What about Antarctica?"

"That's not a continent."

"Yes it is!"

He laughs. "Right. I guess. Still doesn't count."

"You came here hoping to see me?"

"Yeah."

He turns to look at me and I feel a chill, suck in a breath, and feel a stirring in my stomach. He looks so sad. I just want to grab him and throw my arms around him and make it better. There's a lifetime's worth of sadness in his young eyes. He leans over and then pulls back, sways a little in his seat and takes another drink.

"I think you've had enough."

"Not yet," he sighs, and lowers the bottle to rest between his legs.

"My father says I can't, um, see you."

"See me?"

"Like, socially. I can't date you."

"Oh. My mother said the same thing."

He takes another drink, gulping down the booze so fast I expect it all to come right back up. I feel a temptation to s.n.a.t.c.h it out of his hand.

"I should... I..." he looks at me with great pain in his eyes and slumps forward. It's like he's trying to tell me something but it keeps sticking in his throat. Then he looks at me again, like that. It makes my heart flutter.

"You're really beautiful. I should go."

Before I can answer he gets up and starts walking, and drops the bottle in one of the big garbage cans. I get up and start to follow, then stop. This isn't going to go anywhere. I don't want to make my mother upset, I don't want to get him in trouble with his own family. It was just a kiss.

I should just let it go.

The truth is, it doesn't matter. I'll be leaving town in a couple of months anyway. I'm just not sure where I'm going.

Sitting here on a park bench isn't going to help. I'd really, really like to hang out with Charity in the bookstore right now, but I'm alone. I turn and look over my shoulder. Apollo walks down the street with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground, weaving a little as he walks. He almost looks like he's going to fall down. I should go and do...something. I know what'll happen if I do that. I won't be able to keep my hands off him. Last night he was just s.e.xy, now he's sad, but in a way that makes me long to fix it. Part compa.s.sion, part l.u.s.t.

I can think of a few things that can make him feel better, which makes me feel a little odd. I usually didn't think of that at all. I mean I do, just not... it's not on my radar. I've never been one of those oh, I must have a boyfriend people. I see people around me and friends getting so torqued up over something that's not going to last anyway, what's the...

"Point," I add, out loud.

I sound like my Mom.

It doesn't matter now, though. There's not much else I can do except go home.

By the time I've trudged back to the car, Apollo is gone, or at least out of sight. The empty Main Street is eerie. I want out of here. It feels like something is going to jump out of the shadows at any second. I feel a little safer in the car, and let out a long sigh. So tired. I feel like I've been swimming with lead weights on my back all day, and there is a terrible ache in my gut, like I'm doing something wrong.

It doesn't fade any as I drive home, sullenly key in my pa.s.scode to get through the gate (the gate guards don't work on Sundays) and drive up to the house. I sit in the car in the garage for a few minutes, trying to decide if I should just go confront my mother or what, and if I do, what I could say. There has to be some way of getting my feelings across without insulting her.

I'm not angry with her... except I am angry with her. I'm angry with her for being angry with me. I'm angry with me for being angry with her.

f.u.c.k this, I need some ice cream.

Fortunately, the freezer is well stocked. We have a personal shopper, even. After perusing my choices I take a scoop of Rocky Road, a scoop of Chocolate, a generous scoop of Neapolitan with all the flavors, and trudge upstairs. No sign of Mom in her office. I'm not even sure she's home. She probably needs time to cool off. My mother can hold a grudge, I know this from long experience. If I start off apologizing to her later, maybe we can have a real heart to heart about this. I just want her to listen to me, not put words in my mouth.

The ice cream doesn't do as much as I'd hoped. It mostly makes me sleepy. I polish off most of the first scoop quickly, then savor the rest, licking it off the spoon.

I'm lying back and finishing off the last few spoonfuls when I hear a commotion in Mom's bedroom. I finish the last of it, drop the bowl on my desk and creep over, hoping my approaching footsteps won't rouse a tirade. Then I spot the suitcase on her bed and knock on the door.

"Mom?"

"What?"

I swing the door open and find her packing a bag, with what has to be a week's worth of stuff.

"Uh, what are you doing?"

She looks up and sighs. "I"m packing a bag."

"I can see that. May I ask why?"

Mom looks almost sheepish. She's guarded when she finally answers me. "I'm going to Las Vegas with Steven for the week. I have vacation time to use."

My mouth actually falls open. My mother has never taken a vacation. Even when she took off for school things when I was younger it was always a sick day, not vacation. I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"He asked you to go to Las Vegas with him?"

"I mentioned I was overly stressed and I needed a vacation. He suggested it. I've never been. I decided I'd like to see it, and he'll make good company."

"Mom, you've only known this guy for a couple of days."

She drops the shirt she's folding and stares me down.

"Why can't I have some fun with a man? I'm not a robot, you know. I devoted my whole adult life to the museum and to raising you. I don't think I'm hurting anything by taking a break. The world will go on without me. You certainly don't seem to need my input on anything."

"Mom, it's not like that."

"I'm leaving in the morning," she says, with a finality that proclaims the conversation over.

I need two bowls of ice cream.

Chapter 7: Apollo.

"You're going where?"

"Las Vegas," Dad sighs, as he folds a Hawaiian shirt I had no idea he owned. "I saw an opportunity and took it."

It's funny. We've never been to Las Vegas. Of all the places for a thief to work, you'd think Sin City would be at the top of our list, but we'd always stayed away. Now he's going with somebody else. I suddenly feel incredibly childish thinking about this. He stands up and looks at me.

"Here's the play. The museum opens a new wing in three weeks, and they'll move the painting out of the vault. That's when we make our move. We need the codes and we need to scout the buildings. I'll work on the codes. You do the scouting while I'm gone. Start working on the daughter."

"Working on the daughter?"

His expression hardens. "Do I need to spell it out?"

"I don't think her mother-"