All The Stars In Heaven (5 page)

Chapter Seven

Sarah clasped her books to her chest and pressed her lips together to keep from smiling as she read the single word written on the index card.

Maybe?

Quickly she slipped onto the bench and put her music on the stand, covering the card. Her cheeks warmed as she peeked over the top of the piano, stealing a surreptitious glance around the auditorium.

It was vacant except for Carl, slouched in his usual seat in back, and the dancers taking their places on stage. Jay wasn’t here. She felt both relief and disappointment. She didn’t need to worry about Carl punching him again, but she wouldn’t see him today either—would she?
I’ll look forward to seeing you again and hope for a maybe . . .
Had he really meant it? She’d nearly convinced herself he hadn’t, certain she’d done everything wrong during those few minutes at the library. Rambling on and on about her paper, never asking Jay a single question about himself . . .

With a sigh, Sarah opened her music to the beginning of the ballet. A guy like that couldn’t possibly be interested in her, so it was best to forget the whole thing. It was best for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was her need to focus on her education so she could get
away
from the men in her life.

Sliding her music aside, she glanced at the index card once more. It was probably something else entirely—or if it was from Jay, it was likely a joke. She knew what the reflection in the bathroom mirror showed her each day. And no guy could really be interested in her.

Picking up the note card, she ripped it in pieces, then dropped them in her backpack, watching as they filtered down around her folders.

“Attention,” the ballet director called, her French accent echoing through the auditorium. Sarah’s head went up, and she watched for her cue to begin playing. For the next thirty minutes she focused her thoughts on the music and rehearsal. It required all her concentration, her eyes constantly moving from the notes to Madame Trenchard and her signals. Stop. Start. The last measure again. Slower. Faster. Stop. Once more from the beginning.

At last Madame Trenchard called a break, and the dancers hurried offstage to their water bottles.

Sarah stretched her fingers and reached for her own water. A single piece of note card rested on the lid
,
the corner piece of the letter M. She flicked it away, unscrewed the lid, and took a long drink, feeling upset all over again.

Trying very hard to forget about it—to forget about Jay—she opened her folder and selected her favorite piece of her own composition. It was lighter than the one she’d played the afternoon Jay had listened. Placing the sheet on the piano, she began to play, quietly at first, then louder, filling the auditorium with a lyrical melody that helped her imagine happiness, freedom, magical summer days, nights under starry skies. It was the only song she’d ever written in G major—the only piece she’d ever written in
any
major key—and she felt uplifted every time she played it. Today she felt her soul stir with hope as she read the notes and her fingers moved across the keyboard. No one was going to keep her from her goals. Someday she was going to be free.

Bent over the piano, absorbed in her music, Sarah didn’t realize the break had passed and the dancers were reassembling until she heard clapping. She looked up as she completed the finale—a trill of staccato notes dancing up the highest keys—and found Madame Trenchard staring down at her.

“You wish to write for the ballet?” she asked in her heavy French accent.

Sarah shook her head. “Oh, no. I only—”

“I want it for the second half. Melissa and Chelsea will come up with the choreography. You’ll need to get the music to the conductor right away, so he can separate it into parts for the orchestra.” Madame Trenchard turned back to the stage. “Places.”

Sarah tried to explain. “I was practicing. I never meant—”

“You never meant your talent to be shared?” Madame Trenchard looked over her shoulder disapprovingly. “It is a shame to hide such a gift.”

But I have to,
Sarah thought. “Yes, Madame,” she murmured instead, shocked at the compliment and turn of events.

“Places for Act Three,” the director called, resuming her usual no-nonsense demeanor.

The remainder of practice passed in a blur, and Sarah had trouble keeping up, as her thoughts were elsewhere—worried about her father’s reaction if he found out one of her pieces was to be played in public. She’d have to make sure her name was left off the program. For safety reasons, her father never wanted anyone to know she was the police chief’s daughter.

As the dancers dispersed, she gathered her books quickly, knowing Carl was impatient to leave. He had no use for music or dance—or anything remotely cultural. She bent over, stuffing everything into her backpack.

“Sarah?”

Looking up, she saw one of the dancers standing next to the piano. The woman held a note card in her outstretched hand.

“Jay asked me to give this to you.”

“Thanks.” Sarah took the card and read the three words written there.

Impressive. Thank you.

“He was here?”

“Backstage the whole time.”

Sarah bit her lip to keep from smiling.

The dancer was giving her a peculiar look. “He said to tell you he’ll be at the library again this Friday—in the afternoon around one o’clock.”

From the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Carl pacing by the exit.

“Thanks,” she managed to get out before the woman walked away. Sarah stuffed the index card deep inside her pack and started up the aisle toward Carl. She hoped he wouldn’t notice she was flustered. She wished she could figure out why she was, why her heart was suddenly racing, why she suddenly couldn’t wait to be home and in her room, alone with her thoughts.

And why, even more than that, she couldn’t wait for Friday afternoon.

* * *

1:06.

Sarah forced her eyes away from her watch and back to the book in front of her. She made herself read a page and a half before her eyes strayed again. 1:09. Her gaze kept wandering to the watch. 1:11. 1:12.
He’s not coming.
She felt the sting of tears and, appalled, wiped her eyes.

What did you expect? That a man would actually be interested in you? That he’s some knight in shining armor who would save you from a life you despise?

Sarah shut her book and reached for her backpack. She unzipped it and put the text inside, then grabbed a tissue from a pocket. Telling herself that she was acting ridiculous, she scrunched the tissue in her fist and dabbed at one eye and then the other. She took a deep, steadying breath, pushed her chair out, and stood. Turning, she came face-to-face with Jay.

Like last time he was casual, smiling. “Leaving so soon?”

“I—I thought you weren’t coming.”

He looked repentant. “Sorry. My class just ended. I hurried over as fast as I could.”

“Class?” she asked stupidly.

“Over at Langdell, and my professor wanted to talk to me for a minute afterward.”

Her brow wrinkled. “Langdell? Isn’t that . . . Are you in law school?”

“Yeah.” He grinned sheepishly and shrugged. “Kind of surprising they let a guy like me in, huh?”

“No—not at all. I just . . . My father always says . . . Um, let’s just say I haven’t met a lot of lawyers I like.”

Jay laughed out loud, then, catching the angry look of a passing librarian, coughed into his fist. He took a step closer to Sarah, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Know what I like about you?”

She shook her head.

“Most women I’ve met on campus get all starry-eyed when they learn I’m a law student. I can almost always see the social aspirations on their faces and the dollar signs in their eyes. But you looked absolutely
horrified
.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” Sarah pushed her glasses farther up on her nose.

“Don’t apologize. It was a refreshing change,” Jay said. “In fact, why don’t you share your reasons for your less-than-favorable opinion of the legal profession with me over a sandwich. I’ll treat you to a late lunch.”

“Oh, no.” Sarah took her backpack from the table. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Jay asked. He looked in the direction of the copier. “Is your bodyguard lurking nearby?”

“No. Carl won’t be on campus until three. That’s usually when I meet him. Normally I’ve got private sessions from one until three, but we can miss two a semester, so I—cancelled today.”

“You’re free, and you forgot to tell the cousin.” Jay snapped his fingers and smiled. “Too bad.” He reached for her backpack and took it from her. “Come on. We’re
definitely
going somewhere. You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to, but we’re not going to let two hours go to waste. Let’s at least get out of the no-talking zone.”

Vacillating between sheer joy and complete panic, Sarah followed Jay toward the elevator. In her wildest dreams, she hadn’t imagined he would ask her out to lunch. Rather, she’d fervently hoped for another five minutes in the library and the ability—
this
time around—to make coherent conversation.

She bit her lip. “We’re not going anywhere far, are we?”

“We’ll stay on campus. I know a great place,” Jay assured her. “Somewhere I’m pretty certain your cousin would never venture.”

“Okay,” Sarah agreed, deciding to take the risk. She stepped onto the elevator with him.

Jay pressed the button for the main floor. “So you have a private two-hour piano lesson every Friday?”

She shook her head. “It’s actually every Wednesday and Friday, and very little of the two hours is spent at the piano.”

“You play another instrument too,” Jay guessed. “Guitar?” he asked sounding hopeful.

“No. Though I’ve always wanted to. I—”

“Don’t tell me,” Jay said. “I’ll figure it out.” He looked her over as if sizing her up. “I know. Flute.”

“Wrong.”

“Harpsichord.”

Sarah held up three fingers. “Three strikes. I think that means you’re out.”

“Little League. I get at least five balls,” Jay insisted. “French horn, oboe, cello, violin.”

“Sorry.” She smiled. “Give up?”

“Not yet.” He caught her eye. “Maybe never.”

She looked away.

“Piccolo, recorder, trombone . . .
drums.
”

She heard herself laugh and was as surprised at the sound as he seemed to be. “I sing,” she finally admitted.

He reached out, lightly touching her hand just as the elevator stopped. “You mean to tell me you’ve got a voice to match your piano skills?”

She shrugged. “A few people have told me it’s nice.”

The doors slid open, and they stepped out onto the main floor.

Jay turned to Sarah, hand over his heart and a huge grin on his face. “I think,” he said solemnly, “that this could be serious.”

Chapter Eight

Sarah followed Jay up the steps of the Fogg Art Museum. “You’re right,” she said, walking past as he held the door open. “Carl would never set foot in here.”

Jay looked at her sideways. “I had a hunch . . .” He stepped into the lobby. “Ever been to the museum before?”

She shook her head. “No. Truthfully, I didn’t even know what this building was. I’ve walked past it a few times, but I pretty much just attend my classes. Going to the library is a treat.”

“If you enjoy the library, then you’ll love this place. I like to come here and wander around when I need some quiet to think. If you have your ID, admission is free.”

Sarah took a plain, brown wallet from her backpack. They showed their Harvard IDs to the student at the front desk, and Jay grabbed a map of the museum. He knew where everything was, but he thought he could give Sarah a better idea of her choices if she had a visual of the building.

They stopped at the entrance to the Italian Renaissance courtyard. Sarah stepped inside, her low heels clicking on the travertine floor. Jay watched as her eyes scanned the columns and statues, then traveled upward to the arches lining the second floor. Her skirt swished around her ankles as she turned in a slow circle, head tilted back as if she were trying to take in the entire three-story courtyard at once.

“Wow.”

Jay grinned. “I notice something new every time I come here.”

“I had no idea Harvard had a collection like this,” Sarah said.

“I’m guessing from your reaction that we’re not going to have time to go out to lunch
and
see the museum. But if you get hungry, I have a fine BLT on toasted wheat bread right here.” He patted his backpack. “I’m happy to share. We could sit outside and eat first, or, if you’d rather, we can go straight to the galleries. The voice levels allowed there are slightly better than at the library.”

“Hmm.” Sarah looked at his backpack. “The sandwich is tempting, but I think I’ll opt for viewing the art first. I may not get another chance to come to the museum, and I’d like to see what they have.”

Jay worked to hide his frown.
Why can’t she come back whenever she wants?
“What kind of art do you like? They’ve got a lot of variety.”

“I don’t really know,” she confessed. “I’ve never been to an art museum before.”

“
Never?
Don’t schools around here do field trips?” Jay asked. “You’d think with Boston being so close . . .”

“They do them,” Sarah said. “I was never allowed to go. My dad’s a bit—”

“Overprotective?” Jay finished with her.

“Yes.” She gave him a wry smile. “Guess you figured that out already.”

Jay thought
overprotective
seemed a bit of an understatement. “What would your dad do if he knew you were here with me?”

She looked toward the entrance. “You don’t want to know. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

Jay took her arm and led her toward the galleries. “It’s a
great
idea. Art, like music, provides some of the best life has to offer.”
Something I’m guessing you’ve had far too little of.

Sarah resisted for just a second before allowing him to pull her a few steps farther into the museum.

“I’ll tell you some of my favorites, then you can choose what you’d like to see first.” Reluctantly he let his hand drop from her arm so he could open the map. “The Impressionist collection on the second floor is amazing. That’s always a good place to start. And right now, until the end of the month, there’s a fantastic photography exhibit.” Jay pointed to another room on the map. “I also really like the American collection. They’ve got some great paintings of the Founding Fathers.”

“Let’s go there first,” Sarah said. “I love U.S. history.”

Me too. Score.
“Tell me you’ve been able to visit all of
those
sites in Boston,” Jay said. “That was one of the first things I did after I moved here. Boston Harbor, the Freedom Trail—” Seeing Sarah shaking her head, he broke off.

“Boston is a big, dangerous city,” she said in a deep, serious voice. “It’s no place for a young lady.”

“Not even when she’s with her parents?” He wanted to understand this family she’d come from—so different from the way he’d been raised by a father who barely required check-ins.

“Par-
ent,
as in singular,” Sarah said. “My mother died when I was five.”

“I’m sorry.” Jay looked at Sarah’s face for any sign of sadness and saw only resignation. “My mom is dead, too, but she and my dad split when I was little, so Dad raised me by himself. I guess single parents can tend to be paranoid about things.” He really didn’t know what that would be like, but he suddenly wanted nothing more than to steer the conversation away from the topic of parents—namely Sarah’s.

They walked in silence the rest of the way toward the staircase. When they passed the navy-clad guards standing at its base, Sarah turned to Jay with a questioning look on her face.

“They help you find things,” Jay whispered as they started up the stairs. “And beat you up if you try to steal stuff.”

“I hope you don’t speak from experience.”

“Well there was that one time . . .” Jay joked. “No. Of course not. I have too much respect for artists, musicians—anyone who creates—to ever want to steal from them. I can’t even burn copies of CDs anymore without feeling guilty. It’s terrible.”

“Appalling,” Sarah agreed. “You
used
to copy CDs?”

“All the time in high school. Didn’t everyone?”

“No. I had the entire London Philharmonic collection—what else would I possibly want?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Jay asked as they reached the top of the staircase.

“I’m always serious,” Sarah said.

“Maybe that’s something we should work on.” He held his hand out, gesturing her ahead of him into the gallery.

Once there they spent several quiet minutes wandering around the room, looking at the paintings, drawings, and sculptures. Because Jay had been here many times before, he found himself studying Sarah more than the art. He felt a strange contentment when she lingered at some of his favorites, and he bit back a teasing comment when he noticed her blush as she hurried by the nudes. When they came to Gilbert Stuart’s works—his favorites—he spoke up.

“I love these paintings. I can’t count the number of times I’ve come here to look at them.”

“They’re magnificent,” Sarah said as she gazed up at portrait of Jefferson.

“They were great leaders—not perfect men—but the way they achieved independence and set up our government is amazing.” After a minute, Jay followed her to stand in front of a painting of George Washington. “Sometimes I wonder what our world would be like today if more of our leaders now were like them.”

“Different,” Sarah said. “I sometimes worry that all those who were noble and brave lived long ago.”

Jay wanted to ask her why she felt that way, but she’d already turned away and was walking toward the next painting—another one of his favorites,
Mrs. Israel Thorndike.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Jay asked after a moment when Sarah hadn’t moved on. He meant the picture, but looking at Sarah’s profile, it struck him that she was beautiful too. Not in an eye-catching or obvious way, but in a very subtle,
real
way when he took notice. Her hair, braided again, hung long and blond, halfway down her back, and behind her large glasses he’d glimpsed very pretty eyes. But it was her profile that he noticed now. Her features were delicate and her skin flawless. He found himself wondering if it was as soft as it looked and what it would feel like to brush his fingers against her cheek.

“Who is she?” Sarah asked.

“Other than Israel’s wife, I don’t know.” Jay forced his attention back to the painting. “But Israel Thorndike was a revolutionary war hero, a wealthy merchant, a successful politician,
and
the one responsible for acquiring four thousand of the best American history volumes in the Harvard library.”

Sarah raised her eyebrows and turned to Jay. “How many have you read?”

He smiled. “Several. Though there are quite a few that can’t be checked out—fragile, you know.”

Sarah folded her arms and looked at him thoughtfully. “What I know is that you’re turning out to be different than I thought you’d be. You’re a musician, you enjoy art and reading about Mozart, and you have a passion for U.S. history.”

“Guilty,” Jay pled. “You’re making it painfully obvious why I also don’t have many dates.”

“
That,
I wouldn’t guess,” Sarah said. Shyly, with a blush that started in her cheeks and worked its way down to her neck, she looked him over. “I can also see that you’d hold your own against my cousin in a fair fight.”

Her remark was so frank and unexpected that Jay laughed out loud. “I’m glad you noticed.”

He waited, hoping for maybe another observation or compliment, but Sarah had turned away, reverting to her quiet self.

He touched her elbow gently. “Come on. I think we have time to look at the photography exhibit. Unless you want to eat now.”

She followed him into the hall. “You really don’t date much?” she blurted when they were outside the gallery.

“Almost never. Guess I’m too busy reading history books,” he teased.

She looked down at the floor. “I never go out either—
never.
”

Thanks to your obsessive dad,
Jay could have added, but he didn’t want to start down that path again. “Maybe we should both try it more often, with each other of course. I’m enjoying this.”

“Me too.” She spoke so quietly he almost missed it.

“So . . . do we eat or stroll some more?” he asked, still trying to cajole her out of her serious mood.

Sarah looked up at him. “I don’t think I’d better do either. I’d love to stay, but if Carl comes to pick me up early, and I’m not there . . .”

“Say no more.” The last thing Jay wanted to do was turn her over to her cousin, but he could tell she was starting to worry, and he didn’t want that either. “One more quick stop, then we’ll go.” He led her downstairs to the gift shop where he made his way to the packages of small prints. It took less than a minute to find what he wanted, and he took it to the cash register. Sarah lingered by the books.

Jay paid for his purchase and met her by the door. He walked her to the museum entrance. “I’m not going to go outside with you—on the off chance that we’d run into Carl on the way to the library.”

Unmistakable relief crossed Sarah’s face. “Thank you for understanding. And thank you for bringing me here. It was—”

“A date.” Jay grinned. “Now you can’t say
never.
”

She looked down at the floor again.

“Sarah?” He stepped closer and held the bag from the gift shop in her line of vision. “These are for you, so you can remember your first trip to the museum and our first official date.”

“I can’t—”

“If your father asks, tell him you got them free on campus—it’s the truth.” He pressed the sack into her hands. “And whether or not he asks, enjoy them.” Jay noticed her fingers shook slightly as she opened the bag and removed the package of Gilbert Stuart prints. She stared down at George Washington for several seconds.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” she stammered.

“Say I can meet you at the library again sometime.”

She finally looked up at him. “I’d love to, Jay, but if my father found out . . .”

“He doesn’t want you to have friends?”

“He wants me to do well in school—wants to see that it’s worth what he’s paying.”

“A good education is about more than acing tests and writing papers.” Jay didn’t want to argue with her, but he was having a hard time understanding how her father wouldn’t want his daughter to enjoy all that Harvard had to offer. “It’s about experiencing new things—
all kinds of
things
—music, art, drama, politics. There’s so much more than classes.”

“I know.” She turned away. “Good-bye, and thank you again.” She walked across the foyer and out the door. He watched her until she’d gone down the steps and disappeared from view. Jay stuffed his now-empty hands in his pockets and walked toward the gallery that held the American exhibit. He needed to look at those paintings again and feel of the greatness of those men. Somehow they’d discovered a way to liberate the colonies and found a nation.

Surely then, he could find a way to liberate a girl and build a friendship.