All The Stars In Heaven

by Michele Paige Holmes

  The music continued as Jay made his way toward the aisle. The melody was haunting, unfamiliar . . . beautiful. Strangely moved by the notes, Jay hesitated at the end of the row, then removed his pack and sat down to listen. His classes were over for the day, and there really wasn’t any rush to get to the library. If only Archer had brought him to a concert rehearsal instead of ballet practice, Jay probably wouldn’t have balked at staying. Music had always been and continued to be the one sure love of his life. And he would have bet money that the person on the other side of the piano felt the same way.

  Jay closed his eyes, feeling the emotion as the piece hit a crescendo, then grew soft once more. He listened intently, noting the key change a few moments later as the music built again in fervor. He leaned into the aisle, trying to catch a glimpse of the pianist, but the instrument was angled such that he couldn’t see who was behind it. He imagined the person must be bent over the piano, as he couldn’t see the top of anyone’s head.

  “You’re still here,” Archer said, coming up behind him.

  “Shh.” Jay held a finger to his lips and nodded toward the front of the auditorium.

  “What?” Archer asked, stepping over Jay to get to the seat next to him. “Are you deep in thought, contemplating who you want to take to Homecoming?”

  Jay didn’t reply but listened as the music trailed off into a few last, lingering notes. He heard the foot pedal release, and he stood. “I want to meet the pianist.”

  “Tell me you’re not going to ask her out,” Archer said.

  So it’s a woman. Jay felt the stir of curiosity. “Behind that piano is a very passionate female.”

  Archer shrugged. “Suit yourself then, but I don’t think Trish will want to double with her.”

  “I didn’t say date,” Jay whispered. “I said meet.” Though as nervous as he suddenly felt, he might as well have been going on a date. He made his way down the aisle, trying to think of a good pickup line. Reaching the piano, he leaned over it, looking at the top of a blond head.

  “Do you take requests?”

  The woman looked up, and Jay could see he’d startled her. She held a pencil in her hand, and Jay glanced at the clipboard resting on the keys. Notes sprawled across staff paper that Jay could tell had been erased many times.

  “I wondered if you wrote it,” he said. “It was beautiful—you play beautifully.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was quiet. Behind oversized glasses, her blue eyes darted around nervously.

  “My name is Jay.” He held out his hand as his eyes quickly scanned the name typed at the top of the paper—Sarah Morgan. “I play the—” Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Thinking it was Archer, Jay turned around as the woman gasped.

  A fist met his left eye, and he staggered backward. A second blow followed the first, and this time Jay went down, blackness overtaking him.

  Chapter Two

  Jay lay back on the sofa, a frozen burrito pressed to his face. The rolled, unyielding tortilla was a poor choice for a compress, and he supposed a steak or bag of frozen peas would have worked better. Too bad steak didn’t figure into his budget, and he couldn’t stand frozen vegetables. It was one of the strange carryovers from childhood. His father, never quite having grasped the concept of the refrigerator, had stopped by Pike Place Market nearly every evening on the way home from work. Fresh fruit and vegetables had supplemented their otherwise unhealthy diet of pizza, macaroni and cheese, and the like. To this day, Jay found he couldn’t eat any type of produce frozen or from a can.

  The apartment door banged open, and he cracked an eyelid. One of his roommates, Charlie, staggered in, an armload of books weighing him down. He tossed them on the coffee table and glanced over at Jay.

  “Man, what’d you do to your face?”

  Archer looked up from one of two computers cluttering the narrow living room. “His choice in women hasn’t improved, that’s what.”

  “A woman did that?” Charlie asked, bending closer for a better look.

  “Hardly,” Jay said, irritated.

  “He picked another un-available female,” Archer explained. “And her boyfriend objected.”

  “No kidding.” Charlie walked toward the kitchen. “Must’ve been some woman. Hope she was worth it. Looks painful.”

  “It is,” Jay grumbled, closing his eyes and adjusting the burrito to another spot on his face, feeling frustrated again that both the pianist and the guy with the fist had taken off by the time he’d come to.

  “I’d say your chances for a date this Friday are nil,” Archer said. “I might’ve gotten one of Trish’s friends to go with you, but that was before your face looked like a bloated fish and you told them you’re planning to be a pauper all your life.”

  Jay didn’t bother responding. He could only feel relieved he hadn’t been cornered into wasting money on a date he didn’t care about. Unfortunately, Archer wasn’t ready to let it go. He rose from his chair and stood by Jay.

  “Why do you want to be an attorney anyway?”

  Jay shrugged and found even that painful. Whoever had hit him had done a thorough job.

  Archer persisted. “I mean, law school is a ton of work. You never get to go out and have any fun. So I figure you’ve got to want the car and the house, the—”

  “I want to help people,” Jay said.

  “Yeah, whatever.” Archer walked to the end of the eight-foot-long, seventies-era, orange plush couch and sat down. “Tell the truth . . . You want to be the guy on television—the one who will help you get a million bucks when someone chips a little paint off your car.”

  Jay gave a disgusted grunt. That wasn’t what he wanted at all, but he figured Archer was too shallow to catch on. Jay knew exactly the type of clients he hoped he’d have. Teens and twenty-somethings mostly, people who’d ended up on the wrong side of the law, not necessarily because they were bad but because of the circumstances in their lives.

  From his own experience he knew that the courts were full of kids with druggie parents or parents in jail or any number of other things that led kids to commit crimes. They needed legal representation. They needed someone to believe in them and help them get on a better track. Jay supposed that much of how he imagined helping was really the work of a counselor or therapist, but people in trouble needed lawyers too. He would be a part of a team that gave people a second chance—much like he’d been given.

  Archer thumped Jay’s foot. “You’re not still thinking about that piano player?”

  “No,” Jay said, repositioning the rapidly thawing burrito.

  “Then what?” Archer asked. “You’ve got that faraway look . . . No!” He smacked his forehead with his palm. “Tell me you’re not still thinking of that girl in Seattle.” Without giving Jay a chance to deny it, Archer rose from the couch and went into the bedroom.

  A few minutes later he was back—the strong scent of cologne announcing his presence before Jay had opened his eyes to see who was in the room.

  Archer popped a disc into the CD player. “I’m going to Trish’s. She’s cooking me dinner, then we’re going to rent a movie. During the movie she’ll give me a back rub . . .” A look of bliss crossed Archer’s face. “I’m getting fed and loved, while you’re here with a black eye—all because you can’t get over the woman who dumped you oh . . . a year ago. Think about that tonight while you listen to this, and maybe next time old Arch offers to fix you up, you’ll try harder.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair and headed toward the front door as the first strains of Maroon Five’s “She Will Be Loved” came through the speakers.

  “Archer,” Jay yelled. He tried to sit up but moved too quickly. A searing pain shot through his head. “Turn it off.” The CD Songs About Jane that he’d once listened to almost nonstop was the one he now—for obvious reasons—couldn’t stand.

  “See ya,” Archer said with a wave of his hand.

  Jay managed to get to a sitting position with both feet on the floor. “I’ll kill you
if you don’t come back and turn that off.”

  Their other roommate, Mike, walked out of the kitchen, a sandwich in his hand. “If he kills you, Arch, can I have that half carton of rocky road you left in the freezer?”

  “What’s going on?” Charlie asked, coming into the room.

  “Jay’s making idle threats,” Archer said. “And don’t you dare touch my ice cream, Mike.”

  Charlie frowned in the direction of the blaring speakers. “Mrs. Larson is gonna be on our case again if you don’t turn that thing down. You know how stuff carries through the floor.”

  “The old bag isn’t home right now,” Archer said. “So don’t touch the volume. It’s for Jay’s own good.” He opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

  Jay hucked the burrito at the power button on the stereo and missed.

  * * *

  Sarah sat cross-legged on her bed, arms wrapped around her, stomach in knots. She stared at the clock on the wall, a black plastic cat clock she hated. The slanted eyes watched her knowingly, and the tail that counted seconds switched methodically back and forth, drumming the words trou-ble, trou-ble, you’re in trou-ble into her head. She didn’t need any reminders. After the incident at rehearsal, a confrontation with her father was inevitable.

  At exactly five-fifteen her door opened. She didn’t bother looking up, but tried instead to swallow the lump of fear that had formed in her throat.

  “Who is he?” her father demanded.

  “No one, Dad.”

  “Look at me, Sarah.”

  She obeyed, tilting her face up to look at her father. He filled the doorframe, his dark police uniform bespeaking authority and sharply contrasting with her pink walls. He hadn’t taken his belt off yet, and the gun she despised hung at his hip. The badge on his shirt—the one proclaiming he was chief, the best of the best here in little Summerfield—caught the light from her floor lamp.

  “I’ve never seen him before today, and after what Carl did, I’m sure I never will again.” The thought made her sad.

  “You should be grateful Carl was there.”

  “Grateful?” Sarah said, then instantly wished she could recall the word. Her father took a step into the room.

  Knowing the harm was already done, she plunged on. “Why does Carl have to tail me on campus? I can understand why you asked him to keep an eye on me when I’m working, but—”

  “I always know what you’re doing, Sarah.” Her father came closer, towering over the bed. “You know it’s for your protection.”

  Protection from what? she wanted to scream. Carl scared her more than anything. She felt her fingers digging into her sides.

  “I hear of theft, rapes, even abductions. Besides, do you know what the percentages are for drug use on university campuses?” Grant sat down on the end of the bed. He lowered his voice. “I don’t want you to end up like your mother. I want to keep my little girl safe.”

  Sarah looked over at him. “I won’t end up like Mom. If you would only trust me.” She chanced a look into his eyes for any sign of softening. “I want to have a life,” she added quietly.

  He gave her a hurt look. “You have one. You have a home, a father who takes care of you, a good job in law enforcement, and you’re getting a fine education.”

  “And I appreciate those things,” Sarah said. Except for the job. “But no other girl my age has a bodyguard like I do.” Not that I know any other girls. She’d spent kindergarten through twelfth grade attending a parochial school several miles from her home, so she’d never had a chance to interact with the neighborhood children. Her father had made sure of that, keeping her indoors when she wasn’t at school, and telling anyone who had seen her and ventured by that she was too ill to play outside or have other children over.

  At school, friendships were not easily formed either, as the rules were strict and the curriculum rigorous. Her elementary, middle, and high school years melted together in a blur of lined-up girls, all dressed in matching plaid, knee socks, and polished black shoes. There had been little chance for talking between classes, and no opportunity at all while sitting at their individual desks in orderly rows.

  During recess, jump ropes turned, and balls and secrets were passed back and forth, but somehow Sarah missed out on that too, having been labeled “that quiet, shy girl” from a very young age. Ironically, she was not that quiet but had a voice that could carry across the chapel, as Miss Amelia had discovered the year Sarah was in the fourth grade and finally old enough to participate in the school choir.

  Remembering that day and the weeks, months, and years that followed with Miss Amelia as her music teacher, Sarah felt happiness and gratitude. Friends would have been nice, but music was a fine substitute and had given her life some purpose.

  But now she was restless again. In the years since high school, she’d observed everyone her age moving out and on with their lives. Everyone but her. She looked up at her father again.

  “I’m not your little girl anymore. I’m almost twenty-four. I ought to be out on my own. If you’re worried, there’s campus housing with chaperones or—”

  “Impossible.” Grant’s stern tone returned. “We’ve had this discussion before, and if you continue to bring it up, I may change my mind about school altogether. Your tuition is expensive enough. We don’t need to waste money on a dorm room when you can commute from home.” He rose from the bed, his hand going to the holster at his hip. “Most young ladies don’t have a police chief for a father. They don’t understand what’s going on in the world like I do. I don’t expect you to understand it either, but I need you to respect my wishes and remember what happened to your mother.”

  If only I could. More than anything Sarah wished she could remember her mother—and understand what had possessed her to marry such a man.

  Instead Sarah uttered a meek, “Yes, Dad.” She was desperate to move out, desperate to leave this bleak house and her controlling father, but she wouldn’t do that at the expense of her education. She’d waited five long years after high school before her father allowed her to attend the university and pursue the career she wanted. Now that she was finally there, she would continue to wait, to bide her time and somehow endure her situation for a few more years. Though a few more years seemed like eternity when she thought about it.

  “All right then. No more of this nonsense.” Her father turned and walked away. Reaching the doorway, he paused and looked back. “You’re certain you don’t know the man who came up to you today?”

  “I don’t,” she answered truthfully.

  “Keep it that way.” The door clicked shut behind her, and Sarah let out the breath she’d been holding. She lay back on the bed, her eyes closed.

  I don’t know him. I won’t ever know him. But I do know his name—Jay—and he thinks I play beautifully.

  Chapter Three

  Jay stepped outside, leaving behind Langdell and three tedious hours in the law library. Squinting against the afternoon sun, he started down the steps, then paused a moment, adjusting his backpack and appreciating the scenery. The crisp October air had set the trees to changing, and the historic campus looked every bit as enchanting and inspiring as he’d always imagined it. Students hurried down paths, the ivy-covered buildings beckoning them to enter and learn. It was one of those surreal moments where he almost felt the need to pinch himself. Even with his first two years behind him, he was still in awe that he was really here—Harvard.

  He’d always wished he could’ve sat in on the admissions review when his application was discussed. He was certain it hadn’t received an automatic stamp of approval. Straight A’s, an LSAT score of 179, and well-done essay aside, Jay knew he didn’t fit the typical Harvard Law student profile. But someone had shown compassion, and the foolish mistakes of his youth had been forgiven. When it came time for his interview, the only questions that had come up about his criminal past had been those directed toward how he might use his experience on the wrong side of the law to be a bett
er attorney. That was exactly his plan, and he’d been thrilled someone higher up actually seemed to grasp it.

  So here he was—six years and a long way since he’d seen the inside of a lockdown rehab facility. And he was grateful. A smile on his lips, Jay headed toward Widener Library and its wealth of books. The weekend stretched before him, and in between work and studying, he wanted something he could relax with. A good biography seemed just the thing.

  * * *

  Sarah reached a hand under her glasses and rubbed her aching eyes. She was tired enough that even the hard library table looked inviting, and she was sorely tempted to lay her head down for a few minutes’ rest. Only a month into the semester, she could tell that five hours of sleep a night wasn’t enough. If only she didn’t have to work so late. If only her father understood how much her education meant to her. If only . . .

  She redirected her focus to the text in front of her, The Polish Music Journal, Volume 5, Number 1, Summer 2002. If she could gather at least some of her research this afternoon, she could begin writing her paper at home this weekend—when she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere.

  “You done yet?” Carl tossed a recent copy of Auto Trader aside, raised his hands above his head, stretching, and stood.

  “Not even close,” Sarah said, trying to keep her attention focused on the page in front of her. She glanced at the car magazine. Thinking of stealing a car again, Carl? Why her father thought he could trust his nephew was beyond her.

  “Too bad.” Carl reached across the table and flipped her book shut. “Let’s go.”

  She looked up at him, eyes pleading. “I can’t. I don’t have nearly enough information.”

  “So?” He shrugged. “Take the books with you. You got a card, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts. I want to eat. If we go now, you can fix me a steak before your dad gets home.”

  Sarah continued to stare at him, the pleading in her eyes replaced by something between fear and anger. “If I flunk out of Harvard, Dad will be upset about all the money he spent.” Her voice belied any emotion. “And if I don’t spend enough time in the library . . .”