All The Stars In Heaven

by Michele Paige Holmes

  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.

  Chapter Nine

  “Point and shoot,” Grant ordered.

  From the corner of her eye, Sarah could see her father’s lips moving. Though the earmuffs muted the sound, she’d heard these same instructions so often that she was even in sync with the timing of his words.

  With her feet planted the standard eighteen inches apart, she attempted to hold her hands steady as she took aim and fired the 9mm Glock at the target seventy-five feet away.

  “No—no!” Grant shouted. “You’re still listing to the right.” He shook his head as he scolded her. He grabbed the chain pulley and drew the target closer so she could see her mistake.

  Bracing herself for a rebuke, Sarah lowered the earmuffs to her neck.

  “It may not seem like much right now,” her father continued. “But you can’t afford that kind of error.”

  Sarah lowered the gun and put one hand on her hip. The other arm hung at her side, the pistol hanging from her fingers. Both shoulders were tired and sore from the repeated practice, and her back was starting to ache. She wasn’t sure why her father was obsessing about this so much today, but she couldn’t care less if she hit her own target or the one beside it. Looking up she said, “I never carry a gun anyway, so who is it you think I’m going to shoot?”

  “Anyone who threatens you,” he said in a low, menacing voice. Stepping close, he took the gun from her hand. “And from now on you will have a weapon with you. After that stunt Carl pulled at the park, we have to change things up a bit. He isn’t going to be following close enough to do you any good if something goes wrong. And if that should happen, you don’t want to find yourself in a position like this.” He pointed the gun at her chest.

  Sarah drew in her breath sharply as she looked down at the barrel touching the fabric of her shirt.

  Her father lowered the gun, then reached for her hand and put the pistol in her palm as he turned her toward the targets.

  “Got it?”

  She nodded, still waiting for her shock to subside. He pointed a loaded gun at me! With shaking fingers, she covered her ears and raised her arms once more, this time trying hard to focus her line of vision on the cardboard mannequin at the end of her lane. She took aim and pulled the trigger, hardly flinching at the recoil. She’d grown up around guns, and as much as she hated them, she was also used to handling them.

  Grant pulled on the chain and stepped forward to see how she’d done. She lowered the earmuffs to her neck again.

  “Better,” he grumbled. “But not your best. You’re not focused today. If school is going to interfere with your job—”

  “It isn’t school,” Sarah cut in.

  “Then what?” Grant pointed out her latest shot on the target—high and to the right—then released the pulley.

  “I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to work on the drug task force. I tried telling you the other night. I hate it. The dealers scare me, and—”

  “And it helps pay the bills,” Grant said. “I’m spending a fortune on your tuition. If we’re going to make ends meet, you’ve got to work, Sarah.”

  “I’ll find another job,” she insisted. “Mrs. Strouse has been after me for months to give her girls private singing lessons. I could teach piano, too.”

  “Piano,” Grant scoffed. “You think that will make a dent in thirty-five thousand dollars a year? The only reason you’re able to go to college is because of your job. Do you have any idea the kind of strings I had to pull to get you this position?”

  “I wish you hadn’t. But I’ll work two jobs to make up the difference.” Sarah hated that s
he sounded as desperate as she felt. “I can find something on campus. I’ll work in one of the cafeterias or be a janitor—anything would be better than spending my nights buying drugs.”

  Grant sighed heavily. “It’s not possible, Sarah. You can’t quit—no matter how much either of us might wish you could.”

  “Then fire me—on the grounds that I’m a lousy shot today.” She gave her dad a half smile, hoping to ease the tension building between them. She knew she’d pushed about as far as she dared. But hadn’t he crossed the line too—a few minutes ago, pointing a gun at her like that? “Fire me and hire someone else who’s as passionate about fighting crime as you are. It would be better for everyone.”

  “You’re irreplaceable.”

  Against her will, she felt her heart warm with the unexpected and rare compliment. But then she realized what he was doing. You always try to turn things around, Dad. “I can see that people might not be lining up for the job, but surely you can find someone.”

  “No.” Grant shook his head. “You don’t understand. There simply isn’t anyone else who can do exactly what you do.”

  * * *

  Sarah stretched plastic wrap over the bowl of spaghetti and stuck it in the near-empty fridge. A six-pack of beer and the usual condiments lined the shelves of the door. The interior shelves, however, were bare except for a half gallon of milk, a couple of apples, and the leftover spaghetti. Sarah frowned. There was no way she could conjure tomorrow’s dinner out of that, and the pantry was just as empty. They’d starve soon if she didn’t remind her father it was time to go shopping again. She should have told him earlier, so they could have stopped by the store on the way home from the shooting range. But his mood hadn’t exactly been stellar, and she’d been too upset to think about groceries. She dreaded telling him now, dreaded the argument that was sure to come up for the hundredth time.

  “Grocery shopping is a woman’s work. I shouldn’t have to be bothered with it,” he’d say.

  “I’ll do the shopping, Dad. I can ride the bus and—”