The night of her mother’s funeral, she’d expected her father, a stranger then—even stranger now—to take her back to the Boston apartment she shared with her mother. She knew if she could just get home, get back to her room, and especially the nine-week-old kitten, Snowflake, that she’d received for her birthday, everything would be okay.
But her father had not taken her home. She’d started to tell him about Snowflake, then decided she’d lie instead, certain that if her father thought her kitten was only a stuffed animal, he would let her get it. And then, when he saw the real Snowflake, he couldn’t help but love her too.
Only things hadn’t worked out that way. Her father believed her and also believed that a stuffed animal was easily replaced. He’d tried, for quite a long time, to make it up to her. She owned more stuffed cats than anyone ought to—ever. And she hated them all because they reminded her of the real kitten she’d lost. The one she’d left behind. Many, many nights as a little girl she’d lain awake, wondering and worrying about her pet. To this day she was haunted by the thought of what might have happened to it.
But that experience taught her to be honest. Always. And she was. Or she had been until recently, until she met Jay. That’s over, she reminded herself. And a good thing, too.
Friday night she’d come close to being caught. Her father’s car had been parked in the church lot when she arrived in the taxi. Fortunately, he’d been inside, and she’d come in the west entrance, near the women’s restrooms.
“Where have you been?” her father’s voice had echoed through the deserted chapel. “Why isn’t anyone else here?”
“They’ve all gone home. I was in the bathroom.” First lie. “Practice ended early.” The truth. “Only soloists stayed an extra hour for rehearsal and to get fitted for our new robes.” Second lie. “Mrs. Miller would have given me a ride home, but you always tell me not to go with anyone.”
Sarah’s acting skills must have been better than she thought—that or the dim light of the church had kept her face in shadows and saved her. Either way, her father hadn’t said another word about it all Saturday, and this morning she’d been allowed to go to church as usual. But now that she knew the topic of today’s sermon, she was starting to wonder if her father had known she was lying after all.
Could he see her face from his seat in back? She placed a hand against her cheek, warm with shame, no doubt. I don’t want to be a liar.
Why not? You’re already a thief.
Am not, she argued with her conscience, though the thick envelope still in her robe pocket said otherwise. It’s not as if I took the money from his wallet, Sarah thought. A part of her knew that what she’d done—keeping a dollar or two here or there from the money he gave her for groceries, buying only a milk at lunch all through junior high and high school so she could keep her lunch money, sneaking a five-dollar bill from the envelopes that held Carl’s pay—was just as wrong.
“Honesty in all our doings is equally important,” Reverend Daniels continued.
Sara glanced to either side of her. She had the uneasy feeling she was being watched, like there were at least a half dozen pairs of eyes—along with her father’s from the back pew— staring right at her.
“In the book of Leviticus, the Lord tells us plainly, ‘Ye shall not steal, neither deal falsely, neither lie one to another.’”
Sarah closed her eyes as another wave of guilt assailed her. The money at her side felt as if it were burning a hole through her robe, into her skin. I’m not honest at all. I should give every penny back to my father. He’s spending a fortune sending me to Harvard. But how would I ever explain $798? And what money would I have to take with me when I go? He’s never going to let me leave. I’ll have to run, and I’ll need this.
She shifted uneasily in her seat as the answers to the dilemma that was her life continued to elude her. Finally deciding she couldn’t risk giving the money back, she vowed she wouldn’t take any more. And I won’t lie, either. No lies. No Jay. No friends.
No hope.
But as she rose with the choir for the closing hymn, she caught a glimpse of hope sitting at the back of the chapel.
* * *
Archer leaned forward, squirming on the hard, wooden pew. “I’m numb,” he whispered, rubbing his backside. “And it’s hot in here. Why don’t they let in some fresh air?” He looked longingly at the tall windows lining both sides of the chapel.
Trish shot him a disapproving glare.
Jay looked away from them and back at Sarah, who was standing in the front row of the choir.
“I can barely breathe.” Archer tugged at his shirt collar.
“Shh,” Jay and Trish both said together.
Trish brought a finger to her lips and frowned.“Quit being such a baby,” she scolded.
“This tie is choking me,” Archer whispered and continued to fidget.
“We’re almost done,” Jay said. “The choir is about to sing.” He leaned forward in his seat, eager to hear the music.
“I don’t care if the president’s going to speak,” Archer mumbled, then closed his mouth as the elderly woman sitting on the pew across from them stared reproachfully.
In one fluid motion the choir stepped forward in the loft. The organ belted out a prelude, and gospel music filled the overflowing chapel.
Wow. I ought to come to church more often. Jay wished again they hadn’t been late this morning and missed the earlier musical numbers.
“No wonder this place is packed,” Trish whispered after the first verse of the stirring song.
Jay nodded. The sermon had bordered on the dry side, but the music was fabulous. It seemed to tangibly lift the atmosphere in the room.
“Can we go now?” Archer asked before the choir had closed their mouths on the last note.
Trish shook her head. “Look—Sarah’s doing a solo.”
Jay kept his gaze riveted to the front of the room where Sarah stood alone. The others in the choir returned to their seats, leaving her standing there, looking every bit an angel in her white robe. Today her hair was down—the first time he’d seen it that way—and it framed her face in liquid gold.
She wore her mended glasses, and Jay wondered if she’d noticed him yet. If so, she might be upset to see him here. But after hearing the taped conversation with her father, he’d had to come make sure she was okay. He understood why she’d been in such a hurry to leave that night, and he realized the risk she’d taken to come at all. He’d spent half the night imagining what her father would do if he found out, the other half wracking his brain for a way to help.
With a serene expression on her face, Sarah lifted her head and sang. Jay sat spellbound, and even Archer’s fidgeting stopped as her lofty soprano cast across the crowded room, reaching all the way to the back.
The congregation fell silent. Babies and toddlers snuggled quietly on their mothers’ laps as Sarah’s voice hushed them like the lullaby she’d sung for James. A peaceful calm descended over the crowd. Jay glanced over at Trish and saw tears glistening in her eyes. Archer had stopped fidgeting with his tie and put his arm around Trish and pulled her close. The power of music, Jay thought as he noticed Trish take Archer’s free hand in both of hers.
One problem solved. Turning his head slightly, he glanced at the congregation again, wondering if Sarah’s father was here.
The song came to a close, and Trish kept hold of Archer’s hand, keeping him from clapping. Everyone bowed their heads, and the reverend offered prayer.
“At last,” Archer said, when the lengthy prayer was through. He practically ripped off his tie as he rose with the rest of the congregation.
“Sit,” Trish ordered. “We can’t leave yet. We’ve got to check on Sarah.”
“She just sang, didn’t she? She’s fine.” Archer stepped into the aisle. He looked eagerly toward the open doors and the crowd spilling out of them.
“We don’t know that,” Trish argued. “I’ll make my way up front and talk to her—to make sure noth
ing bad happened because of the other night.”
“Nothing happened to her voice,” Archer said. “And who could tell with her face? Might as well be wearing a ski mask for all you can see of her behind those ugly glasses.”
Trish extended her leg and kicked his shin. “You’re so mean.”
“Knock it off, you two,” Jay ordered. So much for making up. He wondered again if it had been wise to bring them—though since Archer had the car, technically he and Trish had brought Jay.
He glanced around the chapel, looking for anyone who might be Sarah’s dad. Not seeing any older men waiting to leave, he returned his attention to Sarah. She had picked up two music stands and was carrying them to an open door at the back of the loft.
“Look. She’s lifting stuff,” Archer said. “The old man obviously didn’t hurt her. Let’s go.”
“Give me a couple of minutes. She’s coming this way.” Trish watched as Sarah headed for the stairs leading to the chapel floor. Another member of the choir stopped her before she could reach them.
Trish pushed past Archer and stepped into the aisle. “You two stay here. I’ll see if I can talk to her for a minute.” She headed toward the front.
“If you want a ride . . .” Archer threatened in a loud whisper.
“If you want dinner tonight . . .” she countered with a backward glance.
Archer muttered something under his breath and walked to the back of the chapel to hover by the doors. Jay stayed in his seat, watching the room empty, wishing he could go with Trish. But they’d agreed ahead of time that it was probably best if, initially, he didn’t try talking to Sarah. He hadn’t come to get her in more trouble.
The chapel was almost empty when Sarah finally made it out of the loft.
“Sarah, do you have a minute?” The reverend’s voice echoed through the hall. He met her at the bottom of the stairs before Trish could get there.
“Not really,” Sarah said. “My father is waiting in the car.”
“Of course.” The reverend’s lips turned down slightly. He matched her pace as she walked toward the exit. Sarah didn’t look up as they passed Trish.
Jay grabbed a Bible from the back of the pew in front of him. He opened it, pretending to read, while he strained to hear the conversation. Archer continued to sulk by the doors.
“I wanted to let you know that your scholarship has been renewed through the next semester,” Reverend Daniels told Sarah. “And I was hoping you wouldn’t mind writing another letter to the Ladies’ Aid to thank them. I personally know that Gladys Beecher spent forty-six hours on a quilt to sell at the bazaar, just so she could contribute to your college fund.”
“College fund?” Sarah looked bewildered. Her pace slowed. “What are you talking about?”
What is he talking about? Jay wondered. I thought her father was paying for Harvard.
Sarah shook her head. “You must be mistaken. My father is paying—for everything.” Her voice faltered as if she were suddenly unsure.
The reverend looked even more confused than Sarah did. He raised his hand, pushing the spectacles further up the bridge of his nose. “Your father, while a very fine man, is in no position to pay for that kind of education. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m not ashamed—just confused.” Sarah’s voice sounded shaky. She stopped walking and placed her hand on Reverend Daniels’ sleeve. “Please tell me what you’re talking about. I—I really don’t know.”
“But you do,” he insisted. The lines on his face deepened. “You wrote that lovely thank-you letter last summer.”
“I didn’t,” Sarah insisted. She continued to clutch his arm. “I never wrote a letter. I’ve never heard of this. My father told me—”
“Told you what?” A tall, heavyset man brushed by Archer and entered the chapel. “What’s wrong now, Sarah? What’s taking so long?”
Her father. Jay tensed in his seat as he stared at the older man with thinning hair and a stern face. Jay hadn’t been sure what to expect when he came this morning, but a scene like this had never entered his mind. He glanced at Archer, who no longer looked bored.
Trish lingered a few pews behind Sarah and the reverend.
“Good to see you, Grant,” Reverend Daniels said. “There seems to be some mix-up with Sarah’s scholarship.” He hesitated, looking at her apologetically. “She claims she knows nothing about it.”
Jay noticed the subtle change on her father’s face. A false mask of concern seemed to cover his previous irritation.
“I’m afraid there are a lot of things Sarah doesn’t know anymore,” Grant said, his voice gentler than it had been a moment before. “She’s starting to develop the same problems her mother had at this age.”
“What are you talking about?” Sarah said. “You never told me the church was paying for school. You lied to me, made me work that awful job—”
“That’s enough,” her father said sternly. “Good day, Reverend.” He took Sarah’s arm and steered her toward the doors.
She resisted, trying to pull away from him.
Jay stood and moved to the edge of the pew.
“Mr. Morgan.” Reverend Daniels took a hesitant step forward as if he wasn’t certain whether or not he should interfere. “Something seems terribly wrong here. I’m—I’m sure we can clear this up if you’ll both come into my office for a few minutes.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Grant said. “I need to take Sarah home and get her medication.” He towed her a few more steps toward the door.
“I don’t take any medicine. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Sarah looked back at the reverend, pleading.
Jay stepped into the aisle beside Archer, blocking the exit.
“Excuse me,” Trish said. She hurried around the reverend to face Sarah and her father. “My friends and I were actually waiting here, hoping to get an interview with Miss Morgan. Archer,” she said, beckoning him with her finger. “Now is good.”
Archer looked startled for half a second but recovered quickly. He strode forward. “I’m Archer Harris, from The Harvard Crimson.”
Jay moved to Sarah’s other side, sending her an encouraging smile while Archer dug through his wallet for his Harvard press pass.
“Now is not a good time,” Grant said, hardly glancing at the credential in Archer’s outstretched hand.
“But Miss Morgan’s composition was recently selected to accompany the Harvard Ballet Troupe in an upcoming concert,” Trish said. “And we’d heard her singing was even more phenomenal, so we came to find out.” She looked at Sarah. “We’d like to do a piece in the Arts section of the paper.”
“As you can see, that won’t be possible,” Grant said. “In fact, it’s questionable whether Sarah will even be able to continue her schooling.”
“Grant,” Reverend Daniels reprimanded gently. “Sarah has so much to offer, and these young people mean no harm.”
“The show would be incomplete without Miss Morgan’s music,” Trish said.
“Then it will have to be incomplete.” Still holding her arm, Grant took a step toward the exit.
“I’d like to do the interview.” Sarah’s voice was calm again.
“I said, no!” Grant shouted. “I don’t want you in the paper. I don’t even want you on that campus anymore.” He turned his fury on the reverend. “She wouldn’t be there, wouldn’t be in this kind of danger, if not for you and those meddlesome old biddies.”
Sarah wrenched her arm free, and Jay stepped between her and her father. “Mr. Morgan, you have no right—”
“Who are you?” Grant demanded.
“I can’t believe you lied to me.” Sarah stumbled up the aisle out of her father’s reach. Her eyes shone with unshed tears.
Grant made a move toward her, but Jay and the reverend blocked his way.
“She’s a good girl,” Reverend Daniels said. “And she’s doing as the Good Lord has asked by developing her talents.”
“The Good Lord also said th
at children are to obey their parents,” Grant reminded him.
“She isn’t a child anymore.” The reverend’s voice was soothing. “Let her do the interview. No harm is going to come of it. It’s time Sarah was recognized for her abilities. It may even be that she can earn a scholarship on her own.”
“She doesn’t need a scholarship; she needs protection.”
“From what?” Sarah demanded. “The one person I want protection from, you force me to be with.” Her voice broke. “Should I have to stay home the rest of my life, so you can make sure I’m safe?” She swiped at a tear trailing down her cheek. “I can’t live like this anymore.”
“We’ll discuss this at home,” Grant said. “Let’s go.”
Sarah shook her head.
Archer’s hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Don’t do it, Jay thought. This will go from bad to worse if someone starts throwing punches.
As if she’d read his mind, Trish spoke up. “You’d better go,” she said to Sarah’s father. “Or I’ll call the police.” She held up her cell phone.
Grant swung his gaze on her, eyes narrowed to slits. A wicked smile curved his lips. “I am the police.”
“But you aren’t the law.” All eyes turned to Jay. He looked directly at Sarah’s father. “I’m here as Sarah’s legal representative. We both know she’s well beyond the age of independence. And—” He plunged on, praying he was correct. “She has no physical or mental history that requires medication. You have no right to detain her further, Mr. Morgan.”
Chapter Twenty
Reverend Daniels returned to his office, a tray balanced in his hands. Placing it on a side table, he turned to Sarah, who was sitting in one of two chairs in front of his desk.
“Drink this,” he suggested gently, pressing a cup of chamomile tea into her hands. “It will help calm you.”
“Thank you.” Sarah brought the cup to her mouth and took a small sip.
“I must say your timing was fortuitous,” Reverend Daniels said to Jay, who was seated beside Sarah. He handed him a cup and saucer that matched Sarah’s, then walked around the desk, sinking into the old, weathered chair behind it.
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