Prologue for A Canopy of Stars

As promised, here is the prologue for A Canopy of Stars---Jay's story for those who've read Counting Stars. Please keep in mind that my editor has not yet seen this (though my critique group has, and they're about the best editors I know), and it may not even make it in the final book :(

Believe it or not, this prologue does go with the preview chapter at the back of Counting Stars. About twenty years separate the two, and Sarah---five years old in the prologue---is the pianist Jay meets at the end of chapter one. As you might guess from this initial scene, she's going to have some issues to deal with. But then, don't we all :)

Happy reading.




December 1986

"Hurry up, Sarah." Grant Morgan lifted the collar of his overcoat as wind whipped through the cemetery, causing the thirty-four degree temperature to feel even colder. Frowning, he looked down at the little girl standing three feet in front of him. Surely she must be freezing, he thought as he took in her bare legs, short dress and thin sweater. But the child wasn't shivering—she wasn't moving at all despite his attempts to get her going and get this over with.

He looked around uneasily, wondering if the feeling that he was being watched was ever going to leave. At least the cold is keeping others away. He hadn't expected anyone else to join them, but finding the cemetery completely empty had been a bonus. Is it empty? some inner voice questioned. Grant tried to shrug the worry away but, like the cold, it seemed to have seeped through his coat, through the pores of his skin, into his soul.

Another gust of near-arctic air swirled past them, stirring up the late-fallen leaves at their feet. The wind ruffled the back of the child's dress, and Grant detected the slightest movement from her—an involuntary shiver as the cold danced around her legs.

So she is human, then, he observed, feeling both relief and regret. He'd hated that in the few hours they'd been together he'd seen nothing of himself in her and no possibility of any connection between them, but he realized a child who displayed such little emotion would be that much easier to deal with.

A corner of the astro turf cover lifted, revealing the cavernous hole in the ground. Grant watched as Sarah leaned forward, then looked quickly back at him, her blue eyes wide with fear and . . . questions.

The last thing I need.

"I said, hurry up." He gave her a none-too-gentle push that sent her stumbling forward, her scuffed Mary-Janes barely stopping at the edge of the grave. Knees shaking, she continued to clutch the single flower in her hands as she caught her balance. Her small fists stacked over the slender stem, between two protruding thorns of the blood-red rose. She straightened and stood with natural grace and then remarkable stillness for a child of only five years. Just like her mother, Grant thought with growing unease.

"Please get her out." Sarah's voice, though tiny, was calm and surprisingly full of authority for someone so small.

He didn't like it at all.

"Roses are her favorite," Sarah continued in that same matter-of-fact tone.

"I know," Grant snapped.

"She'll wake up when she smells this one."

Grant felt a minuscule stirring of pity. A very dangerous feeling—for both of them. Stepping forward, plucked the rose from Sarah's hands.

"Ouch," she gasped.

"No flower is going to wake her up," Grant said as he tossed the rose on top of the casket. "Let's go." He looked down at Sarah and saw the shock on her face. She held her hands open, drops of blood welling on each palm, where the thorns had pricked her skin. A matching pair of tears gathered in her eyes.

No tears. Grant nearly prayed the thought. Not now. Not here. He turned his back on her and walked toward the car, feeling those hurt and betrayed eyes on him the whole time. Other eyes might be watching too, he reminded himself as he opened the car door and climbed inside. Moving slowly, he retrieved his keys from his pocket and started the engine. A quick glance out the window told him Sarah still hadn't moved from the spot he'd left her.

He put the car in gear and rolled down the curved, gravel drive. Surely she'll come now, he thought. But she didn't, and he watched with growing concern as Sarah turned away from the car and threw herself across the casket, tiny fingers fumbling with the latches as she tried to pry open the lid.

"Mommy! Mommy! Wake up, Mommy." Her cries reached Grant through the passenger window, which he'd opened to call to her once more.

"Sarah," he barked. "Stop this nonsense and get in the car."

Tears tumbled down her face as she turned to him, the imploring look in her eyes reaching out across the twenty feet between them to sear his heart. The pity swelled. He fought it, taking his foot off the brake to let the car idle.

Sarah turned back to the casket, throwing all her weight into trying to open the lid. More anguished cries came from her throat. Grant rolled the window up and pressed his lips into a thin line as the car nudged nearer the cemetery gates. The door to the caretakers shed was ajar, and Grant wondered if the man—or someone else—was inside watching him.

It's nearly dark. What am I supposed to do? I can't just leave her here.

His glance strayed to the rearview mirror as he turned the dial on the stereo, pretending to be searching for a station, pretending that he didn't care about his daughter. Come on, Sarah. Please.

The car rolled half-way through the open gate. Grant's foot edged toward the brake. He was going to have to go back and get her. He'd be swift, stern. He's spank her and show anger. But anyone watching would still know he cared enough not to leave her behind. Anyone watching would realize they'd found his new weak link. His hand went to the gear shift just as Sarah turned from the casket and began running toward the car. Relief washed over him in dizzying waves.

Pasting an irritated, impatient look on his face, he waited for her to reach the car.

A second later he cringed as she slipped on the gravel and fell face first onto the road. His hand automatically gripped the door handle, but—remembering the open door of the caretaker's shed—an inner restraint stopped him before he could get out and go after her. Returning his fist to his lap, he clenched his teeth and silently counted the seconds it took Sarah to get off the ground and begin walking again.

When he thought his nerves had just about worn thin, she reached the car, then spent several seconds fumbling with the handle before her little hands found enough strength to pull the heavy door open. Again, Grant resisted the urge to lean across the seat and help. But when she climbed inside and he took in her bedraggled appearance, he wavered, reaching into his suit pocket for a hanky so she could wipe away some of the bloodied gravel embedded in her knees. He tossed the white cloth at her.

"Clean yourself up," he ordered in his sternest voice.

Without looking at him, she snatched the hanky and swiped it across her face. Tugging at her thin, too-short dress, she managed to cover one of her knees. Then she realized blood was also dripping from her chin, and she lifted the handkerchief to the wound, keeping it pressed tight. Staying well on her side of the seat, she turned her head away from him and looked out the window.

The car started forward, and from the corner of his eye Grant studied Sarah's reflection in the glass. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, though she didn't make so much as a whimper. Her hair was in need of a good brushing, and it hung long and wispy half-way down her back. He thought perhaps tomorrow he would take her to get it cut short; it would certainly be easier to care for. But then he thought of Rachel and reconsidered. Sarah's golden hair, when washed and brushed, would no doubt be as beautiful as her mother's had been.

Do I want her to be beautiful? He wasn't certain. Though just now, it seemed comforting to know there was something in her to remind him of Rachel. Actually there was a lot in Sarah that reminded him of his wife. The clear blue eyes staring blankly at the passing scenery were exactly as Rachel's had been. And Sarah's petite frame would likely mirror her mother's as well.

Sarah shifted on the seat, tugged her dress down again, then removed the handkerchief from her chin and placed it carefully across a new, four-inch tear down the front of her dress. She wiped a dirty hand across her cheeks, drying the last of her tears, then turned to her father with a positively mutinous expression.

Grant nearly smiled. "Yes?"

"I'm hungry, and I want my kitty."

"I'll feed you shortly, but there will be no kittens at my house."

"Kitty—isn't real." Her eyes were hopeful.

"Hmm."

"I can't sleep without her."

"Too bad," Grant said tersely. He stopped at a light and caught the driver in the car beside them looking at him. There's no way to know, Grant thought, unnerved once more. No way to know who is watching me—watching us.

The light turned green, and Grant eased into the intersection slowly. The car in the other lane moved ahead and turned three streets later. Grant headed toward the Boston University Bridge, thick now with rush hour traffic leaving the city.

"Kitty is at Mommy's house," Sarah said.

Grant inwardly winced at the desperation he heard in her voice. "We can't ever go back there," he said with a note of finality.

"Why not?" Sarah demanded. "That's where I live."

"Not anymore it isn't."

"I don't want to live with you," she said.

"Yeah? Well I don't particularly want to live with you either," Grant lied. He'd wanted nothing more for the past two years than to have his wife and daughter back in his life.

"Then take me home." Her voice was quieter.

He glanced across the seat and saw those blue eyes filling with tears again. He suddenly felt helpless. "Listen, Sarah. We can't go back there because the police won't let us. They have to look at everything in the house and see if they can find out why Mommy died." Not that I couldn't tell them right now. "How about you tell me what your kitten looked like, and we'll see if we can find you another one."

"No." Sarah shook her head and turned away from him. Her shoulders lifted up and down in a dramatic sigh.

Grant thought he saw her lip quiver again. But she remained silent. Not so much like your mother then, he observed. His daughter certainly had his wife's coloring and features, but she wasn't schooled in how to use them to her advantage. And she never will be, he vowed. Sarah need never know how beautiful she was—and would certainly be when she grew older. She would never learn what could happen to a man when she tossed that halo of hair over her shoulder and looked up at him with those baby blues filled with tears.

He would keep her away from men. He'd raise her to be strong and sensible.

What am I thinking? Grant knew the safest, most practical thing would be to ship her off to a secure boarding school—as far away from him as possible. As he drove, he mulled this over—the pros heavily outweighing the cons—and made up his mind to do just that. For the remainder of the drive he ignored her, thinking instead about his recent job transfer to the small police department in Summerfield. It was his chance to start over. To keep things honest, simple.

Pulling into the driveway, he cut the engine and looked over at Sarah. Her eyes were closed, and she was curled up in a ball on the seat. Grant got out of the car, made a point of slamming his door, then walked to the box at the curb to retrieve his mail. He shuffled through the envelopes as he walked back up the drive, then rapped his knuckles against the car window. Sarah didn't stir. Grant swore loud enough that anyone in the next yard could overhear.

So much for not being able to sleep without Kitty.

He stuck the mail in his coat pocket, opened the door, and carefully lifted Sarah in his arms. She stirred for a second, then turned her face into his chest.

He froze, a sudden deja vu overtaking his senses. She weighed next to nothing and still had that same little girl smell he remembered. It seemed just yesterday that he'd cradled her like this when she was a baby. If only . . .

Walking toward the house, his lips were set in a stern line. He opened the front door, kicked it shut behind him, and carried her to the couch. I'll have to buy her a bed tomorrow, he thought as he placed a pillow beneath her head. No. She's not staying. The internal argument raged on as he covered her with a blanket, carefully tucking her slender arms inside.

Taking a step back, he watched as her tiny chest rose in a shuddering breath. Her lips puckered for a brief moment, and Grant wondered if she was having a bad dream.

A bad dream? Her life is a nightmare. Something much more than pity stirred deep inside, causing his throat to constrict. Leaning forward, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"It'll be all right, Sarah," he whispered, then prayed it would be because he suddenly knew he couldn't send her away—just as surely as he knew that he already loved his little girl even more than he had once loved her mother.