THE JOURNAL

By Lynda M. King

May 21^st

Not wanting the headlights of the air car announcing her late arrival, she had him drop her off at the end of the long driveway. The walk would give her time to organize her thoughts and prepare her defense. Her father was going to kill her.

Exactly one month after her sixteenth birthday and already she had broken the new curfew her parents had established. And on a school night. Amanda hurried through the darkness toward the house wondering about the possibility of sneaking in without being noticed and getting away with the infraction.

Circling around the back of the house, Amanda crept through her mother’s elaborate garden. The patio door was her targeted point of entry. No one would be in the kitchen at this hour.

The lights were dim. Sliding the heavy glass door open and closed behind her, she slipped into the deserted kitchen. With the soft ‘click’ of the latch, she was safe. Amanda let out the breath she had been holding.

“Mademoiselle Amanda?” a voice asked.

Amanda jumped. Turning, she saw the woman who had worked for the Grayson family since before she was born. “Dinny!” she gasped, startled. “You scared me to death!”

The French woman glared at Amanda. At twenty-one, she had accepted the position of au pair that the Grayson’s had offered her and moved from France to the United States. Helping Marion Grayson with the mothering of all six of her children, Dinny’s child rearing duties ended when Amanda herself had grown into a beautiful young lady. Now she assisted Mrs. Grayson with whatever tasks were deemed necessary during the course of any given day. A twenty-six year veteran of the Grayson household, Dinny Cherrell was family.

“You were supposed to be home an hour ago, no?” Dinny asked. She stood with her hands on her hips, a formidable individual, her serious stare drilling holes through Amanda.

Looking at her shoes, Amanda sighed. “Oui,” she admitted, forlornly. “Je vous en prie, ne dites rien a Papa!” she pleaded, meeting Dinny’s gaze. “I promise I won’t break curfew again.”

Dinny paused. “Never again,” she said firmly. “Now upstairs to bed before someone with more authority than me notices you just got in, oui? She smiled slightly and winked.

“Merci, Din,” Amanda whispered. Moving closer, she hugged Dinny tight.

Dinny returned her warm embrace. “Now scoot,” she scolded gently.

Amanda scurried out of the kitchen.

****

“Marion!” he yelled, shattering the stillness. There was no reply. “Marion!” Arthur Grayson yelled again. He was in the library and irritated as hell. Amanda could hear it in his voice. Melting into the shadows in the front foyer near the stairs, she held her breath and silently watched as her mother made her way from the living room to the library.

“Must you shout?” Marion asked her husband.

“I need to talk to you,” Arthur said. The seriousness of his tone suddenly made Amanda extremely nervous. Her father slid the library doors closed. Letting her breath out, she slowly crept closer. Standing just outside the library, Amanda eavesdropped on her parents.

“I don’t want Amanda to see Hal Greenberg anymore,” Arthur said.

“Why?” Marion asked. “He seems like a nice boy. His family is certainly well respected in the community.”

“I just don’t,” Arthur said adamantly.

“Well that’s not good enough, Art. You’re going to have to explain to your daughter why she can’t see the boy she’s sweet on.”

“Me?” he asked, innocently.

“Yes, you,” she said firmly. Arthur met his wife’s stare. “So tell me,” she began, “what is your reasoning behind this sudden paternal declaration?”

He paused. “First of all she’s only sixteen.”

“Nice try, Art, but you and I were dating when we were sixteen. That certainly isn’t going to fly with Amanda. Especially since the Sadie Hawkins dance is coming up in two weeks.”

Knowing her mother was a secret ally, Amanda smiled.

“We were seventeen,” Arthur corrected.

Marion rolled her eyes. “Barely and just look what happened to us. A house and six children later and here we are.” She smiled softly.

“Do you think she’s going to end up marrying Hal Greenberg?” Arthur Grayson actually feared the possibility. He wondered if any man would ever measure up to his impossible standards. Amanda was his only daughter!

“Oh, Arthur, no, of course not,” Marion said. “But that’s beside the point. It’s much too early for you to be worrying about who Amanda might choose to marry.” She narrowed her eyes. “What do you have against Hal Greenberg anyway? He’s polite, respectful and seems to adore your daughter. What more could a parent possibly hope for?”

“He has no ambition,” Arthur said simply.

Marion sighed. Her husband was being ridiculous. “He’s only sixteen, Art.” I don’t recall you having much ambition for anything other than kissing me when you were sixteen,” she chided gently, smiling at the memory.

“Seventeen,” he corrected.

“Barely,” she reminded him again.

Frustrated, he struggled for a legitimate reason. “He’s a rube, Marion! And I don’t want her to see him!” It was a lame argument and he knew it.

“What? He doesn’t hang out at the country club like he should?”

Amanda giggled at her mother’s response. Her father was silent.

Marion stood her ground. “Oh, Art, this isn’t about Hal Greenberg and you know it! This is about Oscar Greenberg.”

“Oscar?” he asked innocently.

“Yes,” Marion said with conviction. “His firm stole four accounts away from yours and beat you to the punch on the Grossman deal.” She held her husband’s gaze. “You lost one hundred and sixty-five million. And that, my dear husband, is not Oscar’s fault or his son’s. It’s yours.” Arthur Grayson was silenced by the truth. “Are we done here?” Marion asked.

Amanda disappeared up the stairs and into her bedroom.

****

She lay on her bed with the journal open before her.

May 21^st:

I overheard mother and father arguing tonight. Daddy called Hal Greenberg a rube.

Rube: an unsophisticated rustic.

My boyfriend is not!

And so began Amanda Grayson’s fascination with words.

****

July 6^th

They stood together in the doorway of the living room.

“Mrs. Grayson, Mr. Grayson.” The tall, skinny young man wearing faded blue jeans and a simulated leather jacket greeted Amanda’s parents. He was bald.

They sat in matching wingback chairs, sharing a single light between them.

Marion looked up from her cross-stitching. “Gary,” she acknowledged warmly.

Arthur looked up from the daily news report he was reading, his attention redirected from the words on the padd to the boy in his living room doorway. Only his eyes moved, his line of sight shifting slightly up and just over the top rim of his glasses.

Gary could feel Mr. Grayson’s lethal stare. The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose. The silent warning was explicit and completely understood.

The boy held his daughter’s hand.

“Where are you two off to? Marion asked her daughter.

“The City,” Amanda said. “The Jenerators are playing at Stella’s on Bleeker Street down in the West Village. We’re going to meet friends for dinner, first.”

“The Jenerators?” Arthur asked, still staring at Gary.

“Gary’s band, Daddy. Bass player, singer. Remember?”

Gary smiled sheepishly.

Arthur raised his eyebrows.

“Coming home or staying?” Marion asked.

“The band doesn’t go on until midnight, so we’ll stay.”

“Midnight?” His tone was that of an over-protective father.

“Daddy…” Amanda pleaded, embarrassed.

“Where?” her mother asked.

“At Miguel’s apartment on West 13^th Street.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “Miguel?”

“Gary’s band, Dad. Miguel’s the drummer. He also sings. Then there’s Dave—singer and percussion, Tom—lead guitar, and Bill—guitar, harmonica and lead singer.” Amanda couldn’t believe her father.

“Aren’t there any girls in this band?”

“Art!” Marion shot her husband a warning glance. “Have a good time, darling,” she said, winking at her daughter.

Amanda smiled. “We will, Mom.”

“Mrs. Grayson, Mr. Grayson,” Gary nodded.

And they were gone.

Arthur looked at his wife. “Was he bald?” Marion was silent. He paused. “When did she hook up with Stockdale’s boy?”

Marion had resumed her cross-stitching. “She met him at some party last month.”

“Is it serious?” His tone teetered on the edge of genuine concern.

“I think it’s just a summer thing. He’s a junior at Princeton.”

“A junior?!” His voice raised an octave. “Isn’t he a bit too old for her?”

“Arthur,” Marion chided.

He paused. “A rock band?” he asked.

“I believe so.”

“Well, at least he’s enrolled at Princeton. Maybe it’s just a phase…”

And Arthur Grayson began to seriously wonder if a year ago, he should have been a bit less critical of his daughter’s former boyfriend, sixteen-year-old Hal Greenberg.

****

Nine o’clock was an obscene hour to be up on a Saturday morning. Especially since she hadn’t actually gone to bed until five. Amanda looked up. Taking a deep breath, she began to climb the seemingly infinite number of steps toward the great wooden doors of St. Aloysius Catholic Church.

Pulling the heavy door open, she slipped quietly inside.

It was a majestic cathedral. Amanda’s eyes adjusted to the softer light inside. The only illumination was the natural sunlight streaming in through the radiant, tall windows that rose from the floor to the ceiling of the cavernous sanctuary. The spectacular panels were a symphony of brilliant stained glass. And the magnificent rose window took her breath away.

When filled to capacity, the expanse of wood pews accommodated a congregation of over 800 at any single service. Amanda could smell the ancient pine. Built in 1802, the architecture of the old brick and mortar church was amazing, having withstood centuries of the elements. Even after the big shake of the 21^st Century, the original cornerstone was still in place. And the altar was glorious. Gold and Italian marble. Behind it, a massive, wooden cross, suspended by cables, hung from the ceiling. The tabernacle itself was adorned with diamond, tanzanite, ruby, emerald and carnelian stones. Tiny flames of hundreds of lit votive candles flickered in one corner. There was a choir loft, a magnificent pipe organ, an antique grand piano, and bells. The Sunday morning peeling of bells from the tower calling the faithful home was a remarkable sound.

Amanda’s gaze shifted to the exquisite, marble statues—sculpted renditions of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and young Saint Aloysius himself.

A boy, who was a model for all Catholic youth, St. Aloysius was filled with love for God, remorse for his sins, and a desire for purity of mind, body, and heart. Suddenly Amanda found it extremely ironic that she was about to acknowledge her sins in this particular church.

She moved toward the confessional booths. Suddenly the air felt chilled and she shivered.

Opening the door to the tiny confessional, Amanda closed it quietly behind her and knelt down. Making the sign of the cross, she took a deep breath. “Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession,” she began. “I used the Lord’s name in vain six times. I was out smoking and drinking with friends last night.” She paused. “And I had sex with my boyfriend.”

His breath caught in his throat; she heard it.

Amanda sighed heavily. Why she told the priest she had no idea. Maybe it was because she was tired of the proper Catholic girl image she had been taught to project her entire life. Or perhaps she was tired of the image of what being a Grayson supposedly meant. Maybe she had simply wanted to shock Father O’Mara. She was defiant and bold, a rebel without a cause. It seemed she wandered, searching for herself. Whatever the reason, there was no going back.

For one brief instant, Father Thomas O’Mara was speechless. Her revelation stunned him. The young lady in the shadows whose confession he had just heard was from a well-respected, prominent upper class New England family. Arthur and Marion Grayson’s youngest; their only daughter. Father O’Mara had baptized her himself seventeen years earlier. Members of the Grayson family were pillars of the community; loyal, generous, upstanding parishioners of St. Aloysius’ congregation for well over one hundred years. “Amanda Jane Grayson,” he began, “are your parents aware of your current activities?”

She inhaled sharply. The fact that he had said her name out loud was unconscionable! Amanda couldn’t believe it. While she knew that he knew who she was, he wasn’t supposed to reveal it! That he had divulged the personal information was simply unthinkable. She was shocked.

His silence was suffocating. Amanda said nothing.

“One should not take the Lord’s name in vain,” Father O’Mara began. “While drinking in moderation is not a sin,” he continued, “one should not indulge if the minimum age requirement necessary to do so legally is not met. The act of smoking is also not a sin. However, again, there is a minimum age requirement that must be met in order to do so legally. It is a proven fact that smoking is detrimental to one’s health. Unless you possess a death wish, it is my recommendation that you cease immediately.” He paused. “As for engaging in intercourse with your boyfriend, it is, quite simply, against the teachings of the Church. Intercourse should be reserved for the sanctity of marriage. A sexual relationship at such an early age is an enormous undertaking. Are you committed to your boyfriend? Is he committed to you? Would you be able to handle the emotional difficulties that would arise in the unfortunate event that you were to become pregnant as a result? If you broke up with your boyfriend? Or, God forbid, you were to seek an abortion? Are you prepared to deal with the possible consequences or your actions?”

Amanda bowed her head and was silent.

Father O’Mara took a deep breath. “Your daily life is your temple and your religion. Whenever you enter into it take with you your all.”

She started at his words. Father O’Mara had quoted Kahlil Gribran’s The Prophet. Her oldest brother Wils had given her the antique book for her sixteenth birthday.

“Your penance shall be the recitation of six Hail Marys, two Glory Be To The Fathers, seventeen Our Fathers and to read First Corinthians chapter thirteen verses four through eight and thirteen.” Father O’Mara paused. “I also want you to tell your boyfriend that you love him. And to honestly mean it when you do so. That is all, my child.”

Amanda sighed. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, Who are all-good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen.”

“God, the Father of mercies, has reconciled the world to Himself through the death and resurrection of His Son, and has poured forth the Holy Spirit for the forgiveness of sins,” Father O’Mara said. “May He grant you pardon and peace through the ministry of the Church. I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

Making the sign of the cross, Amanda stood and exited the claustrophobic confessional. She should have felt relieved and joyous. But she didn’t feel pardoned, peaceful or absolved. Amanda opened the heavy wooden door and exited St. Aloysius Catholic Church. Stepping out into the bright sunlight, she slowly began the long climb down the infinite number of steps toward home.

****

The garden was dark and mysterious. Amanda sat on the back deck listening to the songs of crickets and tree frogs. It was a balmy summer night. The scent of her mother’s many roses drifted on the air and she breathed deeply. Shadows from the dimmed yard lights danced across the pages of her journal...

July 6:

The air has been chilly between us. If I’ve noticed it, I’m sure Gary has, too.

I went to confession today. Father O’Mara said that he wanted me to tell my boyfriend that I loved him. And to mean it when I said it. What the hell kind of penance is that?

Karl Marx said that religion was the opium of the people. Is it? Does it really matter that I’m dating an atheist? Or is that what I find exciting about Gary Stockdale? The fact that he’s brave enough not to believe? Am I on the road to agnosticism?

And who is to say what a sin is, anyway? How can a religion dictate what a sin is? Isn’t sin personal?

I think a sin is something you feel guilty about doing.

I have fun with Gary. Why should I feel guilty about having sex with him?

1 Corinthians, Chapter 13: If you love someone you will be loyal to him no matter what the cost. You will always believe in him, and always expect the best of him, and always stand your ground in defending him. All the special gifts and powers from God will someday come to an end, but love goes on forever. There are three things that remain—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.

Amanda stopped writing abruptly and stared at the words she had just written. Was that what she truly believed?

Suddenly a wave of guilt washed over her. Not because she had had sex with her boyfriend, but because she had and didn’t really love him.

****

December 20^th

The estate had a festive air to it. Tiny white lights and evergreen wreaths with red bows adorned windows and doors. There was music. The scent of pine and cinnamon spice mingled in the air. Flickering illuminaries glowed everywhere. Snow flurries glistened and danced in the reflected light as the gentle wind whispered along the now barren branches of trees, showering the area with their winter bounty. Stars glittered overhead. The moon washed the scene in a silvery light. It was a splendid night, a perfect setting for a Christmas party.

Everyone who was anyone in the Inter-Stellar Diplomatic Community would be at the gala. It was the hottest ticket in town. Philip B. George, the President of Harvard University, certainly knew how to throw one hell of a holiday party.

Early arrivals were enjoying refreshments and the orchestra as they mingled with one another. Late arrivals crowded the entrance to the mansion. The grounds were alive with activity. Black limosines lined the driveway.

“Look at those dinosaurs,” Amanda said, gesturing toward the vintage autos. “They belong in a museum.” She stood beside her friend. Having a roommate who worked in the President’s Office as the University’s official event coordinator was most definitely a perk. Amanda’s name was always on the guest list.

“The limos?” Leslie asked. “Come on, Amanda, where’s your sense of tradition? Your romantic side? I know you’ve got one in there somewhere,” she teased. The two friends laughed. “It’s great fun, Manda. All kinds of gadgets. And you can see out, but no one can see in. That alone lends itself to all sorts of interesting possibilities.” Leslie nudged her friend suggestively. “Ask Edward to take you for a ride sometime. He’s connected. I’m sure he could arrange it.”

Amanda shook her head, grinning at Leslie’s enthusiasm for the antique vehicles. “And just how do you know about limousines, Oster?” she asked.

“I’ll never tell,” Leslie said coyly.

Amanda laughed. “Personally I think a horse drawn sleigh is much more romantic. The sound of harness bells is glorious,” she said dreamily.

“So, get Edward to hire a sleigh.” Leslie winked. “By the way, where is the illustrious Mr. Ward this evening, anyway?”

“I came alone.”

“Really?” Leslie asked, surprised. She had never known her friend to attend any event alone. Amanda had been on the arm of Daniel Auschlander at Boston University’s Medical School’s Winter Galaxy Ball. Or rather, Daniel had been on hers… Todd Martens had invited her to Harvard Law School’s soiree two weeks ago. Edward Ward had accompanied her to Boston’s Repertory Theatre holiday opening just last Friday. And Leslie knew that Jack Cooper was dying to date her. There was certainly no shortage of eligible bachelors willing to escort Amanda Grayson anywhere. She always had a date for a party.

“Yes,” Amanda said simply.

“Really?” Leslie asked again in disbelief. “Why? I thought you and Edward were serious.”

Amanda met her friend’s questioning gaze. “I wanted the freedom.”

“I see,” Leslie said. But she knew exactly why her friend had come alone. Leslie paused. “Well, he did RSVP, so I’m sure he’ll be here.”

“Who?” Amanda asked innocently.

“You know who. Your sweet misery, that’s who. Mr. Aloof and Coolness. I can’t believe that you’re seriously entertaining the idea of hooking up with him.” Leslie shook her head. “But hey, if he doesn’t show, two ravishing single women like us will have no problem finding dance partners. All night long.” Leslie turned with a flourish. The strapless emerald green satin dress she wore hugged her body. The straight skirt molded itself to the tops of her thighs when she walked. The slit up the left side, almost to her hip, showed a beautiful expanse of leg when she moved or sat. A fall of gorgeous red hair cascaded loosely down her back.

“You look exquisite,” Amanda said.

“So do you,” Leslie replied.

Amanda’s midnight blue and silver gown covered her left shoulder in a braiding of silver lame and satin that blended into an intricately woven design in the bodice. The straight blue skirt, embroidered with Paquin crystal star beads, shimmered when she moved. Like Leslie’s, there was a slit up the side, revealing an expanse of thigh that Amanda did absolutely nothing to hide. A diamond and sapphire necklace and earrings sparkled in the light, completing the illusion.

“Well, it looks like the boss has finally arrived.” Leslie pointed to the flock of well wishers gathered around President George as he stepped out of his limo. Three more pulled up. “Duty calls,” she said, motioning toward the cars. “Shall we escort them in, Miss Grayson?”

“Most certainly, Miss Oster,” Amanda replied, smiling. “It would be my pleasure to assist.”

Giggling, the two friends moved toward the limos.

“I’ll take this one,” Leslie called. “You take the next,” she directed.

Amanda stepped up to the car.

With an air of quiet sophistication, he stepped out of the limousine, his brown eyes catching sight of her.

Amanda’s heart seemed to stop when she saw him.

“May I escort you in, Miss Grayson,” he asked formally before she even had the chance to offer him an escort herself.

Her unique dress was stunning. He noticed the brilliance of the star beads that were embroidered onto the shimmering material. They glinted in the moonlight when she moved. Her beauty amazed him and the degree to which he found her esthetically pleasing was immeasurable. The sapphire gemstones she wore matched her sparkling blue eyes.

While she had most definitely seen him at several events over the past three months, Amanda had never really talked to him. Brief introductions and simple, more often than not, unspoken acknowledgments of each other’s presence from across a room were all that had actually passed between them. She wondered if she’d even be able to sustain an intelligent conversation with him if the opportunity ever presented itself. He was mysterious and alien. The sound of his mesmerizing voice sent chills down her spine. She found him extremely attractive and longed to spend time with him. And he had remembered her name! Willing herself calm, Amanda nodded graciously. “I would be most honored, S’haile Sarek,” she replied formally.

He was most impressed by her use of the proper Vulcan title for a male when she greeted him. They had met previously at the Andorian Embassy where she had inadvertently addressed him as ‘Mr. Sarek’ upon their brief introduction. He had found her error to be illogically charming at the time.

Stepping away from the car, he uncharacteristically looped her arm through his.

It was as if an electric current surged through her body when he touched her. Amanda inhaled sharply at the thrill, his action taking her by complete surprise. She knew that it was not customary for Vulcans to touch anyone. However, he had initiated the contact with her. She found his action exciting.

Her fragrance reminded him of Navarian violets, one of the rarest of all flowers in the galaxy. For one brief moment, Sarek relaxed his mental shields. Brushing her mind with his, he experienced an intense tingling excitement that seemed to rush through her. It appeared that he was the cause and he found the sensation most interesting. Then, so as not to invade the privacy of her mind further, he politely raised his shields.

Together they walked toward the mansion.

****

Sarek had spent the entire evening socializing with various guests and dignitaries. While outwardly attentive to everything that transpired around him, inwardly he had been calculating the odds of encountering her among the sea of aliens in attendance at the gala. She was a most intriguing human being.

He caught sight of her from across the room. She stood alone near the towering, decorated evergreen tree, watching the couples gliding effortlessly across the dance floor. Only his eyes betrayed the extreme gratification he experienced. No other male presently engaged her in conversation. Quietly, he made his way through the crowd.

“Would you care to dance, Miss Grayson?” he asked politely. Sarek of Vulcan stood beside her.

“S’haile Sarek,” she said, turning. His question surprised her. She hadn’t seen him on the dance floor the entire evening. In fact, she hadn’t seen him at all the entire evening. And now he was standing right beside her! Amanda knew Vulcans were touch telepaths. That fact alone suddenly made her extremely nervous in his company. But he had asked her. Certainly he was aware that he would have to touch her in order to dance. The opportunity to spend time with him suddenly presented itself. She took a deep breath. “Do you waltz?” Amanda asked sweetly.

“After a fashion,” he replied.

Sarek knew the waltz had been the scandal of 19^th Century English society on Terra. Never before had a man and a woman danced publicly in a virtual embrace. Fortunately the grace and beauty of the waltz was noticed, and English society, so quick to denounce the dance, eventually embraced it. Sarek also knew the composer Johann Strauss was credited with the persistence of the waltz in mainstream ballroom dancing. His fast paced compositions eventually paved the way for the quicker Viennese style that followed. However, in the United States, the waltz tempo had slowed, forming a smoother and more graceful gliding dance with a gentle ‘rise and fall’ motion. Sarek found the fact that the waltz endured as the oldest of ballroom dances on Earth…fascinating. It was perhaps the best loved of all dances by humans.

“I would love to waltz with you, S’haile Sarek,” she said.

Sarek started at her reply. While he indeed knew of the waltz, he most certainly did not know how to waltz. He suddenly realized that he had grievously erred in his choice of verbiage. His statement was illogical and he had no idea how to disentangle himself from the web of inaccuracy he had just woven. Unable to fathom why he had indicated to her that he possessed the skill to waltz, Sarek attempted to re-order his thought process. Vulcans did not lie, but he had most definitely exaggerated the truth. He was uncertain whether or not a single attempt at waltzing with the daughter of the Prime Minister of Vendore during a previous social engagement qualified him to say, ‘after a fashion’. The Prime Minister’s daughter had asked him to dance. Proper protocol dictated that he graciously accept the young woman’s invitation despite the fact that he was not skilled in the activity. The experience had proven to be disastrous. It had been a very private social engagement on Vendore and Sarek was quite certain that no one had actually witnessed the debacle. As to why he had replied ‘after a fashion’ in response to her question, ‘do you waltz’? Sarek had no logical explanation.

The movement of the dancers across the floor appeared to be simple. Having spent the entire evening observing, Sarek knew the waltz was unique, the only ballroom dance written in ¾ time. There were three beats to each measure, counted as ‘1-2-3’ or ‘quick-quick-quick.’ And there were three steps of equal duration per measure, with the hesitation being the exception. The lead foot of the male partner of the dance couple alternated with each measure—left-2-3-right-2-3. And it appeared that waltz combinations were written in a series of six steps.

While he most definitely understood the basic mechanics of the dance, in all truthfulness, Sarek did not waltz. However, he had just asked her to dance. And the orchestra was indeed playing a waltz.

Amanda saw a fleeting apprehension flash briefly in his soft, brown eyes. Suddenly realizing that he was no doubt just beginning to comprehend and learn the many Terran customs and traditions he was experiencing while on Earth, she smiled warmly. It was not her style to embarrass anyone—ever. “I’ll lead,” she whispered, graciously.

Amanda Grayson had quite clearly rescued Sarek from his own loose tongue. For that small act, he would be forever grateful.

He noticed her excitement and enthusiasm for the harmonious sound that drifted lazily though the air. It appeared she possessed a deep appreciation for this particular composition.

“Johannes Brahms’ Waltz in A flat,” he said. “Opus thirty-nine, number fifteen, is it not?”

“Why yes, it is,” Amanda said, amazed. She was most impressed that he knew the piece of music the orchestra played. “It’s my favorite waltz.”

She radiated happiness and appeared to smile easily, the eloquent expression softening her delicate facial features. Sarek found the gesture most pleasurable.

“Shall we?” Amanda asked.

He knew that graceful and beautiful dancing could be achieved through a gentle but definite lead coupled with a sensitive and responsive follow. It would be her responsibility to set the rhythm, decide which steps to use, and to control the direction and progression of their movement around the dance floor.

“I shall trust you regarding our navigation around the room,” Sarek said simply. And with those words, Amanda took his right hand in hers.

In that brief instant, his control slipped. He raised an eyebrow at her refreshingly cool touch.

Her breath caught in her throat as she felt the heat of his skin against hers. His spicy scent was alien and exciting.

She was fine-boned and petite, her height 1.625 meters or 5’ 4”, he observed.

He was tall and lean, maybe 6’1”, she guessed.

With her left hand, Amanda held his right arm at a ninety-degree angle to her body, at her eye level. Reaching up, she placed her right hand slightly beneath his left shoulder blade. She nodded encouragingly.

Sarek placed his left hand stiffly near her right shoulder.

She could feel the tautness of his muscles. “Relax,” she whispered softly. “Just follow me.”

Her brilliant blue eyes were captivating. Taking a deep breath, Sarek of Vulcan consciously forced the tension from his body.

And they began to waltz.

With a gentle push, she moved him backward. With a gentle scoop and pull with her fingers, she then pulled him to her right. With another gentle pull, she moved him toward her. And with a gentle push with the heel of her hand, she pushed him to her left, expertly compensating for his lack of experience and ability. Together Sarek and Amanda moved gracefully among the other dancers.

Their close proximity and his physical contact with her jolted him, the melange of her raw emotions overwhelming his senses. The multiplicity of her thoughts and the speed with which they shifted in her mind was staggering.

Reaching out, Sarek briefly touched her essence, the powerful tendrils of her feelings wrapping themselves around him. He was spellbound by the whirlwind of her emotions: love of the music and waltzing; delight that he had asked her to dance; anticipation of learning his language and discussing his alien homeworld and culture; longing to share a meal with him and to walk the grounds of her family estate in his company; hope of forging a friendship; desire to join with him in a kiss; fear of making a fool of herself in his presence; and wonder of where the journey of her life would take her.

Sarek was fascinated. For two minutes and twenty-one seconds, her thoughts and feelings thrummed through his mind, completely engulfing him. Marveling at the complexity of her thought processes, he attempted to analyze each of her feelings as they swirled past him. Her mind enthralled him. It was intoxicating.

And then it ended.

The music stopped.

It had been the most stimulating sensory encounter Sarek had ever experienced.

“Thank you for the waltz, S’haile Sarek,” Amanda said warmly. Letting go of him, she broke the physical contact between them.

Sarek silently thanked A’Tha that she could not read his mind. Mentally breathless, he raised his shields. “You are welcome, Miss Grayson,” he replied politely. “It was indeed a most pleasurable experience. I hope I did not injure you in any way during the course of our gambol.”

Her delightful laughter enveloped him. It was a pleasant sound. “No, of course not,” she assured him. “You can’t be afraid of stepping on toes if you want to go dancing.” Her sapphire eyes sparkled. “You follow well,” she whispered.

Sarek bowed his head in acknowledgement of her praise.

“Actually, you were quite good,” she said. “You just need a little practice to perfect your technique.” She smiled. “All it would take is a few lessons. It would be my pleasure to teach you,” she offered.

Sarek raised an eyebrow. “Indeed,” he replied.

Amanda met his questioning gaze. “Privately, of course,” she qualified. She smiled again and noticed that he did, too. With his eyes.

At that very moment, Sarek of Vulcan decided to dwell on the possibility of meeting her again.

****

Amanda sat in the living room, curled on the sofa, a glass of white wine on the coffee table, the journal on her lap. It was quiet except for the fire. The burning logs snapped and popped in the hearth. Sipping the wine, she began to write...

December 20^th:

When I was sixteen, my father thought I’d marry a rival investment banker’s son, Hal Greenberg. Lady Jane Grayson and her ‘rube…’

When I was seventeen, he feared I’d become Mrs. Gary Stockdale and travel the galaxy as a roadie—the wife of a rock star.

The summer of my eighteenth year, he fretted I’d move to Paris after having met Jacques Louis Brideau at the beach house. He had a yacht on the French Riviera.

Since I’ve been at Harvard, I haven’t met anyone really special. Daniel Auschlander is sweet. Todd Martens is a lot of fun. Eddie Ward has money. And Leslie tells me Jack Cooper is dying to take me out.

Ah, Leslie Oster, my roommate. She’s a love. The Event Coordinator for the President’s Office at Harvard University. Could my social life be any more perfect? I’m on the guest list for every soiree, gala and opening in the Greater Boston-Cambridge area. Fabulous! The firefly is free…

Tonight at President George’s Christmas party, I danced with Sarek of Vulcan. I believe he’s on the fast track to ambassadorship. Be still my beating heart! How can I possibly describe with mere words how he makes me feel? I think we’ve both been watching each other for a while now. Now there’s a conundrum—a stoic Vulcan and an emotional human. Like that relationship would ever work.

Could it?

And just what would my father say if I were to marry an alien? How far away from home would that take me?

Sarek asked me to dance tonight! I couldn’t believe it! He’s so handsome. Tall and lean, with finely chiseled features and gracefully pointed ears.

And his eyes… His deep brown eyes. I wonder if he has any idea just how expressive his eyes are. I actually find myself studying him whenever I see him. The movement of his eyes, the sweeping arch of his eyebrows, his facial expressions, what he does with his hands…

Of course, then there’s his voice. The sound of his mesmerizing voice sends chills down my spine. I could sit and listen to him speak for hours.

Sarek and I danced our first dance tonight. The warmth of his embrace almost sent me over the edge. I wonder what it would be like to be wrapped in his arms for a lifetime. Fire and heat and passion… I wanted the waltz to last forever…

Rapture. Anguish. Torment. How is it possible to feel all of these things at once? Sarek of Vulcan. Leslie calls him ‘my sweet misery’. She thinks I’m a fool to even entertain the ridiculous idea that he would ever be interested in me.

And love is never what it seems...

The logs in the fireplace shifted, sending a shower of sparks up the old brick chimney. She closed the journal. Staring at the flames, enthralled by the flickering dance, Amanda Grayson wondered just how far she might go.

****

February 3^rd

The great Grayson estate, Amanda thought bitterly. There were people milling everywhere. It seemed that everyone who was anyone in New Canaan, Connecticut, was crowded inside the house. Hell, she thought. Everyone who is anyone in all of Fairfield County is here.

No longer able to tolerate the somber mood of everyone trapped inside, Amanda moved away from the mourners in the formal living and dinning rooms. Reaching for the brass handle of the huge front door, she jerked it open. A powerful rush of cold air forced it back and out of her hand, slamming it against the foyer wall with a loud bang. She ran from the house.

The abrupt sound startled everyone. Her older brothers, Richard, home from New York City; Bruce, home from Starfleet Headquarters; Michael, home from Starfleet Academy; and Christopher, home from graduate school at Oxford University in England looked up.

“Amanda!” her mother yelled, moving toward the open door. Winter swirled into the house. “Amanda!” she yelled again, her frosty breath visible in the frigid air. As she reached for the brass handle herself, a second gust of cold wind blew in and then suddenly reversed itself, sucking the heavy door shut. It slammed with yet another forceful bang. Her nerves frayed, Amanda’s mother jumped at the sound.

“Marion,” Arthur Grayson said softly, gently resting his hand on her shoulder, “let her go.” He met his wife’s anguished gaze. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying. “She has to work through this by herself,” he said quietly.

“But it’s thirty-two degrees outside, Art. She’ll catch her death…” and with that, Marion Grayson burst into tears.

“Shhh,” Arthur soothed. “Shhh. Everything is going to be all right.” Pulling her toward him, he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close. “We will all heal in time,” he whispered.

However, while Arthur Grayson offered his wife reassurance and comfort that all would indeed be well again, he himself was not convinced.

****

Clutching the journal tightly, Amanda ran across the frozen grounds, her honey brown hair lashing in the fierce wind, her dress whipping around her legs. A black dress and heels were most definitely not cold weather attire. She should have taken a coat. But she didn’t give a damn. She was angry. Angry that he had left her. She ran blindly toward the stables.

Slipping on a patch of ice, she fell. The impact with the hard earth knocked the breath out of her. “Dammit!” Amanda screamed to the heavens. “Dammit all to hell!” Lying flat on her back, she held the leather journal close and looked up at the menacing gray sky. Suddenly the ferocious wind quieted and it began to snow. Huge, swirling flakes fell. It was beautiful.

Closing her eyes, Amanda mentally checked for any possible injuries. Feeling that nothing was broken, and in open defiance of the winter elements, she opened her eyes, gathered her dignity and stood, seriously bruised, but far from beaten. “Goddamned shoes,” she cursed. Brushing the wet snow from herself, she cautiously continued on to the barns.

Heaving the big, sliding door open and then closing it behind her, Amanda slipped into the barn. It was dim and warm, the air thick with the sweet scent of timothy hay and clover. She breathed deeply, drinking in the smell of horses. Several in their stalls whickered soft, quiet greetings to her.

Cold and wet, she shivered. Tears threatened her stony façade. With a shuddering breath, she willed them back. She would not cry. She wouldn’t!

On a dark, stormy night in March thirty years earlier, Arthur and Marion Grayson welcomed their first born son. William Arthur Grayson was their pride and joy, the heir apparent to the Grayson family fortune. However, failing to pursue a career in investment banking as his father had, and his father’s father, and his father’s father before him, and rejecting the family business altogether, he had hurt Arthur Grayson deeply. A lifetime of investment banking was not William’s idea of adventure. Defiant, he chose to conquer his own dream and at twenty, breaking family tradition, signed aboard a deep space Firefly class ship in search of treasure among the stars. At ten, Amanda had thought his action to be the most romantic thing in the universe. Her mother had remained silent regarding Wils’ decision, but her father had been furious about his oldest son’s frivolous pursuit of such an unsavory and dangerous profession. Of their five sons, it had been Richard, the second oldest, who followed in his father’s footsteps.

The last time she and William spoke, they had argued. Over what, Amanda couldn’t even remember. Home on Terra for a brief holiday before shipping out again, he had visited her at college. Now all she wanted to do was see him one more time, hug him, apologize, and tell him she loved him. But it was too late. William Grayson, her oldest brother, was dead. And nothing in the universe could change that reality.

Amanda made her way to the hay room. Hundreds of bales stacked from floor to ceiling muffled all sound. It had always been her secret hiding place, secluded, quiet and safe. But William knew. William had always known. He found her every time.

She sat among the tightly packed bundles, the sharp wisps of the dried grasses poking and scratching at her arms and legs. Opening the leather journal, she gently placed it on her lap. Then taking the antique pen that her father had given on her sixteenth birthday, she carefully twisted the cap off, primed the ink and began to write…

February 3^rd:

Handle them carefully, for words once spoken, can never be recalled.

The entry would forever be a reminder of the ridiculous argument they had had.

We buried William today. Near the grove of balsam firs by the stream. He loved the stars, Christmas and the scent of pine.

We used to race horses through meadows…

How am I going to live without you, Wils?

She closed the journal. Her sapphire eyes sparkled with tears. “I love you Wils,” she said out loud, her voice trembling. Did he know how much she loved him? Did he have any idea how much she ached inside? Escaping, a single tear slid down her cheek. “I will miss you everyday,” she said softly, her quiet words barely a whisper.

Wrapping its tendrils around her, suffocating grief overwhelmed her stubborn reserve. From the depth of her soul, with a force she had never known, an uncontrollable rush of emotion washed over her.

Finally, Amanda Grayson wept.

****