The Law of Bound Hearts Read Online Free

attracted her to him. That and his music.
    They had met during Thanksgiving break at Oberlin. The campus was nearly empty that weekend, but Libby stayed on, since there was no sense in making the long drive back to Massachusetts for the four-day break. She passed the time sleeping and studying or in one of the practice rooms with her flute. Her playing was passable—she didn’t delude herself into thinking otherwise—but it relaxed her and swept her head free of troubles and concerns. A mind vacuum, she called it. That Saturday afternoon, as she was heading for the practice room, flute case tucked under her arm, she heard music from one of the other rooms. A cello.
    Her steps slowed, stopped. The cellist was good, the playing confident. There were no mistakes or hesitations, no tirelessly repeated passages. Something stirred, vibrated deep in her belly, the yearning, the ache that the bowing of strings always aroused in her. She leaned against the wall. She had no idea how long she stayed like that—long enough that at some point she slid down the wall, sat on the floor. She closed her eyes and drank it in. Chopin’s Polonaise Brillante. Tears pooled behind her lids, slid down her cheeks. She remained there even after the last notes were no more than an echo. A passage of Chopin—just that—but it set in motion a meeting that changed her life.
    â€œAre you okay?”
    He was tall—over six feet, she guessed—and older, possibly a professor, with craggy good looks. He wore pleated pants, a crewneck sweater in a green that set off the flecks of green in his hazel eyes, and a sports jacket. His voice was gentle, filled with concern.
    â€œYes,” she said, mortified to be seen like that, crumpled on the floor, weeping like a child. With guys her own age she was confident, intimidating even—there were guys she had
leveled
with one look— but not with him, not from the beginning. She scrambled to stand, swiped at her cheeks. “Really, I’m fine. It’s the music.”
    He reached out, helped her to her feet. “Is it that bad?”
    She flushed, started to protest, then saw he had been teasing.
    â€œI’m Richard Barnett.”
    â€œElizabeth,” she said. “Libby.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Elizabeth Libby.”
    â€œJust Libby,” she said. “Libby Lewis.”
    â€œA pleasure to meet you,” he said.
    God help her, she nearly curtseyed.
    Over coffee, she learned he was a grad student from Shaker Heights. She told him that she was from Massachusetts and that she was, or hoped to be, a poet. Later, he walked her back to her dorm, asked if he might read her poetry sometime. Another week passed before he tried to kiss her.
    Back then, tired of too-persistent males who were always trying to get her into bed, she had welcomed his sexual reticence, but as the years passed she had found it less appealing. Teenagers walked around joined at the lip, practically doing it parked in the school lot, in daylight, for heaven’s sake—once she saw a car actually
bouncing
—but he acted like kissing her in a restaurant was cause for arrest. PDA, he called it. Public display of affection. As if she wanted him to lay her out on the table rather than share a kiss, perform a small act of tenderness. When she allowed herself to think about it, she could almost appreciate the irony. Well, there were ways she had disappointed him, too. Twenty years built up lots of tarnish in a marriage, and it was not always possible to buff it away.
    She checked the time again—eleven forty-eight—and listened for the car, but found herself hoping Richard had stayed in his office. Lately his solicitousness had been driving her mad. The way he jumped up to get her tea before the water had come to a full boil, or massaged her legs while she read in the evenings—something he hadn’t done since she was pregnant with the twins. Or the tone of