What Love Sees Read Online Free

a minor key. That’s why he sounds so—haunting.” Jean made her voice quaver on the last word. The air moved coolly through her hair and they stood together breathing-in the natural world.
    “You know, Jeanie, when the wind blows, the under parts of the leaves turn up and they look all silvery.”
    “Which leaves?”
    “Poplar, I think,” Icy said, pulling her along.
    To Jean, the concerts were the highlight of the week. On the way out to the barn she felt the last faint afternoon sunlight on her face and the spongy earth softening her footsteps. That told her they were in the clearing. Icy helped her over the stile and across the meadow. She stepped in a squishy spot and took a huge step afterward to avoid it with her other foot. Soon she heard girls talking. “We’re at a big old barn,” Icy told her the first time they’d come there. “It has wide double doors that open onto the meadow. It’s kind of like a stage.” Icy was good about describing things. They bunched up a mound of crunchy pine needles and settled in, smelling the woodsy, humid earth. A needle stuck Jean sharply and she sucked her finger.
    Girls nearby burst into laughter, even though no one said anything. “What’s so funny?” Jean asked.
    The laughter died. “Oh, nothing.”
    She knew, though. Probably somebody did something funny or made a face, and explaining it was too much trouble. It wouldn’t be funny anymore. That happened often. She let out a breath, drew her knees up under her chin and waited for the music.
    That blind girl, she thought again.
    She was glad to sit next to Icy. It felt as though she’d known her a long time.
    Luddy announced she would begin with Brahms. Each week was a different composer. Luddy told the girls about the composers’ lives so that Jean began to link the names with the music. There was something thrilling about hearing a piano outdoors, the notes mixing with the breeze and insect sounds.
    That night in the musty canvas tent, the melody of Brahms’ Lullaby played in her mind and mingled with the crickets. She thought of all the things they’d done this summer, how they stretched their days long into late northern sunsets to fit in so much—singing lessons, hikes in the woods, bird and plant identification, storytelling, swimming, boating, quiet afternoons weaving in the crafts center when the others were playing tennis. Weaving she could do. While she sat high at the big loom, the aroma of wool made heavy by the humid forest, her fingers moved over the tightly drawn warp and threw the shuttle. She could feel the patterns made by threads of different thicknesses. The weaving room was peaceful. She could relax for a while by herself and she didn’t have to keep up with the others. She liked being with other girls, but sometimes it was nice to be alone. Tennis was a silly old game anyhow. Running around after a ball for a while and then what do you get? Nothing. But in the weaving room she was producing something, making a scarf for her dresser back home.
    She rolled onto her side and her cot creaked. Her sleeping bag scraped against her sunburned knees. The scratchy tingle reminded her of how the sun beat down for three solid days on the river. Small price for the chance to be out in a canoe with the others. She had done her share of paddling, too. Her aching arms told her that. She liked the rhythmic sound of the paddle against water and the little forward thrust each time the water gurgled. For those nights on the trip they slept with their bedrolls right on the ground, the scent of night and leaves so clean it made her nostrils open enough to imagine she smelled the cold purity of the stars. It felt free and new and even a little wild. Probably wilder than Father thought she’d be. That pleased her oddly, and she relished the new sensation.
    Near her, a cricket cried out urgently against the background of frogs. She heard Icy shift positions on the other cot.
    “Icy, are you still