Page 105 of Symphony of Salvation

I chuckled. “Then he wouldn’t be your dad.”

He’s frustrating.

“That he is.”

Do you love him?

I stalled, staring into the dark depths of my coffee and taking a sip to delay. “It’s too soon for that.”

Are you afraid he’ll go back to Chicago and forget about you?

Her astuteness knotted my insides, and I couldn’t find an adequate response, nor could I hide my distress.Yes, I wanted to say but couldn’t.

Constance traced the bold text on the front cover of her book before signing,He’ll leave us both behind eventually. He says he cares, but he doesn’t. He’s selfish like that.

I should have stuck up for August and countered Constance’s claim with proof that he wasn’t self-serving, but I had no proof.For all I knew, she was right, and wasn’t I waiting for exactly that day to come?

“He loves you,” I said.

Constance shook her head.Dad runs at the first opportunity he gets. He’s been doing it my whole life. He doesn’t know the first thing about love. The only thing he loves is himself and his music.

It was a good thing the sign language book I’d bought August had wound up buried and forgotten under a pile of musical scores in the bedroom because his presence in the doorway as Constance signed this final statement surprised us both.

“Good morning,” he said, oblivious to the hurt radiating from his daughter’s core and echoing in mine.

“Good morning.” I offered a weak smile.

Constance shared her misery with a glance before opening the romantasy book on her lap and reading.

Chapter twenty-four

Niles

Winter in Ontario was a swinging pendulum. Freezing and snowy one day, with low gray clouds and nasty north wind. Mild and slushy the next, with bright skies and rich scents of earth.

The weeks through January and February were filled with lazy weekend slumber parties—at August’s house since he couldn’t leave his daughter unattended—where we stoked a fire in the fireplace to stay warm and lounged in pajamas, reading, listening to our favorite pieces of classical music, and playing duets on the piano. August cooked extravagant meals, we talked long into the night, and spent a comfortable amount of time in bed, sharing carnal pleasures that grew more intimate by the day.

We worried less about the know-it-all teenager down the hall since she’d made it clear our clandestine affair wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all her. It was true. Timber Creek faculty had figured out our secret, but no one had called us on our relationship, and I wondered how August might react if they did.

We went on several dates, to the jazz bar, to a film festival, and once to see the Toronto Symphony play at Roy Thompson Hall. Constance had attended a few doctor’s appointments that involved extensive testing to be sure her cancer was under control, and twice, August had visited Rock Glen Treatment Facility to see Chloé and meet with the team of doctors to discuss her upcoming release plan.

Constance didn’t talk to her dad for a week when he refused her request to join him.

In the classroom, we’d found a balance, teaching side by side and preparing for the spring concert in May. August challenged the band with complex pieces I would never have been brave enough to tackle. August was a stickler for perfection, and his lessons tended to come across harsher than he intended. I wasn’t sure if the students were having fun or were too busy trying to please the maestro.

I’d learned to embrace the ruthless side of August, especially when the well-meant criticism was aimed in my direction, but students had their feelings hurt easily, so I’d needed to mend a few figurative bruises.

We grew closer, as was inevitable. Not only had I bonded with August, but I’d also connected with Constance in a way that went beyond a teacher-student relationship. She came to me with things she should have taken to her father. She confided in me in a way a teenager might a parent. It left me flattered and concerned. Her words from early January were never far from my mind.

He’ll leave us both behind eventually. He says he cares, but he doesn’t. He’s selfish like that.

Constance had suggested that August didn’t know how to love, and although neither of us had shared the sentiment out loud, I was certain we both felt it. My personal barriers had crumbledlong ago, but I refused to bear my heart and call it what it was, from stubbornness or fear, I wasn’t sure.

The first of March, Chloé’s official release from Rock Glen, landed on a Saturday. After a feud of endless shouting—“You’re not coming, and that’s final. The court denied her application for a custody review. That means no, Constance. No! That meansI’min charge and get to decide what’s best for you. Seeing your addict mother is a disaster waiting to happen. She almost got you killed. Why is that so hard to remember?”—followed by a toddler-worthy tantrum of thrown objects and door slamming since Constance remained nonverbal, and all the sign language vitriol she spewed went over August’s head since he refused to learn it. I eventually convinced the flustered Maestro to leave, assuring him I would deal with Constance on my own.

“She’s an ungrateful brat,” he yelled into the house as I forced his coat and scarf into his arms and shoved him out the door.

“You can’t call her that.”

---