Page 54 of Symphony of Salvation

Constance left, and when I couldn’t figure out how to inject myself into the flurry of setup duties, I bowed out as well, heading home.

***

Lacy snowflakes danced in the air as I returned to the main building that evening for the annual Timber Creek Christmas concert. They swirled and danced, brushing my cheeks and melting against my warm skin as I hustled along the path, Constance far ahead. The full parking lot bustled with parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and friends as they filed into the school for the show.

Abandoned by my daughter the second she located a group of girls from her grade who were also there to watch the concert, I sat alone in the back row of the auditorium. Before the lights dimmed, a man with a short beard, mussed brown hair, and a Peterborough hockey jacket took the seat to my left.

I thought he was a parent until he offered his hand to shake. “I’m told you’re the famous maestro. Jersey Reid, nice to meet you.”

The name touched a memory. I’d heard it before but couldn’t place it. I returned the handshake. “Just August, please. Do you teach here?”

“No, no. My partner does.” He hitched his chin toward the stage. “He’s helping Niles wrangle the wild beasts and get things organized. Koa Burgard. I believe he teaches your daughter English.”

The pieces clicked. “Ah, yes. Has her hooked onJane Eyre.”

Jersey chuckled. “Could be worse. Be glad it isn’t something maudlin like the Russian guy who’s obsessed with writing morally gray characters. I can’t remember or pronounce the author’s name. Something with aD.”

“Dostoevsky?”

“That’d be him. Zero out of ten stars. Do not recommend.”

I chuckled. “I’ll be sure to file a complaint if I see his work on her nightstand.” I indicated his jacket. “You’re a hockey coach.”

“I am. Peterborough minor league. You into sports?”

“Not at all.”

Another smile, accompanied by a head shake. “You creative sort need to get with the program.”

“I played golf once.”

“Doesn’t count. Golf isn’t a sport. It’s a leisurely walk spoiled.” Something caught Jersey’s attention, and I followed his gaze to find Niles at the side of the stage in discussion with a few parents.

“How do you like working withMaster Edwidge?” he said with a flair.

“Master?”

“Koa’s nickname. A little on the nose.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. “It’s an experience.”

Jersey chuckled. “I hear you’ve got him in quite a knot.”

My stomach dropped until Jersey explained. “Niles is sensitive about his standing among the faculty. Only one without a PhD. He’s never felt good enough and is convinced you’ve come to replace him.”

“Why on earth would I want to teach high school music?”

Jersey slanted a brow, and I heard the ambiguous context of my question. Before I could reorder the wording into something less arrogant, the lights dimmed, and a hush folded over the audience.

Jersey’s partner—Niles’s ex—snuck into our row and took the seat on Jersey’s other side, leaning over to say a quiet hello. I smiled tightly and focused on the stage. Niles had claimed he and Koa had remained friends. How much had Niles shared with his friend? Doubtless nothing positive. Did Koa and his partner know about the jazz club? My admission? The near kiss? Our exchanges over the past week had been hostile. Niles was clearly upset, and I didn’t have the tools or courage to fix the damage I’d done.

A spotlight appeared. Niles came on stage, stopping in its aura, and greeted the parents, explaining the night’s program and thanking them for coming. Instead of introducing the band or a soloist, Niles sat at the worn upright and straightened the sheet music on the rack.

Unexpectedly, the show began with Niles’s own performance.

I hadn’t heard him play with any seriousness since the first day we’d met when he’d fumbled throughGaspard de la Nuit. Mycomments that day had not been appreciated, and we’d been on a downward slide ever since.

The unfamiliar piece he’d selected for the evening painted a magical landscape of a winter night. Intricate layers gave it depth and wonder. His creative use of dynamics helped build anticipation. Nightingales danced on snow-covered branches, fluffing their feathers in the cold. Cinnamon and spice drifted from beverages swirled with whipped cream toppers. Crystalized breath and rosy cheeks. Heartbeats pattering inside tiny chests with the anticipation of Father Christmas’s arrival.

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