Page 60 of Symphony of Salvation

Constance petulantly shrugged and faced the stand, reorganizing the sheet music. She did not have the gift of an eidetic memory like her father, so memorizing pieces took time. She had an ear for tone and could listen to a passage once or twice, picking out the notes on the piano or violin with relative efficiency, but she had to work at it. It was a stumbling block, nothing more. She persevered, determined to overcome any obstacle. If I wasn’t so pissed off, I might have been proud.

I tried a new angle, curbing my anger. “You could pick out your own gifts. We could go out for lunch. Whatever you want. The sky is the limit.”

No response. She wouldn’t be bought.

“If you stay home, you’re at the mercy of a father who doesn’t have a clue what to get you for Christmas.”

Nothing.

“Constance, I wish you would—”

She brought the bow to the strings and played, ignoring me altogether.

My phone rang from the kitchen, saving me from asking another redundant question—or shouting because my agitatednerves could only take so much nonsense. I closed the door and jogged down the hallway before the call went to voicemail.

The display readRock Glen Haven, and I stalled, my finger halfway to answering. “Goddammit. Not now.”

More drama was the last thing I needed, but ignoring the call wasn’t an option since I was Chloé’s only family on this side of the ocean. We weren’t even family, but in October, when she’d asked me to be her emergency contact, I’d reluctantly agreed. What could I say? No? She was my daughter’s mother. Like it or not, I had an obligation.

Steeling myself, I connected the call, muttering a hardened, “Hello?”

“Hello, Augustus.”

Despite our distance, despite how radio waves bounced the cell signal from tower to tower to tower to bring Chloé’s voice into my living room, she sounded the same as always. Smoky, silky, and sexy, Chloé’s talking voice resonated much lower than her singing voice, laced with an Austrian accent that had diminished with her time in North America. It shocked people to learn she sang mezzo-soprano. Chloé’s voice had drawn me in all those years ago. It didn’t have the same effect anymore. If anything, it coursed a chill up my spine.

“What happened to no contact?”

“Relax. I’m not breaking the rules. I got permission. Special circumstances. It’s Christmas in two days. They’re having a social for families that morning. Tea. Snacks. It’s not much, but we’re allowed thirty minutes of visitation.”

Jaw clenched, I asked, “And?”

“And I want to see my daughter, Augustus.”

The muffled sound of a violin traveled from down the hall. I didn’t think Chloé could hear it but moved farther away, cupping a hand around the phone to block excess noise. No rules existed barring her from talking to her daughter, only my stubbornness.

“You’re not supposed to see her. That’s a court order.”

“Unsupervised. You could come too. Even if you don’t, this place is crawling with professionals. We wouldn’t be alone, Augustus, you know that.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m already having a hell of a time with her,” I snapped. “It will make it worse.”

Chloé grew quiet. A muffled voice over an intercom sounded through the phone, reminding me where she was and the reason for our current circumstances. Down the hall, Constance’s bow bounced when she raced over an especially difficult section of ascending and descending sixty-fourth notes. The conductor in me wanted to knock on the door and tell her to mind her grip because it was too tight. The father in me wanted to tear the bow from her hands and crack it in half over my knee, scream at her to go outside and be a child for god’s sake because she was fourteen and had her whole life ahead of her.

Then I remembered Niles and his unrealized dream. I imagined him at Constance’s age, wanting more and wishing his parents would believe in him. Unlike me, Constance hadn’t been tainted by her mother’s pressure. She’d thrived with it. But I knew what this life could do to a person.

“I’m sorry, Augustus. I know you didn’t want this.”

Regulating my temper, I asked, “How’s it going?”

“It’s harder than I expected, but I feel good… now… most days.” The music down the hall stopped, and silence bled through the phone line. “Can I talk to her?”

“She doesn’t talk.”

“She can listen. I have things to say.”

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