Page 72 of Symphony of Salvation

My efforts made little difference. Dinner progressed the same. Every time I initiated a topic of conversation, Constance interjected, smiling and signing, purposefully excluding her father or taking a stab at him when she knew he didn’t understand her nonverbal words.

By dessert, August had retreated into his wine, cheeks flush from either anger or drink. Maybe both. He stopped engaging, and Constance, merrier than ever at winning my attention, took over.

We could play Rossini’s “Overture Barbier de Seville.” It would be so much fun. Do you know it?

“Of course. It’s definitely an option. I’ll have to check the back room and see if we have it.”

Dad might have the score.

“You could ask him.” I eyed August, who was turning a cookie into crumbs instead of eating it.

Constance refused, eating a third biscuit from the plate as though nothing was amiss.

When she launched into another story, busily signing, August pushed back from the table and grabbed his empty glass, motioning to mine. “More wine?”

Constance sneered at the interruption.

I glanced between the pair. “Sure.”

August aimed for the kitchen. The moment he was gone and before Constance could continue, I lowered my voice. “Just an observation from an outsider’s standpoint. He’s right. You’re being very rude. Your father invited me for a festive gathering, and it’s been nothing but miserable.”

She went to sign, but I held up a staying hand. “No. Stop. I see both sides, Constance. I do. But tell me. Is he upset right now because you won’t use your voice or because you have purposefully excluded him from conversation all evening?”

Her face fell.

I left her with her thoughts as I followed August. I found him leaning against the kitchen counter, peering into the depths of his freshly poured wine. Every surface remained soiled from dinner preparation. Sink full of dirty dishes. Leftovers cooling in pots and pans. An excellent chef usually left a trail of destruction, and August stood at ground zero.

“How about I give you a hand cleaning up?”

Eyes full of anguish and regret met mine. He scanned the disaster and shook his head, dismissing it. “I’m so sorry, Niles.”

“For what? For having a teenager who acts like a teenager? Believe me, I’m used to it.”

He motioned with the wine into the other room. “That was… utterly embarrassing.”

I chuckled. “She knows how to get under your skin. A master of the art.”

“It’s exhausting, and I don’t know how to make it better. If I get angry, I make it worse. But all the pleading and begging in the world gets me nowhere. She blames me for everything. Her cancer, her mother, her surgery, probably the pimple she got last week.”

Chuckling, I crossed the kitchen and relieved August of his wine, helping myself to a mouthful from his glass.

Piano playing commenced in the front room. I set the glass among the mess and moved between August’s legs, pressing him back against the counter, invading his space.

A fleeting moment of panic flared in August’s pupils. He flashed his attention to the kitchen door before realizing his daughter was occupied.

Planting my hands on his hips, I leaned in and brushed our noses together. “Relax. She’s busy.” His fright should have annoyed me, and it did on some level, but compassion and sympathy outweighed my frustration and canceled the stubbornness I felt over my rules.

Questions swam in August’s dark eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Offering affection. It’s my thing, and you look like you need it.”

“I…”

“If it’s too much, I can back off.”

“No. Stay.”

“Gladly.” I touched his face and smoothed the creases from his brow.

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