Page 74 of Symphony of Salvation

Eyeing me once, Constance pressed her lips together and used her phone to type a message, passing it to August when she finished.

August glanced at the device, clearly scorned as he read the text, then refocused on his daughter. “I thought it was much better.”

She rolled a hand, encouraging him to go on.

“The transition you stumbled over last week was spot on. Watch you don’t lean too heavily on the bassline during the second movement. It smothers the delicacy of the melody and takes away from the overall effect.”

When I expected Constance to sneer or balk at the criticism, she nodded thoughtfully and retrieved the sheet music from the rack. After studying it for a moment, she turned it around and pointed to a section, peering questioningly at her dad.

August examined where she indicated and nodded. “Yes. These dozen or so measures.” He dragged a finger over the bars. “From here to about here. You want the bassline to carry the harmony, not suffocate it.”

Constance moved from the bench and motioned for her father to sit. August did and demonstrated—stunningly and without the need to reference the score—as Constance followed along.

“Do you hear the difference?” he asked.

She nodded, scrutinizing the sheet music.

August played the section several more times before giving Constance another turn. As she performed, he stood over her, talking her through it, suggesting tweaks to her fingering or adjustments to the style. Constance listened and modified her playing accordingly.

This was where the two connected. It was a world different than dinner.

When August had scrutinized my playing, I’d become instantly offended, my nose out of joint. But Constance thrived under his tutelage. It was the first time I’d witnessed a somewhat positive interaction between the pair. Oddly, it was a moment that could have easily unleashed animosity. Both were in their element. With common ground, they flourished.

After the exchange, Constance glanced around her father, smiling in my direction, and motioned to the piano, silently asking if I’d like a turn.

“No thank you.”

She pressed her hands together in prayer formation.Please.

I shook my head. “Another time.”

August’s attention warmed my face, but I refused to meet his eyes or give in to Constance’s request. Of the three of us, I was the least talented and wasn’t in the mood to be humiliated.

Constance submitted and closed the fallboard, moving to sit beside the Christmas tree. Handling the delicate ornaments strung on the branches, Constance twisted and turned them, admiring their painted designs. So far as I understood, she’d refused to accompany her father to shop for a tree or decorations. It was how he’d ended up in the city by himself. It was why he’d texted me while I was at dinner with my family. It was the reason I was sitting in August’s living room on Christmas Eve, entertaining the idea of a clandestine affair.

August rejoined me on the couch, leaving a respectable distance. He motioned to the piano. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

I hitched a brow, feigning confusion.

“You won’t play because of me. Because I constructively criticized your playing on the day we met.”

“I don’t feel like it is all.”

Creases appeared at the corners of his eyes. “You’re a fantastic musician, Niles. I’m sorry I ever made you feel differently. The piece, ‘Gaspard de la Nuit,’ it’s astoundingly difficult. I was amazed that—”

“Please save the attempts at flattery. It’s not coming across like you hope.”

August sighed but let it go. I’d given up drinking wine with the conclusion of dinner. Christmas Eve was not a night to rely on an Uber to get home, and we’d already polished off a full bottlebetween us. August had made coffee instead, but it wasn’t nearly as effective at numbing the pain of a bruised ego. It needed something harder.

Constance caught her father’s attention. Using simple, obvious hand gestures—for his benefit—she asked if she could open the presents.

“In the morning,” August said. “Or maybe New Year’s Day, as is tradition.”

She shook her head, profusely rejecting the suggestion.

August chuckled.

Constance pointed to the gift bags I’d brought, querying without words.

---