Page 9 of Symphony of Salvation

Dr. McCaine’s instructions were fundamentally flawed—or my sense of direction was skewed. I got turned around more than once and second-guessed if I’d heard her correctly. Thankfully, after arriving at the same back exit for the third time in a row, a friendly student helped aim me in the right direction. “Down that hall. It’s adjacent to the gymnasium. You can’t miss it. There are music notes on the door.”

Finally on the right track, I followed the thump of basketballs and screech of youthful voices along a lengthy hallway. I couldn’t say I was pleased that the music and physical education departments shared a wing. The excess noise could prove to be problematic. I prayed for soundproof walls and decent acoustics. What were the chances in a century-old building?

Slim.

When I came to a door with a winding staff and improperly hung musical notes, I paused. The treble clef dangled upsidedown. Quarter notes, following an improperly written key signature, waved their flags in the wrong direction. Utter nonsense. Who had done this? Why?

The impulse to fix the mess was too strong to resist. I hoped the carelessness wasn’t an indication of the quality of the music department. I’d been led to believe Timber Creek hired the most superior educators.

Once the notes, key signature, and treble clef were properly arranged—the lack of a time signature bothered me greatly—I let myself in. I was given to understand that Mr. Edwidge had planning time during first period, so I wasn’t surprised to find the classroom empty of teenagers.

A lone man sat at an upright piano—a Steinway in poor condition—playing an instantly recognizable sonata, his back to the door. I’d performed the technically demanding piece several times in the past.

Not wanting to interrupt—and curious about how he would handle the upcoming third movement—I took a moment to evaluate the space where my daughter would spend most of her time. WhereIhad agreed to spend a great deal ofmytime.

A bank of old-fashioned chalkboards lined one wall, the remains of chalk dust leaving them an uneven, smoky gray color. Motivational posters hung above them by the ceiling.Music is a safe kind of high,andThe difference between ordinary and extraordinary is practice. One in particular caught my attention.Where words fail, music speaks. Instead of fostering enlightenment, as I supposed was its purpose, the words felt like a personal attack on my recent situation.

The room was set up like an orchestra pit with four levels of risers surrounding a conductor’s podium in the center. The piano sat off to the side, angled to face the empty seats and music stands.

The man’s fingers danced beautifully over the ivories. His control and dynamics were admirable, if not slightly inconsistent. It was not performance-worthy, but he had potential.

In the back corner of the room, a glossy black five-piece Pearl drum set shared space with a timpani and xylophone. A few other percussion instruments had been carelessly discarded on a nearby table. Drumsticks and a spread of sheet music joined the chaos.

As the intensity of the sonata heightened, I tuned in to the room’s acoustics. Not bad. Not great. The back wall and ceiling had been padded with popcorn material meant to absorb sound, but the other three walls were not effective in that regard.

The tempo shifted and changed. My attention returned to the man at the piano. He had hair the color of wheat during a fall harvest with variegated highlights of greige, gold, and faded sepia. It was long and tied in a rough knot at his nape. Several flyaways rested messily on his shoulders and fanned wildly around his temples.

I moved farther into the room, angling myself to view him in partial profile. Strong yet gentle jawline. A tawny, tightly groomed beard. Sharp nose. Parted lips. Brows set at a concentrated angle. His focus was such that he didn’t notice me, even when I was surely in his line of sight.

With shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, the muscles and tendons along his forearms showed, moving and straining with the increased tempo and power with which he played. His long fingers danced marvelously, and I was entranced. Not because he was attractive—the thought alone was troublesome—but because it was a challenging piece, even for an experienced pianist.

I inched closer on silent feet until I was near enough to make out the sheet music propped on the rack.

Perhaps he sensed a presence or disturbance in the air. Perhaps he smelled my cologne and knew he was being watched. Regardless, the man fumbled the especially difficult transition into the third movement as I suspected he might and stopped playing with a heavy sigh. “Goddammit.”

He plucked a pencil from the rack and made a notation on the page where he’d erred. Rearranging the sheet music, he picked up where he left off and got a decent way through the final movement before floundering again.

“Dammit.”

“You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself. Maurice Ravel’sGaspard de la Nuitrequires extraordinary dexterity and control. Especially the third movement. The complexity is astounding, and you performed reasonably well, considering.”

The man abruptly spun on the piano bench, eyes wide, mouth agape at finding he wasn’t alone. He must not have sensed me after all.

In an instant, his captivating beauty held me prisoner and stole my ordered thoughts.

“You startled me,” he said, hand to chest.

I cleared my throat and shook free the peril of his good looks. “Pardon the intrusion. It was not my intent.” I extended my hand to shake. “August Castellanos.”

The man looked at the whole of me for a long time before rising from the bench and obliging the offered greeting.

His hand was warm and soft. A delicate grip. Eyes the same sun-drenched shade as his disordered hair took me in from head to toe, their shocked expression replaced with curiosity and what seemed a touch of discord.

“Niles Edwidge. It’s… nice to meet you.” The pause negated the claim. “I wasn’t expecting you today. I was told you started on Wednesday.”

“That’s correct. I planned to help my daughter get oriented, but she… doesn’t require my assistance, so I figured I’d stop in and introduce myself.”

The man was without a necktie, his collar open and revealing more skin than was appropriate. Something about the corded tendons bracketing his throat drew my attention more than once, distorting my thoughts. His collarbones showed at the edges of his shirt, and I wondered at their definition, curious about what was still concealed.

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