Page 18 of Symphony of Salvation

I retrieved the growing stacks of pencil-marked staff paper from my desk and deposited myself at the upright Steinway in the corner of the living room. Constance had her vice, and I had mine. Together, yet apart, we played.

Hours passed as I worked on a commissioned piece of music, scribbling and erasing like a man on a mission, pounding out chords and testing arias, experimenting with arpeggios and various dynamics. The whole while, Constance entertained with Bach, Mozart, and Haydn.

Constance’s playing ended at nine thirty, and I assumed she’d gone to bed.

It was long past midnight before I did the same. Drifting off to those same few unknown bars of music that had troubled me at the restaurant, I tumbled into a dream where together Niles and I played Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony on the piano in his music room. Shoulder to shoulder, the hot press of his body lit me on fire, stirring desires I hadn’t felt in years.

In the bright light of day, I would have denied the feelings, but in sleep, I had no control.

***

Wednesday, the first day of my guest teaching position, dawned gray and wet. Low clouds moved swiftly across the charcoal sky. The snow of the previous two days had melted into mucky sludge along the cedar chip paths, and a cold December wind blew off the lake. Timber Creek’s sodden campus emitted pungent odors of pine, fishy water, and wet earth.

Constance marched ahead as she’d done the first day of class, refusing to acknowledge my presence or engage in conversation. When I’d spoken to her mother on the phone the previous night, I’d lied and told her our daughter was adjusting well. In truth, we’d barely talked since dinner at the restaurant on Monday, and if school was troublesome, I would likely be the last to find out.

When I’d tried to engage Constance in meaningful conversation the previous afternoon, she’d piled her homework on the dining room table and given me theI’m busyglare with which I was intimately acquainted.

Constance cut across the parking lot and entered the main building, veering down a hallway and vanishing from sight before I could catch up or say goodbye. I considered chasingher down but aimed for the music room instead, pretending my feelings weren’t hurt. The goal was to arrive early so I could talk to Niles before class, apologize for my behavior on the day we’d met—although I still didn’t know where I’d gone wrong—and offer to start again on the right foot.

The classroom was empty, and only when the bell rang and no one showed up did I recall the first-period spare. For all I knew, Niles would spend the time in the staffroom or library simply to avoid running into me too soon. Maybe he’d decided to sleep in and was wandering his house in boxers with his long hair brushing the edges of his collarbones.

I immediately dismissed the thought before it grew into something I couldn’t contain. Dreaming inappropriately was one thing, but I was wide awake and refused to consciously entertain such notions.

I wandered to the center of the room and the conductor’s stand, glancing at the risers, stands, and empty chairs. Self-conscious, I touched my necktie as I envisioned a full body of students, an audience, and spotlights warming my cheeks. I buttoned my jacket and stood tall.

Music filled my head. I picked up the baton from the conductor’s stand and took control. A haunting requiem, a dainty ballad, a punchy, complex concerto. Conducting was a position I’d filled many times in the past. In Vienna, Bologna, and Ibiza. I loved the power of having an entire symphony orchestra at my mercy, commanding every nuance of an ensemble.

I swung my arm in accordance with the complex 7/8 time signature, emphasizing certain passages with hard strokes of the wrist while softening others with smoother movements and a lighter touch. I heard it all and felt the music in my veins. Every note. Every crescendo and decrescendo. Every accent and articulation.

The music ended, and I opened my eyes to find empty chairs and empty stands. What was I doing? Why was I here? I didn’t belong. Years of study and practice, only to land in a high school music room seemed unjust. Worse, the man running the department had already classified me as an intrusive show-off.

Unfairly dejected, I replaced the baton, undid my suit jacket, and sat at the piano bench. The chipped ivories carried a history I knew nothing about. How many musicians had sat on this bench and played these keys? How many tears had been shed? How painful were the finger cramps and shoulder aches? How many had given up? How many had gone on to make something of their lives?

Would my presence at the academy make a difference, or was I wasting my time? I loved my daughter, but until recently, I’d never had to sacrifice anything for her benefit. Timber Creek Academy was a sacrifice. Maybe I wouldn’t feel resentful if she didn’t turn everything into a challenge.

I didn’t classify myself as agood father, but I put Constance first, as was required and expected. I took care of her needs and parented the only way I knew how. Shamefully, in the dark recess of my mind, I was a selfish bastard who missed his old life and hated Chloé for putting me in this situation. I wanted to be back in Chicago, in the first chair, in the first row, where I belonged.

Unsettled, I began to play, starting with a lesser-known piece by Rachmaninoff but quickly moving on to Liszt. From there, I played a bit of Brahms, Gershwin, and a particular piece I enjoyed by Wagner. None of it settled my troubled soul. None of it vanquished the guilt or resentment I held toward my daughter and Chloé. None of it would give me back the position I’d abandoned with the orchestra.

Focusing my energy elsewhere, I considered Timber Creek’s music teacher, wishing I could find the power to hate himor not care what he thought of me. Instead, I tumbled into dreamland, reminiscing about wild, wheat-colored hair splayed on a pillowcase, sunset eyes, a tightly bearded jaw, and the strained stretch of tendons along a neck tipped back in ecstasy.

My tempo changed. I was not one to rush when I played, but as my heart picked up, so did my pace. The tune shifted to those few random bars. I added to them, following the path of the music wherever it might lead.

I inhaled the rich foresty scent of Niles’s skin and imagined the warm press of his body against my own.

My dream had not been this detailed, but as I conjured far lewder fantasies and slipped deeper into a rarely explored hole in my mind, I forgot where I was and what I was doing. Only when I fumbled the notes, the error jolting me back to reality, did I give my head a shake and scowl.

No. I wasn’t going there. That wasn’t me. I didn’t do those things anymore.

Also, the piano was definitely out of tune. Niles didn’t know what he was talking about, and if he ever showed his face, I would tell him as much.

Chapter five

Niles

The warning bell rang, and students filtered through the door to Koa’s classroom. I’d overstayed my welcome, but Koa’s indifferent attitude was the only thing keeping me grounded. Without it, I’d have gone off the rails, worrying about my job and the man who’d come to replace me.

It was hard to rile Koa. Until recently, my ex-lover’s views on life veered toward morbid and bleak. It was partly why we’d broken up. No matter the exuded effort, I hadn’t been able to make Koa care about anything, including me. Jersey, one of Koa’s childhood friends from camp, had broken through those barriers. It initially stung, but time had healed the wound. I was happy for Koa but couldn’t help feeling like I’d missed my chance at love.

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