Page 21 of Symphony of Salvation

“That sounds wonderful.”

Since I didn’t want to give up my entire livelihood, I suggested August take responsibility for the senior class and concert band, leaving me the junior levels. “The concert band meets after school a few days a week. You could offer tutelage to those selected for solos. Often, they need an accompanying pianist. We could divide that duty.”

August eagerly agreed, and the rigidity in his shoulders lessened. He seemed more relaxed. With business discussed and pushed aside, the conversation ended, leaving enough white space between us, August shifted his weight, touched his tie, and unbuttoned the top part of his jacket before refastening it.

I checked the time.

What now? The students wouldn’t arrive for twenty-odd minutes. Although I wasn’t keen on comradery, the barrier I’derected between us needed to be dismantled if we were going to make this work.

“So…” I cleared my throat. “I know nothing about you. I haven’t looked you up.”You aren’t specialis what the subtext alleged, but I felt instantly guilty and juvenile, wishing I could take the words back.

“Oh.” August nodded but seemed unsure of what to say. He touched his tie, his buttons. He smoothed a hand down his jacket front—again. A nervous tick perhaps?

“Are you really a maestro?”

“That’s what they tell me. I don’t prefer the title. August or Mr. Castellanos if the informality doesn’t suit you.”

“Isn’t itDr. Castellanos?”

August nodded. “Technically.”

Another wound.

“Your accent. Where’s it from?”

The man shrugged. “Probably Greece.”

“Probably?”

“I’ve lived everywhere. It may have gotten muddled over the years, but I was born and raised in Evia. My father’s Greek. I’m half Greek. Greek is my first language.”

“Do you speak more than one?”

“Oh, yes.” Chin raised, wearing a smirk, he added, “I speak perfect English.”

I blanched, then laughed, swiping a hand over my face. “My god. That was the stupidest question ever. What I meant was, do you speak others besides Greek and English?”

August’s bashful smile remained, and I hated him more for his natural charm. His handsomeness eclipsed his arrogance and made me forget I’d classified him as an enemy. “I speak a few. My mother’s Italian, so I’m fluent. I also spent four years in Russia with the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra, so I have a good handle on Russian. I was a guest conductor in Ibiza, so mySpanish is passable. I have decent French and Polish. Oh, and I speak German. Poorly. I conducted in Vienna for six months in 2009. It’s where I met Chloé.

“She’s not my wife,” he blurted when I thought he was done speaking. “We’re not married. We’ve never been… It was just a…” He deflated and winced. “Dear god. You didn’t ask, and I’m oversharing. How embarrassing. Forgive me.”

I smothered a smile. It was the first time I’d seen August flustered, and it looked good on him. It took the starch out of his personality and turned him into a real person—one with imperfections.

“That’s a lot of languages. Are there any you don’t know on a basic level?”

“Yes.” His brows met in the middle, and he frowned at the floor, scuffing the toe of a shoe against a stain in the industrial carpeting. “American Sign Language. Funny, I have an eidetic memory. I can figure out a piece of music on a handful of listens, no sheet music required, but ask me to talk with my hands, and I can’t do it.” He shook his head and quietly mused. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

The admission seemed to unbalance him, and I couldn’t help wondering if we’d touched on a sore subject. His daughter was nonverbal—by choice, I was led to believe—but I had a gut feeling the disturbed tone had to do with her. Instead of wading in troubled waters, I changed courses.

“Is the piano your main instrument?” I motioned to the Steinway. “You said you played with the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra?”

“I did, and no. I’m a flutist first, pianist second, composer third, and conductor fourth if we’re numbering them. Trained at Juilliard, although I did a year at the Athens Conservatory before transferring. I have a DMA with a concentration inboth theory and composition. I hold—held—first chair with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra before… coming here.”

Juilliard trained. Chicago Symphony Orchestra. I let the acidity of his statement burn my insides. The man had lived my life, or rather, the life I’d wanted and dreamed about since boyhood. Jealous heat filled my belly, and I must have looked sufficiently jaded.

August winced. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

The warning bell rang, marking the end of first period. I glanced at the clock.

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