“And how would I go about getting one of those?”
“Give me a second. Keep an eye on this group. You turn your back, and they get up to no good.”
The supervisor—a woman in her midtwenties—vanished down the hall.Shrekplayed on an oversized TV. The zombie-eyed spectators barely acknowledged my presence. Would Constance survive at a boarding school? Would she fit in and make friends? Would she curl up on a couch with girls her age and watch movies like a normal teenager? She’d lived an isolated life thus far. It was the foundation of my argument when I’d told Chloé she needed to be in regular school.
Or did I only want these things so I could return to my own life? Were my reasons selfish, or was I looking out for Constance’s best interests?
I didn’t have the answers. Perhaps it was a bit of both.
The supervisor returned with a packet of papers stapled together in the corner. “Here you are.”
She angled the page and pointed to an entry where Niles Edwidge’s phone number and home address were listed. I removed my phone, opened the app to create a new contact, and entered both pieces of information.
Thanking the woman, I returned to the snowy outdoors to consider my options.
Chapter seven
Niles
Ireturned home from Koa’s at ten thirty to find a man on my doorstep. My car’s headlights washed over him as I turned into the driveway. August. Christ, I’d spent the entire evening bemoaning his presence in my classroom until Koa insisted I build a bridge and get over it.
I wanted to sleep, not deal with this pompous asshole.No, Dean, I won three World Classical Music Awards, not two.Did he hear himself when he talked?
I cut the engine and exited the car, eyeing my unwanted guest without saying hello, hoping my silence delivered its own message.
Under the porch light, August’s dark hair was disordered, several snowflakes caught in the strands. More clung to his heavy lashes. Creases bracketed his eyes and cut grooves into his forehead. The immaculate suit was gone, replaced with jeans and a heavy woolen sweater, dusted with a decent layer of snow on the shoulders. The tip of his nose shone red and rosy like his cheeks. Teeth chattering, body curled in on itself, the man looked half frozen.
I glanced along the road in both directions, searching for a vehicle, but found none. Had he walked? I lived on the outskirts of Peterborough, but it was still a generous four-and-a-half to five miles to the Timber Creek campus, weather notwithstanding. So far as I understood, he and Constance had been given a cottage near the lake, a stone’s throw from the main building.
Hands buried in his pockets, shivering and sniffling, August broke the ice. “Do you have a tissue?”
A tissue? I’d shouted him out of my classroom that day, and he showed up at my house at close to midnight asking for a tissue?
I nodded and motioned to the door. “Inside. What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“Experience tells me we don’t excel at friendly chitchat. Besides, it’s almost eleven. I teach in the morning.”And you don’t, I wanted to add, grateful beyond belief that August was only meant to be present on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
Another sniffle. “A tissue. Please, Niles. My nose is a faucet in this cold.”
My name on his tongue felt too familiar, but I couldn’t refuse the request. The man was clearly suffering from exposure. Unlocking the door, I invited him in even when it was the last thing I wanted to do. I retrieved a Kleenex box from the living room, and he graciously pulled five from the box.
“Thank you.”
“You’re underdressed.”
“I left my only coat in your classroom.”
August blew his nose, pocketed the tissue, and brushed the snow from his shoulders. The flakes on his lashes had melted, leaving them damp and clumped together. His hair hung limp and wet, a finger-combed mess I could hardly associate with theman I’d gotten to know. The stiff maestro was weather-beaten, pomp and ceremony washed away. The refined idol had been replaced by a woefully neglected boy of forty-something who could never pass as a celebrity.
His misfortune softened my edge of anger, and I hesitated to send him back into the storm without hearing what he had to say. I didn’t realize I needed to see a more human side of August. Before this moment, I’d viewed him through museum-quality acrylic glass.
It was like finding out a composer you’d idolized half your life was a barely functioning alcoholic.
“Would you like a hot drink? Tea? Coffee?”
“Do you have something harder?” He sniffled again, sneezed, and retrieved the tissue from his pocket. “It’s been a long day.”