Page 27 of Symphony of Salvation

I handed him the Kleenex box. “Keep it. I have others. Do you drink wine? I have a bottle of Col D’Orcia. It’s a Tuscan Brunello. A fruity-spicy style with sleek undertones. It’s quite good.”

“It sounds perfect.”

I led the way to the kitchen and found two glasses, the new bottle I’d purchased the other day, and a corkscrew.

August stripped off his sweater, revealing a form-fitting turtleneck underneath in a deep maroon. In the classroom, hidden behind a suit jacket, I hadn’t been able to appreciate his honed form. He was trim, with lightly toned muscles.

He draped the sweater over the back of the chair before sitting.

“Did you walk?” I placed a generous glass of red in front of him.

“Yes. I thought I needed the fresh air to clear my head until I was halfway here and realized five miles was farther than I thought. By then, my brain was half frozen, rational thought eluded me, and there was no sense turning around.”

August aerated his wine by swirling it in the glass, inspected the color by holding it to the light, and sipped the smallestamount. He swished the drink around his mouth before swallowing. “It’s lovely. I would call the undertones more rich than sleek.”

“You’re a wine connoisseur too?”

“My mother’s Italian.”

“I remember.”

“I’ve explored several vineyards in Tuscany. A revolutionary experience. If you haven’t had the pleasure, I recommend it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I take a whimsical holiday to Europe.”

Silence prevailed, be it the sarcastic retort or our natural discomfort with one another.

I didn’t sit, leaning against the kitchen counter instead, kidding myself into thinking it gave me the upper hand. August seemed far away, staring into the burgundy depths of his glass with an expression of dysphoria.

I could hardly distinguish the man at my table from the one in my mind who took to the stage and won awards, who played professionally for audiences of thousands, and who left his job with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to guest-teach at a remote private school in northern Ontario.

As though sensing the heavy weight of my attention, August raised his head. Eyes as deep and dark as a forest met mine. “I want to apologize for earlier. The request…” He stroked his jaw and sighed. “I’m frustrated, Niles.”

My name again, spoken like we’d been friends for years.

“Constance required the surgery. She didn’t want it and knew what it meant for her future. It was a last-ditch effort, as they say, to remove the cancer. The chemo wasn’t working as well as they hoped. She was twelve. I swore to my daughter before they put her under that she would talk again.

“I kept my promise. After they gave her a clean bill of health, Constance and her mother came to Canada because I wantedher to have the best speech therapy money could buy, and after endless research, I discovered a place in Toronto that specialized in children who had undergone the same procedure. Two years in therapy. Three days a week. We are not Canadian. We don’t have your health benefits. You have no idea what I paid so my daughter could learn to talk. Like she wanted. Like she begged me. Shecantalk, Niles, but she refuses. She doesn’t like how her voice sounds. She’s embarrassed and thinks people will make fun of her. Honestly, I can’t comprehend how… And her mother…”

August scrubbed a tired hand over his face and drank some wine. “Chloé tells me to let it go. She thinks Constance will use her voice when she’s ready. What if she loses the skill? Some people with prostheses never learn to speak. We were told that. Be ready for disappointment. But not Constance. Not if I had anything to say about it. That girl excels at everything, and she learned as I knew she would. Why revolt because of aesthetics? It makes no sense. Now is not the time to be a petulant teenager. She should be happy that the doctors were able to thoroughly remove the cancer. She should be grateful to be done with endless rounds of chemo. She should rejoice that she has a voice because so many don’t after that kind of surgery.

“Constance is in my care full time now. Ineedpeople on my side.You. Her instructors. I only want what’s best for my daughter. You can understand that, right?”

August’s pleading tone was that of a father who truly believed their heart was in the right place. I’d seen it before. All parents wore blinders when it came to their kids. Too many failed to see the other side of the coin.

Organizing my thoughts, no longer threatened by his presence, I moved to the table and sat when he finished explaining. “I’m sorry to hear about what Constance has been through. I can’t imagine. Dr. McCaine gave us a short overviewbefore she started at the school. I respect your position and determination to advocate for what you think is best for your daughter, but… I have to side with your wife on this one. I’ve worked with teenagers for a lot of years, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you can’t force them to do something they don’t want to do. I agree with… Chloé, was it?”

“Yes.” Defeat slumped his shoulders. “But she’s not my wife.”

“Sorry. You did say that.” And I had a hundred more nosy questions about the change in custody, but it wasn’t the time or place. “Constance will come around on her own terms, but I promise you, the more you push, the harder she’ll push back, and the more stubborn she’ll be.”

August didn’t get angry. Sullenness weighed his body, and he drank his wine for several long minutes before speaking. “I’m out of my league.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “I don’t have the first clue how to be a father, and Constance hates me. No matter what I do, I do it wrong.”

I softly chuckled. “And now, you sound like every frustrated parent I’ve ever known. I wish I could offer advice, but apart from teaching, I don’t have kids. I don’t know what it’s like to be on the other side.”

August glanced around the modestly decorated kitchen. It screamedsingle man lives here. “No prospects?”

I arched a brow. “Sorry?”

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