Page 35 of Symphony of Salvation

Thank you.

“Your dad came to see me last night, and I told him the same thing.”

She didn’t seem to know what to say to that, and after studying my face like she was looking for a lie, her attention fell to her folded hands on her lap. I waited, sensing she had more to say but was processing. Our conversations were slow, but at least we could be productive.

He’s so pushy. He’s not been around for most of my life and now he thinks he can control everything.

Where’s your mother?I wanted to ask but went with “That must be frustrating” instead.

It is. Did he get mad at you? He gets mad at Mom when she won’t take his side.

“No. We talked. I told him my stance on the situation, and that was the end of it.” In retrospect, the conversation about Constance’s speech had been brief. We’d quickly veered to other things. “I think… I don’t assume to understand your circumstances, but I think he only wants what’s best for you.”

What difference does it make if I talk or not? It doesn’t affect him. He needs to leave it alone and let me live my life. I don’t need a voice to play music, and that’s all I care about.

“I agree, but I’m going to let you in on something. I have yet to meet a parent who doesn’t feel the need to stick their nose in their teenager’s life. Unfortunately, Mademoiselle Castellanos, you have a good four or five years to endure before he starts being able to let go.”

I’ll be at Juilliard by then.

“With your skill, I have no doubt.”

Did you go to Juilliard?

I swallowed the painful lump in my throat and smiled. “No. I went to the Toronto Royal Conservatory.” Even if I’d made the cut and Juilliard had opened their doors to me, I would never have been able to afford it, but I didn’t tell Constance that part, nor did I mention how hard I’d needed to fight for scholarships and student assistance when my parents had refused to support what they considered to be an insubstantial career path.

Constance smiled, but it was strained and sad.My dad never cared about me before. Just because I have to live with him doesn’t mean he should get to care now.

“Fair enough.”

As a third party looking in, I didn’t agree. I might have known little about August Castellanos, but after one night, one drunkenconversation, I had no doubt he cared about his daughter. His intentions were good, no matter how misguided.

He wouldn’t have quit the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra to play house with a woman he barely knew so he could support his daughter through a cancer diagnosis. He wouldn’t have spent four years job bouncing and refusing to commit to long-term work so he could stay rooted. He wouldn’t have abandoned the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to relocate to Ontario to take a job as a guest music teacher at a high school.

No, August Castellanos may not have wanted to be a father, and he might not know his daughter well, but it didn’t mean he didn’t love Constance. Deep down, he wanted what was best for her.

But I also knew the inner workings of a teenage mind, and there was no point explaining it to Constance. She’d made her decision, and fourteen-year-old girls were incredibly strong-willed.

I motioned to the music stand. “How about another run-through?”

Chapter nine

August

Ispent most of Thursday in a hungover haze of partial remembrances, trying and failing to piece together the previous night. Wine gave me a loose tongue, and I distinctly remembered oversharing about Chloé and providing too many details about Constance’s conception.

To a stranger, no less. I knew nothing about Niles or if he was trustworthy, yet I’d spilled my guts like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Worse, while organizing the scattered pieces of my night, I encountered several concerns. Something about sharing his bed and having regrets? Had I said something so damning? Had I given him the wrong idea? Why had he told me he was gay? Why did I remember that part specifically? And why was his mouth so perfectly formed in my mind’s eye? The negative of a photograph burned into my retinas. When my stomach warbled, I blamed the alcohol and hangover.

Shame shadowed me throughout the day when I considered facing Niles again. What had I been thinking? I’d stormed his house to make a point, to fight for my rights as Constance’sfather, and tell Niles in no uncertain terms that he should do as I say.

I barely recalled his response, only that his feelings on the issue didn’t align with mine. From there, the rabbit hole divided into too many tunnels, and passageways grew fuzzy.

Oddly, I’d woken with more of that music inside my head. The barely discernible string of notes had further developed into several long passages. I hummed them over and over until I couldn’t help writing them down.

Constance arrived home at four with a boy in tow. Situated at the piano, working on a veiled idea for a new composition, I took a second to register the masculine voice with a distinctive teenage squeak. “Hi, Maestro Castellanos. Good to see you again. Did you write that?”

Startled, I spun on the bench and came face-to-face with Constance and the auburn-haired violinist who’d been so smitten the other day. Cody, if memory served.

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