Page 46 of Symphony of Salvation

Sighing, I read what she’d written.When can I see Mom?

My shoulder slumped. “End of January at the earliest. You know that. Three months minimum, but they said it would probably be longer, so don’t get your hopes up. The likelihood is it won’t be before March.”

Pouting, she tore the phone from my hand and flung herself into bed, grabbing a book from her nightstand and turning her back as she curled on her side.

Three to five months of minimal to no communication. Ten months to a year before Chloé would be reevaluated for custody.

And somehow, it was all my fault. I was the bad guy.

“I’m heading out.”

No response.

“You’re not to have anyone over while I’m gone.”

No response.

“And you aren’t to leave the house.”

Nothing.

“I’m trusting you, Constance. Don’t disobey me.”

She turned a page inJane Eyreand kept reading like her ears didn’t work either.

***

The GPS in the rental took me to Junction, a seemingly low-key establishment with dark windows and a calligraphic sign featuring a pair of saxophones with music notes on the end. The parking lot suggested it wasn’t Peterborough’s hottest hangout on a Friday night, for which I was glad.

Inside, a trendy, intimate atmosphere greeted me. Flickering candles decorated the centers of cloth-draped tables and were the main source of illumination. A string of soft white fairy lights highlighted the bar area on the left side of the room. Black wasthe prevalent color, nothing bright and assaulting. It exuded an air of privacy. Confidentiality.

Seduction.

In the eighties or nineties, I imagined a thin cloud of smoke would hang in the air from peoples’ cigarettes, amplifying the mood. Yes, Junction was sufficiently… intimate.

The focal point of the establishment was the stage. A spotlight shone on a five-piece ensemble. A trombonist caressed a warm melody from deep within his instrument. A bass player added a funky beat in the background. The two were soon joined by a woman on saxophone and a man in a fedora who soulfully took over the melody on trumpet. At the far side of the stage, a person of ambiguous gender let loose on the piano. They wore trousers, suspenders over a white shirt, and a pageboy hat.

Niles was right. The music was ambient and pleasant. The musicians played without amplification, the acoustics in the small nightclub superb, carrying the sound without assaulting a listener or sacrificing clarity.

Intimate.I kept coming back to that word. I couldn’t shake it.

It wasn’t until someone spoke by my ear that I realized I’d stopped in the doorway, blocking traffic.

“Excuse me.”

I shifted aside, allowing a man and woman to pass. They took a table nearby. He helped to remove her jacket and pulled out the chair, offering a soft kiss to her cheek before she sat. A server appeared with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Regulars.

Intimate.

Pulling myself together, I scanned faces, seeking Niles, but he wasn’t present. Several empty tables remained. I overanalyzed the location of each, not wanting to choose somewhere especially private or suggestive of a clandestine affair. I took a table near the bar, draping my coat over the chair before getting comfortable.

The same server glided over and offered a smile and the drink menu. I scanned the selections of cocktails.

“Cosmocello, please.”

“Excellent choice.”

The ensemble moved into a new piece by the time my drink arrived. I sipped and checked my watch. Ten after nine. No sign of Niles. I turned my phone in circles on the table, debating what to do. I’d input his number into my contact list that afternoon, hearing his warning. But what if something had come up? He would have no way to contact me. I’d never given himmynumber, and he wouldn’t find it on a staff list.

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