Page 48 of Symphony of Salvation

“Yes you are.” Niles leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “And your defensive behavior is not helping your case. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, but it’s not me.”

The temperature in the room skyrocketed. I drank deeply from my cocktail and focused on the musicians, afraid to say anythingelse incriminating. Niles’s attention never veered from my face. It prickled heat up my neck and left a stone in my belly.

The song ended, and still, I kept my gaze averted. With an exasperated sigh, Niles fished inside a jacket pocket and removed a folded sheet of paper. He flattened it on the table and pushed it toward me. “Have at it. All work and no play. That must be where I went wrong in my career.”

I took the paper and flashed my attention to Niles. “What’s this?”

“The breakdown of my grading scale. Seven categories, each given a score out of ten. The last category is scored out of thirty. Add them up afterward for a final grade out of one hundred.”

I read through the list. “Intonation, tone, rhythm, technique, interpretation, articulation, difficulty, and overall performance.”

“They’re each explained, although I’m sure you don’t require the definitions. The main consideration when evaluating students is reflecting on their progress throughout the semester. That will land on me since you haven’t been with us long enough. If their skills haven’t improved or they select a piece equal to what they performed in September, it will affect their grade. The point is to make progress.”

“Makes sense.”

“If, let’s say, Dean were to choose a piece significantly more difficult than his skill level, I take that into consideration, but it’s a double-edged sword. If he overshoots and the performance is a mess…” Niles shrugged. “It doesn’t generally happen since I spend several weeks working with them one-on-one beforehand.”

I skimmed the breakdown of each category before folding the paper and offering it back. “It seems self-explanatory.”

“I suggest we both use the form while watching the students perform and compare notes afterward to create an agreeable grade.”

“Sounds like you don’t need my insight, or rather, you find it less valuable since I haven’t been with the class for long.”

Niles fingered the edge of the paper, his tongue riding the edge of his upper teeth under his lip. “It’s not…” He sighed and shoved the paper aside. “No. I’m supposed to take advantage of your…superior skilland use it as a learning tool. You are an asset to have at Timber Creek.”

It was my turn to stare and his turn to avoid meeting my gaze. “Those were not your words, and it pains you to admit I’m better trained, doesn’t it?”

Nose wrinkled, Niles hit me with a hostile glare. “No more than it pains you to admit the truth.”

Cutting my gaze to the stage, I drained my drink. A hundred rebuttals ripened my tongue.What truth? You’re wrong.I’m straight. I wasn’t staring at your mouth the other day. I’m not attracted to you.

All lies, and to wage war would be juvenile and damaging.

Niles didn’t chase the attack. We called an unspoken truce and drank in silence, listening to the entertainment, both of us in our own worlds. Twice, I lifted the empty glass to my mouth only to shamefully put it down again, hoping no one noticed. The moody jazz on stage vanished, exchanged for head-roaring “Gewitter und Sturm” from Strauss’s Alpine Symphony. The thunderous effect paralleled my mood. Chaos. Confusion. Nervous tension.

I wanted Niles to talk. I wanted to leave. I wanted to drink him in yet burn the photographic negative it left behind on my brain.

At some point, my attention drifted, and I caught myself observing Niles. Partly turned to enjoy the ensemble, he didn’t notice. His profile conveyed disquiet, irritation, and… resignation. I couldn’t pretend to know what he was thinking.

The number of things I’d learned about Niles could be counted on one hand. His ex taught English at Timber Creek. When commenting about seeing his family at Christmas, his tone ofvoice suggested tension or drama. When it came to comparing musical talents, his feelings were easily hurt. And Niles knew sign language. He’d conversed better with my daughter in the two short weeks they’d known each other than I’d managed since taking custody in October.

“You’re staring.”

I jerked my attention away, lifting my empty glass to my mouth for the third time. Denial was pointless.

When the server breezed past our table, Niles waved her down and asked for a refill. His sunset eyes, hardened to amber, landed on me questioningly.

“Make it two.” So much for limits. The second drink had already softened the edges of my ire, and I didn’t have it in me to remain combative. Plus, continuously trying to drink from an empty glass was embarrassing.

The jazz ensemble took a break as our drinks arrived. Ambient music drifted from a speaker system in the ceiling. Niles faced me, tugging mindlessly at the curl of lemon rind rimming the glass.

The tension had substance.

“I don’t know you,” I said several minutes into the uncomfortable silence.

Niles arched a brow. “I’m not following.”

“I unloaded a good portion of my history the last time we had drinks. You told me nothing.”

---