Page 6 of Symphony of Salvation

“Are you… auditioning my replacement, ma’am?”

Shetsked. “Really, Mr. Edwidge? Maestro Castellanos has no interest in full-time employment.”

And you know this how?I wanted to ask.Did you make him an offer already, and he turned it down?

“Wednesday?”

“Yes. He and his daughter have taken up temporary residence on campus. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if he accompanies his daughter this morning. He was eager to see the music room.”

I had a thousand questions, but the offer wasn’t up for debate. The captain had spoken, and as merely the lowest of ship hands, I didn’t get a say.

“That will be all.”

Dismissed.

Chapter two

August

Never in this lifetime would I knot a tie correctly on the first try. For a man who had worn a tie nearly daily for the vast part of twenty years, my astounding ineptitude shocked almost everyone. Tugging the Windsor loose, I started again while listening for signs of a teenager getting ready for her first official day of school.

Ever.

The cottage—it certainly wasn’t my customary type of living arrangement—remained ever silent. Ties and teenagers. Both were the bane of my existence. If I could adapt to raising the latter, I would never complain about the former again.

“Constance? I hope you’re ready. We need to leave in ten minutes.”

I didn’t expect a reply and received none.

Reworking the knot, I hummed a troublesome exposition from the sonata I’d been working on. It erased the sullen quietude of our new living space. When playing the piano, flute, or any instrument, my fingers moved deftly without thought orstruggle. Ask them to fold a simple piece of silk into something resembling grade-school origami, and they floundered.

I fit the final product snugly under my shirt collar and tipped my head side to side, evaluating its suitability.

“Not bad. Third time’s a charm. Maybe I’m… Damn.” I touched a spot on my jaw where I’d missed shaving. “Constance? Are you dressed?”

No response.

I sent a prayer heavenward. “Lord, give me strength so I don’t wring her neck.”

Retrieving a straight razor from its case, I fixed the shaving problem before assessing my presence in the bathroom mirror for the hundredth time. I buttoned my jacket, smoothed the front, unbuttoned it, and buttoned it again before adjusting a mahogany strand of hair that had snuck out of place. A brow gone astray caught my attention. I smoothed a finger over the culprit. When it refused to cooperate, I tweezed the mutineer.

“Good enough.” Shadows hung beneath my eyes. The first sign of crow’s feet had developed over the past two months. Worry lines created crevices across my once smooth forehead. The unpredictability of my once orderly life was taking a toll.

The man in the mirror was not me. He was a tired version.

“Constance?”

God help me. What was a person supposed to do with a teenager who didn’t listen and refused to speak?

“I didn’t sign up for this,” I muttered.

Except I had.

The opening to Verdi’sRequiem, “Dies Irae” exploded in my head, a punctuation of nervous energy, a soundtrack to accompany the most troublesome task ahead: Parenting a Teenager. Was it overly dramatic? Perhaps.

I hummed the parts of specific instruments as the music flowed through my veins. My fingers twitched until I submittedand waved an invisible baton, conducting the unseen orchestra. Each resounding thwack of the bass drum hit hard, and I punctuated the sound with a flick of my wrist and a snap of my elbow.

Beauty.

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