Page 95 of Symphony of Salvation

Niles made learning enjoyable. Be it theory, music history, or tackling a tough concerto he’d pulled from the back room. He gave each student undivided attention, encouraging those who struggled by pointing out strengths and using those strengths as building blocks for growth. During daily warmups, Niles modified the methods I’d used before Christmas, taking scales to a new level, a fanfare that bolstered creativity and persuaded everyone to participate.

The students loved and respected him even on days they weren’t in the mood to perform. Niles may not have fit Timber Creek’s perceived vision for their faculty—Dr. McCaine had spoken unkindly concerning Niles’s more relaxed means of dressing—but he was exceptional, and the school was lucky to have someone so dedicated.

After Christmas break, the classroom rippled with vibrant energy. Everyone, particularly Niles, had extra pep in their engines, eager to learn and grow. It could have been the commencement of a new year, but I wasn’t convinced. The break might have revitalized the students, but the man who instructed them was another matter.

If I was truly the egotistical person Niles accused me of being, I might have said the glow arising from Timber Creek’s music teacher, the one that contagiously spread to his students, was a direct result of the effort I’d put in over the holiday.

Our budding romance had Niles walking on a cloud. Pride swelled my chest and inflated my ego. I had the power to conduct an entire orchestra, holding upwards of a hundred musicians in the palm of my hand, yet securing Niles’s heart elevated me to heights unimaginable. I soared every time he smiled.

The week following Christmas, I kept my promise, calling and texting numerous times, injecting myself into Niles’s life every chance I got. We spent hours in the stuffy back room of Timber Creek’s music library, organizing thescores of scores, as Niles liked to put it. We chatted about our mutual love for one composer or another and shared gripes about specific pieces we’d been assigned to play in the past. Niles had an inflated opinion about me. Shattering the illusion remained a constant goal.

I shared stories about my travels and the symphonies I’d joined. Niles reminisced about his university days at theToronto Conservatory and specific musical events in which he’d partaken. Our lives were different but the same. A few times, during one of my stories, I caught ripples of envy and did all I could to calm the waters of his soul.

We shared a handful of lunches and several snowy walks around the Timber Creek campus, nattering about our imperfect families, comparing my stricter upbringing to his outcasted one.

He spoke of siblings. I had none.

He spoke of friends, university adversaries, and reluctantly, his time dating Koa. Niles was a man who loved deeply, and the bruise left behind by their broken relationship seemed permanent. Because of Koa, Niles had built walls around his heart and was reluctant to let me in.

I shared more about Chloé and our disastrous time trying to be a couple when Constance was first diagnosed. When Niles asked about my dating history, I told him about the random women I’d shared time with over the years. No one had stuck. Nothing was ever permanent or serious. Perhaps I, too, had walls.

On the Friday before school commenced, we returned to the jazz club and enjoyed numerous cocktails and laughs before winding up at Niles’s. His bed was familiar territory, and we’d landed there often. Stumbling home on the cusp of dawn, I found Constance waiting for me on the sofa, engaged in reading an assigned classic from English class. Her know-it-all smirk was both embarrassing and rejuvenating. Getting myself a life seemed to have calmed our feud.

But she still wouldn’t speak with words. She still wanted her mother.

On the Saturday before school went back, at Constance’s suggestion, I cooked an extravagant Italian-style dinner my mother would have been proud of. Niles and Constance embarked on a string of potential duets they were considering for the spring concert, filling the house with music and laughter.It was the only time Niles played the piano in my presence. Until then, no matter how many times I insisted, he refused.

Two weeks of holiday time passed in a flash—in a dream. When I wasn’t spending time with Niles, I worked on the symphony borne from his presence in my life. It flowed like water onto the page, every nuance perfection, every sentence a soothing balm on my soul.

Between creating one of the best pieces of music I’d ever written and exploring the unexpected connection I’d discovered with Niles, I didn’t have time to consider the future or what it all meant. Or perhaps I avoided those thoughts. Imagining the same freedom existing outside the secret nook we’d carved for ourselves at Timber Creek and in Peterborough was juvenile. Unrealistic. Life would be different when I returned to the spotlight. How could I be the same person with so many dissecting eyes upon me?

At present, everything was on hold. I existed in limbo. In the fairy tale Niles didn’t believe in. As far as my agent and anyone involved in my career were concerned, I was dealing with a family crisis and would return to work midspring or early summer.

Then what? Could I let Niles go when I went back to Chicago? Did I have a choice? Our career paths were not the same despite being rooted in common soil. Mine took me all over the world, to grand halls, theaters, and opera houses, to perform for refined audiences and aristocrats, while his kept him stowed away at a boarding school on a tranquil lake in Ontario.

As determined as I was to win Niles’s heart, I wasn’t sure what I’d do with it once it was in the palm of my hand.

The bell rang, startling me from disquiet thoughts of single life, bustle, and loneliness. The students fled for lunch while I scanned the mess of sheet music covering Niles’s desk. I’d intended to reconstruct certain parts of “Chorale from Jupiter”for the spring concert but had gotten distracted watching Niles teach and had barely made a dent.

One student remained, an unremarkable clarinet player named Carly. Niles pulled a chair in front of the downtrodden girl and straddled it, resting his arms on the back and his chin on his arms. The relaxed, nonthreatening stance and the way he brought himself to her level seemed to help the teen.

They chatted too quietly for me to hear until Carly’s gloomy expression shifted to a tentative smile and a laugh. She nodded along with whatever Niles said, and when he snagged sheet music from her stand and pointed to sections, she took up her instrument and played as Niles listened and coached, tapping along to help her keep the proper rhythm. Her drying reed squeaked, and she needed to tighten her embouchure. I cringed, but Niles smiled and told her she’d done well.

Before long, Carly’s demeanor reflected confidence, and although I found a thousand and one faults in her playing, Niles discovered an equal number of positives, which he relayed, erasing her timidity. That was where we differed. Not all students were like Constance, thick-skinned and seeking the harshest feedback available to improve. Some needed a delicate touch and to hear they were on the right track. My instincts weren’t attuned to sorting out which category fit which student. Niles seemed to intuit the difference without thought.

Soon, Carly collected her belongings and followed her classmates off for a lunch break.

Niles glanced over his shoulder and shared a bashful smile. Loose strands of hair framed his face, skating along his jaw. He was gorgeous.

“You’ve been staring all day, Maestro.”

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

“Hmm… Your ego doesn’t.”

“You’re incredible, you know that? You have a gift.”

Niles dismissed the compliment with a shrug as he returned the chair to its proper place. “Do you want to grab lunch?”

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