15. Niles

Chapter fifteen

Niles

A ugust got me through the wretched family dinner I didn’t want to attend. Whether on purpose—recognizing my plight—or because the man’s despair was greater than my own and he needed company, I didn’t know. Regardless, my phone lit up with constant texts from the famed musician I was having a hard time hating.

A picture of six different charms. Which should I choose?

Photographs of various Christmas trees. Douglas fir or white pine?

An image of the one he chose precariously roped to the roof of his rental. Think it will hold?

Can you suggest a good pizza place?

Yowsers. You know it’s Christmas when the wait for takeout is 45 to 60 mins.

Canadians really do say eh a lot.

Holy crap. Look at this dog. The beagle in the photo sported reindeer ears, a red knitted sweater, and black booties.

August’s cultured edge vanished the more we talked, the more I got to know him. His humanity shone. He became a regular person, no longer existing on a different plane, no longer elevated to a higher tier. The revered maestro, it turned out, was someone with as many struggles and flaws as me.

Oh! I was just reminded of a time I was guest-conducting for the Hungarian National Philharmonic and got a paper cut flipping a page in the score. I bled all over the stand and baton. It trailed down my fingers and soaked my white shirt cuff. I couldn’t stop to stanch the flow, and by the end, I looked like I’d killed a man.

I pressed my lips together, holding in a laugh as I responded, keeping my phone out of sight, not that my family would notice my indifference to their conversation. It had been an exhaustingly long meal. From a paper cut?!?

Yep. I chipped a tooth during a solo performance once. Over three hundred and fifty people in the audience, and me center stage.

I cringed . How on earth did you manage that?

The piano accompaniment had a long interlude, and my mind drifted. Almost missed my entrance. Panicked, I brought my flute up too fast and smashed the mouthpiece against both front teeth.

Ouch! Did you stop the show?

Nope. I played through it, tears in my eyes the whole time. It was painful, and the piece that came off changed the airflow and left a sharp edge that sliced my lip, but I compensated for both and soldiered on.

Jesus. I don’t know what to say. That’s insane.

Dinner at my parents’ progressed nearly exactly as I’d described to August in our earlier conversation. Although, I’d failed to paint an accurate picture of the squeals and cries of seven nieces and nephews in the mix. It made for a noisy celebration. The bickering, tattling, and tears turned obnoxious after a couple of hours.

By the time Mom served dessert, a respectable wine buzz had cushioned my irritation. I stopped trying to hide my inattention and texted August openly. It earned an indirect diatribe from my father, as he denounced cell phones for ruining the minds of youth. The preteen boys at the other end of the table argued with their grandfather, and my brother Andrew gave me a pointed look that conveyed disappointment. If I was twenty years younger, I’d have given him the finger.

“Is it true they’ve brought in a maestro to guest-teach at the academy?” Mom asked during a lull.

“Yes, he’s from—”

“Augustus Castellanos from Greece.” Dad bounced Presley’s youngest on his knee, feeding the rosy-cheeked baby ice cream and pie, much to my sister’s horror. “Remarkable accolades. Juilliard graduate.”

“Yes,” I muttered. “In music. Imagine that.” It was baffling that August’s career could be considered remarkable , while I’d spent a lifetime being told music was a hobby, not a profession one aspired to.

Dad frowned, but I didn’t think he’d heard me. “How’s school?” Asked as though I was a student and not a teacher for more than a decade.

“It’s fine.”

“The little ones keeping you on your toes?”

“They’re teenagers, Dad, and it’s a private school. They’re well disciplined. I don’t have too many problems.”

Dad harrumphed but seemed lost for words.

An argument broke out between Andrew’s oldest son and Mason’s middle son, shifting the attention to the other side of the table. I melted once more into the background, checking the newest text from August.

How’s dinner?

I emptied my wine glass before refilling it and typed, Dreadful, but getting better. I’m up to glass #4.

I hit send, reconsidered my math, and added an amendment. Correction, glass #5. Either way, the insults are cushioned by a nice thick layer of wine. They don’t “supset” me anymore.

The children were sent from the table. Dad, Andrew, and Mason renewed their discussion about a medical conference of some sort taking place in Edmonton this coming spring. Presley and Mom cleared the dishes. The bottle of wine I’d claimed for myself—and nearly finished—ended up under inspection. My mother frowned at the remains, announcing to no one in particular her intent to brew coffee.

My phone buzzed. I have a question.

Playfully, I typed, I might have an answer.

Do you have plans for tomorrow night?

No , I responded. It’s Christmas Eve.

Koa had always invited me for dinner in the past, but since Jersey’s hockey team was playing in Sault Ste. Marie on the twenty-sixth, they’d decided to rent a cabin in the area and celebrate the holiday in the wilderness.

I love cooking and plan to make a traditional Greek feast, but I fear I might end up eating alone. You’re welcome to join us… or me. I can’t promise Constance will grace the table. When I got home, she came out long enough to eat two pieces of pizza, then vanished again.

I considered August’s invitation as my mother and sister appeared with coffee paraphernalia. A steaming mug of robust brew replaced my wine glass. I had a hundred reasons to turn him down. Primarily, Constance was my student, and it would be frowned upon, but mostly because August was too hung up on living a straight life. I wasn’t interested in having my heart broken, and the more we connected, the higher the chance of it happening. If I knew anything about myself, it was that I fell in love too easily.

And always with the wrong kind of men.

Besides, I lived in August’s shadow of greatness. I would be inferior.

Yet, the prospect of Christmas alone left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Delaying, I asked, What does a traditional Greek Christmas dinner consist of?

Before August could answer, my mother tsk ed and expelled air through her teeth in the fashion of someone fed up with a disobedient child. It was a sound she’d made often when I was growing up. I flashed my attention across the table to find her staring, arms crossed, lips pursed.

“You’ve been absent the entire meal, Niles. Really. You’re as bad as the children on that silly device. Put it away and join the conversation.”

I tucked my phone away and proceeded to drink coffee—laced with an Irish cream liqueur my younger brother had tried sneakily to hide from our parents—and listen to the insufferable arguing between my siblings and father. Join the conversation? What exactly was I supposed to contribute when all they ever discussed was surgery and court cases?

I didn’t get a chance to check August’s text until later that evening when the family relocated to the living room so my nieces and nephews could open presents. The ivory-colored piano in my parents’ living room had functioned as a decorative piece of furniture for decades. The only time it saw use was during our family Christmas when, despite the perceived taint cast by my career, I provided the ambiance of holiday tunes.

My third spiked coffee was more Irish than Colombian. I placed it on a coaster within reach as I sat on the bench and read August’s reply to my earlier question.

I’m not sure how adventurous you are with food, but traditionally, we Greeks eat pig at Christmas. I planned to make cabbage rolls using my grandmother’s recipe. They’re covered in an egg-lemon sauce and filled with a mixture of pork and vegetables. For dessert, I’m making diples, which is a Greek honey roll. Basically, deep-fried crispy dough doused in honey lemon syrup. I’m also making melomakarona. A soft cookie dipped in cinnamon and orange syrup. They’re to die for.

I smiled, thinking of all the times when Koa had experimented with strange recipes and enlisted me as his taste tester. I couldn’t deny having a fondness for men who knew their way around a kitchen. The abundance of alcohol I’d consumed vanquished deliberation, and I forgot why sharing dinner with August was a bad idea.

That sounds incredible. I’ll bring wine. What time do we eat?

***

Christmas Eve afternoon, I drove through a winter wonderland to Timber Creek Academy, a bottle of sauvignon blanc and two gift bags on the passenger seat. I’d woken with a mild hangover and a shadow of regret for having agreed to dinner with August. It wasn’t a good idea, and in a sober state, the possible implications reared their ugly heads.

I didn’t date closeted men, and a repressed bisexual sounded like a funky millennial term for the same thing. What was I getting myself into?

Parking in the unplowed teacher’s lot, I stared into the thicket of evergreens separating the school from the handful of cottages on the property. Their sagging branches, laden with snow, showed no signs of wildlife. The weak winter sun sparkled off an untouched landscape, blindingly bright and beautiful.

I could go home, text an excuse, and pretend our feud hadn’t been broken the previous day by sharing a combination of truths and random stories about our lives.

The alternative? An empty house. Loneliness.

I could use the time to work on Gaspard de la Nuit , except the piece had been tainted by August, and every time I sat down to play, I heard the criticism he’d spoken on the day we met. How could the same man draw me in and make me feel small at the same time?

The events in the auditorium came back to me. August’s mouth. His fingers wrapped tightly around my hair, tugging me closer. The heat of his erection in my hand. Swelling. Pulsing. Shivers coursing through his body when he came.

No visual memory existed to revisit. The impenetrable darkness in the auditorium had robbed me of those potential remembrances. It left the experience with surreal undertones. What did a cultured, professional man like August look like when he unraveled? He’d shown me a taste of a playful side in our texts the previous day, but those, too, were once removed, not witnessed in the flesh.

The infuriating man in the classroom, too high on himself and prone to find flaws in everyone, and the man who showed up at my door late at night with stories of youthful mistakes and regrets he feared voicing, was not the same person. Who was the real Augustus Castellanos? Did I want to know?

The quandary I’d woken with remained. Sitting in the empty school parking lot wouldn’t bring answers. Action might.

Stay or go?

I grabbed the wine and gift bags and exited the car, finding the unblemished path through the trees to August’s cabin, treading languidly along, preparing for the unknown.

“You came.” A boyish smile creased the sides of August’s eyes when he opened the door, a dish towel slung over one shoulder. He wore trendy slacks and a Christmas-inspired Fair Isle sweater vest with a collared shirt underneath, open and revealing a touch of skin.

“And I brought wine.” I presented the gifts as well. “These can go under your tree.”

“You didn’t have to bring wine, and you certainly didn’t need to bring presents.”

“It’s Christmas. It would be rude otherwise.”

August thanked me again and inspected the bottle, reading the label.

“My wine connoisseur best friend told me it pairs nicely with pork. I texted and interrupted his holiday to be sure.”

“Koa?” he asked, not looking up. Did I imagine the frost in his tone?

“Yes.”

A nod. “It’s perfect. Please, come in.”

The cottage was warm and scented with a mixture of savory spices and pine. Soft piano filled the house, dainty and magical, fairies dancing in a fictitious winter wonderland. Not a recording. Constance.

August took my coat and hung it on a rack. We stood awkwardly in the front hall, two weeks of conflicting emotions colliding. Neither of us seemed sure how to act with the other. Questions and no answers. Thick lust and thin restraint. We hadn’t seen each other since the mythical night in the auditorium when I’d left August with a straightforward message about repeating what we’d shared. Maybe I no longer cared. Maybe sacrificing rules would be a nice change of pace. If I could keep my heart out of it.

“Constance doesn’t know…” August glanced over his shoulder, and reality returned with a slap. “She doesn’t know I invited you… or why.”

Meaning she didn’t know a turbulent ocean of feelings was getting in our way. What else didn’t Constance know? How repressed was repressed? Did Chloé know? Did anyone outside his parents?

He didn’t deserve to be rescued, but my altruistic nature said, “I was alone on Christmas, and you extended charity.” It was the truth of sorts.

August smiled. “Thank you, Niles. I need to check dinner.”

“Open that wine and let it breathe, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I will. Please, make yourself at home.”

He set off to the kitchen, and I followed the music, familiar with the layout of the cottage since I’d lived in one myself for a time. Constance caught sight of me when I entered the living room and stopped playing, a querying look on her young face.

What are you doing here? she signed. My ASL was slowly returning, requiring her to spell fewer words when we talked.

“Your dad invited me. I had nowhere else to go for Christmas.”

She frowned, but I motioned to the piano before she could investigate the subject further. “That was lovely. What was it?”

She shrugged. Dad wrote it. It was a piece I was supposed to perform two years ago in a youth competition in Madrid. My mom signed me up, but I got sick and had to back out.

I didn’t know the exact timeline of when Constance’s cancer had returned or when she’d had surgery, but two years ago sounded about right. “You would have done fabulously. Will you play it again? I missed the beginning.”

Smiling, she nodded and turned back to the bench, rearranging the handwritten sheet music. I approached as her long fingers caressed the opening harmonies from the ivories. The title etched across the top of the page read, “Nothing but Winter” by Augustus Castellanos.

Sour envy returned. The man had an entire catalog of unpublished compositions. According to Koa, he was particular about his work and only performed it for special audiences. Never in his career had he approved any of them for publication or made recordings.

Meanwhile, I had a drawer of half-realized ideas gathering dust in my office, an ever-growing pile of frustration. Beginnings were easy, but somewhere in the middle, I lost confidence and gave up, convinced it was junk. I didn’t have a single finished product on which to write my name, of which to be proud.

Constance’s playing was as exemplary as her father’s writing. If I’d thought she was a superb violinist, she rose to another level on the piano. Her astute attention to detail, the careful way she approached transitions and tackled articulation, and the flair she infused into every long sentence made the piece extraordinary.

I followed along, admiring her skill and mesmerized by August’s creation. An award-winning composer, pianist, conductor, and more. If the man cooked as well as he wrote and played music—the smells emanating from the kitchen suggested he might—I was out the door. A person could only take so much humiliation.

Constance finished with a flair and flashed a shining smile over her shoulder before gesturing for me to join her on the bench.

“Oh, no. I can’t.” My gaze inevitably shifted to the kitchen, giving away the reason for my apprehension.

The teen scowled and insistently tapped the spot at her side before signing, Sit. He’s busy.

I sat, knowing better than to argue with a teenager.

Constance leafed through a stack of music and propped new pages on the rack before swinging a finger between us. She wanted to perform a duet. Pachelbel’s Canon in D was familiar to all musicians. Simple enough for a beginner but open to unlimited variations, restricted only by the player’s creativity.

Since my position on the bench put me with the notes below middle C, I took the bassline, letting Constance flourish and have fun with the melodies. When she nudged me, I understood she wanted me to stop playing it safe and inject a dash of vibrance and imagination into my part as well.

We didn’t need sheet music. It was a piece open to endless interpretation. I followed her lead, quickly learning the girl was dangerously competitive. Eyeing me from time to time, grinning wickedly, she played increasingly complex variations as though to test my skill and see how I would react. I met the challenge and offered her my own.

I laughed as she grew progressively more aggressive but kept up easily. Only once did I manage to steal control and take the spotlight. Constance’s fingers moved devilishly fast. The more assertive we became, the more mistakes we made trying to outshine one another.

Somehow, despite the game, the essence of the composition remained.

In the end, Constance bailed, but only because her silent joy made it impossible for her to continue.

You’re good , she signed.

“You’re evil.”

She stuck out her tongue, eyes still creased with happiness. It was the first time I’d seen her smile this much. In class, Constance wore her melancholy like a comfortable sweater. Her superior musical skill set her apart from her peers, and her disability added another layer of distance. I was gratified to see the teen express joy.

“Have you ever performed a duet?”

Constance shook her head. Only solos or spotlighting with an orchestra behind me.

“We should plan something for the spring concert. I have ideas.”

She swung a finger between us with a quizzical expression.

“Yes, you and me. Why not?”

Constance turned introspective a moment before signing, I have ideas too. She motioned to the piano. Let’s switch sides and go again.

As I shuffled off the bench and Constance slid over, I caught sight of August watching from the doorway. His daughter didn’t seem to notice. The boyish smile he’d worn upon my arrival was gone. Sadness strained the corners of his eyes, making him look older and worn out. Before I could exchange a questioning glance, he ducked his head and returned to the kitchen. I considered going after him, asking what was wrong, but Constance tugged my sleeve, so I returned to the piano.

The second rendition was a bigger catastrophe than the first and ended far sooner with a clash of fingers.

“You’re a worthy opponent.”

Constance shifted on the bench to face me. Do you have kids?

“I… No. Being a teacher is enough.”

But you must have a family. Why don’t you see them at Christmas? Why are you alone?

“I have a family. I saw them last night. My mom and dad, brothers and sister, nieces and nephews. We had dinner and exchanged presents.”

Aren’t you married?

I displayed my left hand, fingers bare of rings. “Nope. Just me at home.”

No girlfriend?

I pointedly glared. “You’re turning into Lil’ Miss Nosy.”

She shrugged but let it go. Dad said I can see my mom tomorrow.

My brows rose, and I didn’t know how to respond. August had been vague about Chloé’s whereabouts and the reason he’d ended up with custody. “Oh yeah?”

She’s allowed a short visit. Thirty minutes. Dad has to come too. She rolled her eyes.

“You must be excited.”

A sad smile eclipsed the radiant sunshine I’d been privy to since my arrival. It mirrored her father’s from a moment ago. I miss her, she signed. I haven’t seen her since October.

“Big change in your life.”

She nodded.

“This new living arrangement must be taking some getting used to, huh?”

Her gaze drifted to the kitchen as she silently agreed. Along with the clang of pots and pans came the faint sound of August humming a random concerto.

He doesn’t like me, Constance signed.

“That’s not true. I don’t believe it for a second. He talks about you all the time. He’s doing his best with a difficult situation.” It was a pep talk I couldn’t validate. What did I know about August’s home life with Constance? Nothing, except his feelings, and they were admittedly negative.

Don’t lie.

“I’m not lying. This is new for him too, Constance. He’s learning as he goes. Parenting is tough.”

He’s always mad at me because I won’t talk.

“Do you give him a hard time?”

A shrug. Sometimes. Constance’s expression turned serious. Did he tell you about my mom?

“No. He’s been… elusive.” Another eye roll. “Do you want to talk about your mom?”

Vehemently shaking her head, Constance tinkled a few keys on the piano, troubled mind on display. She might have had the frame of a child, but she had the tenacity of an adolescent, and teenagers tended to be complex and confusing to read. I sensed this was one of those times when Constance’s words and body language said she didn’t want to talk about her mom, but her heart desperately needed to unload something troubling.

I didn’t know what to say. Pushing a girl her age risked resistance. It risked losing her trust. It was better to wait her out and let her decide to come to me when she was ready.

“My door is always open if you need to chat.”

She turned a grateful smile in my direction and signed, Thank you.

“Dinner is served,” August called from the other room.

“Shall we? I hear your dad made quite the feast, and I’m starving.”

Constance nodded but touched my arm before I could get up. I’m glad you’re here.