7. Niles

Chapter seven

Niles

I returned home from Koa’s at ten thirty to find a man on my doorstep. My car’s headlights washed over him as I turned into the driveway. August. Christ, I’d spent the entire evening bemoaning his presence in my classroom until Koa insisted I build a bridge and get over it.

I wanted to sleep, not deal with this pompous asshole. No, Dean, I won three World Classical Music Awards, not two. Did he hear himself when he talked?

I cut the engine and exited the car, eyeing my unwanted guest without saying hello, hoping my silence delivered its own message.

Under the porch light, August’s dark hair was disordered, several snowflakes caught in the strands. More clung to his heavy lashes. Creases bracketed his eyes and cut grooves into his forehead. The immaculate suit was gone, replaced with jeans and a heavy woolen sweater, dusted with a decent layer of snow on the shoulders. The tip of his nose shone red and rosy like his cheeks. Teeth chattering, body curled in on itself, the man looked half frozen.

I glanced along the road in both directions, searching for a vehicle, but found none. Had he walked? I lived on the outskirts of Peterborough, but it was still a generous four-and-a-half to five miles to the Timber Creek campus, weather notwithstanding. So far as I understood, he and Constance had been given a cottage near the lake, a stone’s throw from the main building.

Hands buried in his pockets, shivering and sniffling, August broke the ice. “Do you have a tissue?”

A tissue? I’d shouted him out of my classroom that day, and he showed up at my house at close to midnight asking for a tissue?

I nodded and motioned to the door. “Inside. What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

“Experience tells me we don’t excel at friendly chitchat. Besides, it’s almost eleven. I teach in the morning.” And you don’t , I wanted to add, grateful beyond belief that August was only meant to be present on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

Another sniffle. “A tissue. Please, Niles. My nose is a faucet in this cold.”

My name on his tongue felt too familiar, but I couldn’t refuse the request. The man was clearly suffering from exposure. Unlocking the door, I invited him in even when it was the last thing I wanted to do. I retrieved a Kleenex box from the living room, and he graciously pulled five from the box.

“Thank you.”

“You’re underdressed.”

“I left my only coat in your classroom.”

August blew his nose, pocketed the tissue, and brushed the snow from his shoulders. The flakes on his lashes had melted, leaving them damp and clumped together. His hair hung limp and wet, a finger-combed mess I could hardly associate with the man I’d gotten to know. The stiff maestro was weather-beaten, pomp and ceremony washed away. The refined idol had been replaced by a woefully neglected boy of forty-something who could never pass as a celebrity.

His misfortune softened my edge of anger, and I hesitated to send him back into the storm without hearing what he had to say. I didn’t realize I needed to see a more human side of August. Before this moment, I’d viewed him through museum-quality acrylic glass.

It was like finding out a composer you’d idolized half your life was a barely functioning alcoholic.

“Would you like a hot drink? Tea? Coffee?”

“Do you have something harder?” He sniffled again, sneezed, and retrieved the tissue from his pocket. “It’s been a long day.”

I handed him the Kleenex box. “Keep it. I have others. Do you drink wine? I have a bottle of Col D’Orcia. It’s a Tuscan Brunello. A fruity-spicy style with sleek undertones. It’s quite good.”

“It sounds perfect.”

I led the way to the kitchen and found two glasses, the new bottle I’d purchased the other day, and a corkscrew.

August stripped off his sweater, revealing a form-fitting turtleneck underneath in a deep maroon. In the classroom, hidden behind a suit jacket, I hadn’t been able to appreciate his honed form. He was trim, with lightly toned muscles.

He draped the sweater over the back of the chair before sitting.

“Did you walk?” I placed a generous glass of red in front of him.

“Yes. I thought I needed the fresh air to clear my head until I was halfway here and realized five miles was farther than I thought. By then, my brain was half frozen, rational thought eluded me, and there was no sense turning around.”

August aerated his wine by swirling it in the glass, inspected the color by holding it to the light, and sipped the smallest amount. He swished the drink around his mouth before swallowing. “It’s lovely. I would call the undertones more rich than sleek.”

“You’re a wine connoisseur too?”

“My mother’s Italian.”

“I remember.”

“I’ve explored several vineyards in Tuscany. A revolutionary experience. If you haven’t had the pleasure, I recommend it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I take a whimsical holiday to Europe.”

Silence prevailed, be it the sarcastic retort or our natural discomfort with one another.

I didn’t sit, leaning against the kitchen counter instead, kidding myself into thinking it gave me the upper hand. August seemed far away, staring into the burgundy depths of his glass with an expression of dysphoria.

I could hardly distinguish the man at my table from the one in my mind who took to the stage and won awards, who played professionally for audiences of thousands, and who left his job with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to guest-teach at a remote private school in northern Ontario.

As though sensing the heavy weight of my attention, August raised his head. Eyes as deep and dark as a forest met mine. “I want to apologize for earlier. The request…” He stroked his jaw and sighed. “I’m frustrated, Niles.”

My name again, spoken like we’d been friends for years.

“Constance required the surgery. She didn’t want it and knew what it meant for her future. It was a last-ditch effort, as they say, to remove the cancer. The chemo wasn’t working as well as they hoped. She was twelve. I swore to my daughter before they put her under that she would talk again.

“I kept my promise. After they gave her a clean bill of health, Constance and her mother came to Canada because I wanted her to have the best speech therapy money could buy, and after endless research, I discovered a place in Toronto that specialized in children who had undergone the same procedure. Two years in therapy. Three days a week. We are not Canadian. We don’t have your health benefits. You have no idea what I paid so my daughter could learn to talk. Like she wanted. Like she begged me. She can talk, Niles, but she refuses. She doesn’t like how her voice sounds. She’s embarrassed and thinks people will make fun of her. Honestly, I can’t comprehend how… And her mother…”

August scrubbed a tired hand over his face and drank some wine. “Chloé tells me to let it go. She thinks Constance will use her voice when she’s ready. What if she loses the skill? Some people with prostheses never learn to speak. We were told that. Be ready for disappointment. But not Constance. Not if I had anything to say about it. That girl excels at everything, and she learned as I knew she would. Why revolt because of aesthetics? It makes no sense. Now is not the time to be a petulant teenager. She should be happy that the doctors were able to thoroughly remove the cancer. She should be grateful to be done with endless rounds of chemo. She should rejoice that she has a voice because so many don’t after that kind of surgery.

“Constance is in my care full time now. I need people on my side. You . Her instructors. I only want what’s best for my daughter. You can understand that, right?”

August’s pleading tone was that of a father who truly believed their heart was in the right place. I’d seen it before. All parents wore blinders when it came to their kids. Too many failed to see the other side of the coin.

Organizing my thoughts, no longer threatened by his presence, I moved to the table and sat when he finished explaining. “I’m sorry to hear about what Constance has been through. I can’t imagine. Dr. McCaine gave us a short overview before she started at the school. I respect your position and determination to advocate for what you think is best for your daughter, but… I have to side with your wife on this one. I’ve worked with teenagers for a lot of years, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you can’t force them to do something they don’t want to do. I agree with… Chloé, was it?”

“Yes.” Defeat slumped his shoulders. “But she’s not my wife.”

“Sorry. You did say that.” And I had a hundred more nosy questions about the change in custody, but it wasn’t the time or place. “Constance will come around on her own terms, but I promise you, the more you push, the harder she’ll push back, and the more stubborn she’ll be.”

August didn’t get angry. Sullenness weighed his body, and he drank his wine for several long minutes before speaking. “I’m out of my league.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “I don’t have the first clue how to be a father, and Constance hates me. No matter what I do, I do it wrong.”

I softly chuckled. “And now, you sound like every frustrated parent I’ve ever known. I wish I could offer advice, but apart from teaching, I don’t have kids. I don’t know what it’s like to be on the other side.”

August glanced around the modestly decorated kitchen. It screamed single man lives here . “No prospects?”

I arched a brow. “Sorry?”

“For the future. No girlfriend? Marriage plans?”

I opened my mouth to say… something but closed it again when the words didn’t follow. After a long string of failures, I was about ready to give up on love and relationships. They weren’t meant for me.

Likely sensing my awkwardness, August blustered. “I’m so sorry. It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have… Ignore me.”

“No girlfriend. No marriage plans. I’m in my midforties and single. That ship has sailed, and I’ve made peace with it.”

“You sound sad about it.”

I shrugged. “I kind of assumed at fifteen that I would likely never have kids, so…”

Watching August peer mournfully into his empty wine glass, I retrieved the bottle, giving us a refill.

He thanked me and drank deeply, no longer playing wine connoisseur. “Can I tell you something? It’s unpleasant and casts me in a negative light.”

“In that case, sure.”

“I never wanted kids.” The confession brought a pained smile to his face. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it? Please don’t tell Constance. I love her. I do. It’s just…” He touched the spot where his tie would usually sit. Finding it absent, he lowered his hand to the table.

“I’ve never told anyone that before. Not even Chloé. I made every other excuse in the book for why having a baby was a bad idea, but I never told her the truth. Damn. Listen to me ramble. You didn’t ask for this.” August glanced at the time on his phone. “And especially not at almost midnight. I should go.” He moved to stand.

I stilled him with a hand on his arm. “It’s fine. Stay. Help me finish the bottle, at least. Sleep is overrated, and there’s nothing better for a wine hangover than being a high school music teacher. Thank god for aspirin. At least you get to sleep in.”

August’s face fell, eyes widening. “Oh god. Now I feel worse. I never… Shit. I don’t think.”

Chuckling, I held up my glass. “It’s not my first time playing deviant. Relax. Besides, I like hearing about your imperfections. It makes me feel better about myself.”

An unexpected laugh burst from August’s chest, crinkling the sides of his eyes and bringing out a single dimple in his cheek. “Well, if imperfections are what you’re after, get cozy, I have a running list.”

The hour was late, and I’d already had two glasses of wine with Koa, so any hostility I might have felt toward August had been dampened by alcohol. Plus, his down-to-earth side, the boyish dimple and spark of humor, stirred something in my core. It amounted to an attraction I wanted desperately to deny. Without a stage or audience, a spotlight shone down on him, and I couldn’t look away.

“Now you’ve done it. Spill the beans, Maestro.”

Without a second thought about the late hour, August drank wine and shared the story of meeting Chloé, about Constance’s unexpected conception—thankfully without details—and some of what came after.

“I was fresh out of Juilliard, barely three months playing with the Mariinsky Theatre Orchestra, when a contact I’d made at school asked if I’d temporarily replace a conductor in Vienna whose wife was terribly sick. It was an honor I couldn’t refuse. Mariinsky held my spot, and off I went to Austria.

“Chloé is a mezzo-soprano and used to perform regularly at the Graz Opera. She came to Vienna for a special solo performance night, accompanied by the philharmonic. It was a one-night show. Spectacular. We spent the afternoon organizing and rehearsing, and I was mesmerized by this woman. Awestruck. Chloé’s voice is like an angel’s.

“I was twenty-six at the time, the youngest conductor she’d ever worked with. To hear her tell it, she was smitten and wanted to take me out for dinner after the performance. Chloé has eleven years on me, so my comrades teased, reminding me not to call her mama in bed.”

I laughed, and August’s dimple appeared.

“You’re shameless.”

“I am. Wouldn’t you be?”

“Perhaps.” If I was attracted to women , I wanted to add but didn’t.

He paused to drain his wine and slid the glass across the table, motioning to the bottle. “May I?”

I reminded myself that the easy smiles, flushed cheeks, and sideways glances had everything to do with the alcohol, not me. But the more August talked, the more enraptured I became.

Smirking, I refilled both our glasses and slid his back. “I’m not sure how you’re getting home, Maestro. I was drinking with a friend earlier, so I’ve officially gone over my driving limit.”

“I, too, indulged in a few drinks before venturing out. Don’t you have cars out here? Taxis?”

“We do.”

“Then all is good. Bottoms up.” He clinked his glass to mine and gulped the wine. His method had gone from sophisticated sommelier to college-frat-party drink slammer.

If any resentment remained, it was washed away by August’s dissolution in drink.

“Keep going with your story.”

“Where was I?”

“The cougar wanted to take you out for dinner.”

“Ah, yes.” His eye-crinkling smile returned. “Before you assume Constance was the product of a one-night stand, you’re wrong. Our tryst lasted an impressive three weeks.” Said with sarcasm and a grimace. “My time in Vienna was over. The original conductor had returned, so I was heading back to London to reclaim my seat with the Royal Philhar—Wait. No. That was later. I’m confused. I returned to Russia and rejoined Mariinsky—”

“Hold up. You played with the Royal Philharmonic?” Inebriation incapacitated me, and I was unable to hide the shocked tone.

“Yes, for about five years. It was after Constance was born.” August leaned over the table, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Is that one of those things that supsets you? Supsets… Sup… up sets you.” He glanced at his nearly empty glass. “Gracious. I think I’m drunk.”

Snorting, I walked my fingers across the table and not-so-sneakily dragged the culprit toward me. “I’m cutting you off.”

“Unfortunate, but wise. I’ve never been able to hold my alcohol. Are you angry? Do my accomplishments supset… Goddammit. Up set. Why is that so hard to say?”

I laughed.

August spent a moment repeating the word to himself, getting it wrong more times than he got it right. Witnessing his boyish, unkemptness, sloshy drunkenness, and brutal honesty, I couldn’t help feeling oddly attracted to the man. The August at my kitchen table was not the same person I’d met in the classroom on Monday, and I preferred this one.

“I’m not supset,” I said. “Honestly? I’m jealous, envious, resentful… Pick a synonym. All the above. I’m sorry if I haven’t been welcoming.”

August’s drunken smile faded, and he frowned at the table’s surface. “I don’t live the glamourous life you’re imagining.”

“You don’t know what I’m imagining.”

“No. I guess I don’t, but…” He wet his wine-stained lips and shrugged. “I haven’t been happy for a long time, Niles.”

I wanted him to explain, but before I could formulate a question, he asked, “What was I talking about? I’m muddled with wine.”

“You were telling me about Chloé.”

“No, no. I was telling you about Constance. Her existence started with a brief affair with Chloé, that’s all. We broke ties when I returned to Russia. It wasn’t love. It was… lust? I don’t know. Hormones probably. Opportunistic? Eight weeks passed before I got a phone call. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.”

August blew out his cheeks. “I believe I stupidly asked ‘How?’ and ‘Who’s the father?’ before realizing what she was telling me. Daft, aren’t I?”

August reached across the table for the glass I’d removed, and I shoved his hand away. “No more. You’re sloshy enough as it is, and I don’t have a spare room. My couch is wretchedly uncomfortable, and you don’t want to share my bed. Even the most liberal straight man will wake up with regret when the booze wears off and he realizes he slept beside a gay man. Although I would never tell your friends, it would bother you and likely affect our professional relationship, so no more wine.”

August forgot his quest for the glass. His gaze flickered all over my face with fascination or perplexity, perhaps confusion. I didn’t usually advertise my sexuality—it was no one’s business—but I’d learned the hard way that to conceal the truth when it was so readily attainable was sometimes more dangerous.

“You’re gay?”

“Certified card holder. Will that be a problem? Want to pull your daughter from school now?”

“No.” August continued studying my face as though looking for nuances that he should have picked up. Slowly, he shook his head. “No… it’s… fine.”

“It doesn’t… supset you?”

A dimpled smile. “No… I… No. We’re good.”

For a heartbeat, August’s gaze rested on my mouth before he tore his attention away and reached for the unprotected bottle instead. Only dredges remained, but he upended it into his mouth, taking every last drop before peering mournfully inside the bottle as though it had deceived him.

I shoved the confiscated wine toward him. “My god. Just finish it. No point tossing away a mouthful.”

He polished it off and rotated the stem of his glass with two fingers, turning it this way and that with a furrowed brow.

“I assume the news of Chloé’s pregnancy didn’t go over well.”

“It did not. I was not careless about… prevention. When we first hooked up, she told me she was infertile, so we never used protection.”

“She lied? Or was the pregnancy a surprise to her too?”

“No, she lied. She later shared that she’d wanted a baby for a long time, preferably with someone genetically predisposed to musical genius.”

“You’re bragging again.”

He didn’t smile like I hoped but pushed the empty glass aside. “Before she shared that rather devastating piece of information, I informed her I wasn’t ready to be a father. I told her I didn’t love her and didn’t want to get married. I said we should consider adoption or abortion.” He cringed. “I’m terrible for saying that, aren’t I?”

“No. You were unprepared for that kind of news. It wasn’t the life trajectory you envisioned.”

“Exactly. My career was only just beginning to blossom. You get it.”

“Chloé didn’t?”

“Chloé was not acting rationally or agreeably. Which, in retrospect, isn’t shocking since her method of deception was not entirely ethical. She said she didn’t want marriage, a relationship, or even my help. That’s when she explained about her duplicity. She encouraged me to carry on with life as though the pregnancy had never happened. She’d only called because she felt obliged to inform me.”

“How noble after setting a trap.”

August met my gaze. “Could you have walked away and ignored a child you’d conceived, regardless of circumstances or your feelings?”

“Probably not.”

He blew out his cheeks and threaded fingers through his shock of dark hair. “I told her I didn’t want custody. She was happy about that. But I said I wanted to know my child. I wanted to visit, spend holidays together, celebrate birthdays, and have a voice in their development. I would allow Chloé full parental rights, but I wanted to be part of any major decisions in the child’s life. Those were my terms, and she agreed.”

A painful pause followed. Sensing August needed it, I pushed my nearly empty glass of wine across the table. He took it gratefully and drained the final mouthful. His eyelids sat at half-mast when he said, “Constance was diagnosed with cancer at age seven. Everything changed.”

August shared how he and Chloé had tried to become a proper family for Constance’s sake. Chloé had needed the support and despite his infrequent visits and adamancy about parenthood, August had grown fond of his daughter and wanted to do everything he could to make her life easier.

From there, the story disintegrated. August lost track of the timeline, and like a musician hitting a repeat bar, he detoured back to parts of the tale he’d already told, getting stuck in a drunken, confused loop.

I reached out a hand and laid it gently on his, halting the rambling. “How about I order you an Uber?” It was encroaching on two in the morning, and I was afraid August would pass out at my kitchen table if I didn’t do something soon.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” he slurred as I helped him to the door.

“I don’t. You’re a show-off, though.”

He chuckled. “I don’t mean to be.”

He struggled into his sweater, and when he got an arm caught, I helped. Leaning against the wall as though holding the house up, August’s hooded gaze took me in. “I suppose I’ve shattered the illusion, haven’t I? The highly respectable Maestro ”—said with sarcastic emphasis—“is nothing but a drunken sop.”

I smirked. “You have a lot of British slang.”

“Spent a good many years in London. Picked up a thing or two.”

“For the record, shattering the illusion was a good thing.”

“You don’t like me.”

“You’re not so bad.”

He nodded, his gaze slipping south and landing on my mouth. Again. I stilled. We were several feet apart and both intoxicated—him more than me since he’d drunk two glasses for every one I’d consumed—but I saw what I saw. Interest . Even when August jerked his attention to the front window when a car pulled up, he couldn’t erase the lust swimming in his eyes.

“That’s my ride.”

“Get some sleep.”

“I will.” Another long, searching sideways glance.

“Are you okay?”

He made a noise of assent. “I’m going to leave now. Wouldn’t want to wake up with regrets.”

Although I wasn’t positive about his meaning, I had a pretty good idea.

“Good night, Niles.”

“Good night, Mr. Maestro.”

With the door half open and one foot on the threshold, August stopped and turned. He leaned closer as if to impart a secret. “Please don’t call me that. I hate it.”

He was right there, wine on his breath, hints of cologne floating between us. I didn’t move. I wasn’t a stupid man.

“Good night… August.”

His gaze landed on my mouth again, and for a second, I thought…

Then he was gone, stumbling down the path to the awaiting car.

I had just enough alcohol flowing through my veins to wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing.