Page 57 of The Sound of Harmony

“You can have too many tacos?”

“Exactly,” Kendrick said. “I’m looking forward to Casa Mucho. And to seeing you.”

“I’ll text you when I finish today’s job.” She parked in front of her client’s address—a four-bedroom modern house on a tiny lawn. She cracked the truck windows in anticipation of an afternoon’s worth of sun.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Kendrick said, and just let it hang there.

Emma waited for him to go on. Hesitation was not Kendrick’s style. The wind kicked up and seeds from a nearby sugar maple tree spun to the ground.

“My piano is being delivered at nine tomorrow morning.”

“Yep.”

“The piano tuner is coming at ten.”

Emma consulted the legal pad on her clipboard where she kept her schedule. “And the movers arrive at noon. Busy day for you tomorrow.”

“Too busy,” Kendrick said. “I have a doctor’s appointment at one o’clock. Can you meet the moving van without me?”

The wind whooshed into the car, puffing her ponytail behind her and making her neck prickle. She closed the window. “I didn’t know you were starting treatment already.”

“Tomorrow is evaluation,” he said. “Where they poke at me and make me fill out a hundred forms.”

“Got it. Don’t worry about the movers. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thanks, Emma. You’re the best. Professionally the best. I was, of course, only speaking professionally. Because that is our relationship. One hundred percent professional.”

They said goodbye and disconnected the call. Emma got out of her truck and straightened the crooked sign on the door, thinking ahead to dinner with Kendrick. They had a lot to talk about.

After they said goodbye, Kendrick puttered around Mitch’s house, grateful for the quiet. His cousin spent Sundays showing houses, so Kendrick would have several hours on his own.

He pulled out the sheet music of an etude that was new to him, and tried to perfect the articulation, dynamics, and phrasing. Maybe he couldn’t hear as well as he used to, but dammit, he could keep up his technique.

After ninety minutes, when he could no longer feel his lips, he put his flute away and flopped on the couch, grabbing his phone by habit and checking for notifications. Musicians were just as transient as diplomats and Kendrick had friends all over the world, so Instagram was probably a mistake. Too many pictures of interesting places and superb concert venues. He switched over to Twitter, liking and commenting on updates until the app refreshed the feed three times.

A message popped into his inbox. San-jae had uploaded a short video of Friday’s halftime show. Check it out, Mr. B! I got the high C all by myself. Take that, ancient white dude music!

Kendrick watched the video and gave it a thumbs up. He passed the phone from hand to hand, thinking about how easy it was for San-jae to find him, and thinking about Emma, who had never friended, followed, or added him online. She had pages for her business on all the usual social networks, but no personal accounts that he knew of. If she had them, they were well locked down. He would have to ask her about that when he saw her tonight.

His phone buzzed an incoming text from Mitch. Do you know who Emma Gibson is?

Yes? Trick question? Mitch’s sense of humor was questionable, but it didn’t seem like he was setting up a punchline. What was this?

I finally figured it out. She used to be Emma Dalton.

So? She’d mentioned a brief marriage. How was that Mitch’s business?

He was treated to the three bouncing dots, then nothing. Then the dots. Finally, Mitch responded, Look it up.

Kendrick sighed and put his phone away. Some people just liked stirring pots. But dammit, it worked, because now he was curious. He moved to his laptop and hit Google.

When he typed in “Emma Dalton,” Google asked if he meant “Jonah Dalton.” Apparently, that’s who she was once married to. He clicked on the first page that mentioned both of them together.

Oh.

Oh no. As he read through the first pages Google had thrown at him, the dominos tipped over one by one. Clack, clack, clack. So many things started to make sense. Why Emma wouldn’t talk about Nashville. Why she was so open and eager on the phone, yet so skittish in person. Her absence on social media. Her protective sister.

And as each domino fell into the next, his horror grew. The pit of his stomach became a churning mass of cold sorrow and incandescent rage.