By early afternoon, the city was in a celebratory mood.
More brass and more foot traffic. More parked cars on the block than there should have been at that time of day. St. Charles had become what it always was when New Orleans decided it was a festive day: more public and more observant. More people strolled past the house. No one stopped outright, but several looked.
Thiago was at the kitchen counter when I returned from attending to the lemon trees. He had his tablet open and a list of stage assignments in his left hand. He wore his charcoal jacket with the rust-colored tie hanging loose around his collar.
He didn’t notice me immediately. I stepped behind him and took the tie in both hands.
He went still, not stiff, but still.
I brought the narrow end over the wide, crossed it back, tightened the loop, and drew the knot up under his collar. His skin was warm where the open points of the shirt exposed the back of his neck. He had shaved less than an hour earlier; I smelled soap and whatever aftershave he used.
“Left entrance is covered,” he said quietly, eyes still on the logistics sheet. “Balcony rail has eyes on both stairwells. Eamon will be in the house.”
“You’re telling me this because you’re nervous.”
“I’m telling you because I’m working.”
I tightened the knot and flattened it with both thumbs. “Same thing.”
He turned. Not all the way. Enough that we were almost chest to chest.
“We all come back in one piece,” I said.
“That’s the plan.”
“I mean it.”
I leaned in and kissed him. It was quick. Not enough to derail the day.
I stepped back. He adjusted the tie once with his own hands, though it didn’t need it.
“I’ll be where I’m supposed to be,” he said.
“That has not reassured me once since you arrived.”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
***
We reached the Orpheum a little before seven.
People moved fast. Crew wheeled carts through narrow backstage corridors. The orchestra manager had two phones in his hands. A librarian hurried past with a stack of scores. A brass player ran a phrase in the stairwell and stopped mid-measure when a stagehand swore nearby about a missing stand light.
The air backstage smelled faintly of jasmine drifting in through the loading dock doors. I signed for the final program boxes, handing two sets to volunteers.
Twenty minutes before he went on, I found Dominic sitting in front of a mirror with his baton in his hand. Not moving. Not rehearsing. Holding it.
I closed the green room door behind me and sat in the chair beside him.
Dominic wore black, as he always did for performances, with his pocket square precisely arranged and his silver hair combed straight back. Age sharpened him rather than softening him. The years had stripped him down to line and structure.
He looked at me in the mirror.
“I thought about what I would say in the program notes for Henri,” he said.
I waited.
