Page 69 of Counterpoint

Odette cranked the restaurant windows open as darkness descended. A bar across the street had its doors open, and a live brass section filtered out. It was traditional New Orleans jazz with a melancholy edge.

We ate slowly.

The main course arrived in two wide bowls: a broth of roasted tomatoes and white beans with short ribs braised until yieldingto a spoon. Odette finished the dish with herbs and a drizzle of good olive oil.

We ate. The broth was rich without being heavy, and the ribs separated cleanly from the bones.

The music next door shifted to something slower. A brushed snare entered under the trumpet, settling into a rhythm of late evenings and open windows.

I set my spoon down.

The memory of meeting Bridget that morning at the market came back to me. I repeated the quiet precision of her questions in my mind.

Thiago watched me for a moment.

“I know you’ve been with Dominic for seven years, but I don’t know how it happened.”

“What happened?”

“Your hiring.”

I refilled my glass from the wine bottle.

“I corrected him,” I said.

“Corrected him?”

“At a donor reception. I was twenty-five and working temporary admin for the orchestra office. Dominic made a comment about Stravinsky’s rehearsal letters that was slightly wrong.”

“You told him?”

“Yes.”

“In public?”

“Yes.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It was.”

I drank some of the wine.

“He asked me three questions afterwards. Then he told me to report to the house the next morning and bring a notebook.”

I watched Thiago as he slurped some of the broth from his spoon.

“Santiago Rafael Reyes,” I said.

He looked up from his bowl.

“You gave me the surface version on Magazine Street,” I said. “Tell me the rest.”

He refilled his wineglass before answering.

“The surface version was accurate,” he said.

“I know it was. I’m asking for what lies beneath it.”