Jake returned to the piano for his regular set, playing with newfound self-consciousness. His competent jazz standards now seemed pedestrian after James's performance. Still, he played with professional consistency, nodding respectfully to James between pieces.
Phillips had retreated to his office, the disruption to his carefully ordered world requiring recalibration. Emily delivered James's food with genuine warmth, lingering to ask questions about Juilliard and his training. He answered politely but briefly, conserving energy.
Richard Harrington remained at his table, watching James with assessment rather than pity. When James finished eating, Harrington gestured to the empty chair across from him.
"Join me, Mr. Walker, just for a moment."
James hesitated, then nodded, carrying his water glass to Harrington's table.
"Twenty-three years on the Boston Symphony Board," Harrington began without preamble. "I've heard thousands of pianists. Your technique needs rehabilitation, but your interpretation..." He paused. "That came from somewhere beyond training."
James looked down at his hands, clean now after Emily had discreetly pointed him to the restroom. "Music was my first language, before words."
"And after words failed," Harrington observed. "Afghanistan, you said?"
"Third tour. IED took half my unit. I was the medic." James's voice remained even, factual. "Couldn't save most of them."
Harrington nodded, allowing silence to acknowledge what platitudes couldn't. "And afterward?"
"VA was overwhelmed. Nightmares got bad. Couldn't hold jobs. Apartment went. Then everything else." James didn't elaborate; the story was common enough. "Kept my discharge papers, my mother's photo. Not much else."
"But you remembered Chopin," Harrington noted. "Perfectlyn."