“No barfing!” Arthur’s voice drifted down. “Barfing on the instruments is verboten!”
“What I want,” Ian said, “is for you to accept you’re taking your own steps in the right direction.”
“You’re talking about what that lady said to you. Am I right?”
“Indrid. Yes. I am. We’re also going back to what you told me in the studio. How I needed to understand the core issue.” Ian rapped his knuckles on the piano’s slanted top. “You are a great artist. Actor, singer, pianist. All of them. And this is your time. It’s not about one performance. This is not a moment in the sun, and then you go back to Castaways and your life. You can do that—of course you can—if you want.”
Connor was quiet so long, Ian feared the man would not respond. But in the end, he ran his hands lightly, soundlessly, over the keys and asked, “And if I want more?”
“Danny already has gold on tape from our performance at Castaways. Arthur said that, and I believe him. So should you. Now we’re giving them more, and all this is going out as a parallel release to Danny’s film. Which you and I also play on. This has the potential of relaunching your musical career. If you want.”
Connor nodded slowly, with a creasing of his body at waist level. He closed the keyboard, tapped the cover, rose to his feet. “You sure have a way with a point.”
“There’s more. Danny’s starting a new film. He’s offered me the chance to do the score. I want you to partner with me.” Ian smiled at the man’s response. “It’s a pleasure to rock your world. Now come on. Let’s go watch Kari perform.”
* * *
The Miami Beach Convention Center was two blocks off Dade Boulevard, the island extension of the Fifteenth Street Bridge. The traffic congealed three blocks away, so Ian texted Rafi and had the Uber drop them off. Before alighting, he made the same offer to Connor he had made back at the concert hall: return to the hotel, kick back, get his head ready for tonight. At the hall, Connor had said kicking back held no appeal whatsoever. This time, he simply started down the sidewalk, moving with the crowds.
The convention center was a massive beast of a structure, with over a million square feet of exhibition space. The line of cars waiting to enter the multistory car park was backed up almost to where the Uber had left them off. The huge front plaza held a dozen or so mobile food vans and a large band playing Caribbean calypso. Ian texted on their approach, and Rafi popped out of a side entrance and waved two VIP badges over his head. The man’s grin literally split his face in two.
The noise was only slightly muted inside. The foyer was marble tiled and high ceilinged and so crammed with people Rafi had to move sideways through the milling crowd. A pair of beefy security were stationed at either side of a roped-off entrance markedEXHIBITORS. The guards carefully inspected the badges before they were granted entry.
The people surrounding Graham and Rafi’s booth formed a solid, unmoving wall. Far up ahead, brilliant lights shone on Kari and a pair of interviewers. Ian caught a few words, but mostly just the flavor of Kari’s voice. Rafi signaled for them to stay where they were, departed, and swiftly returned with a beefy woman in a red security jacket. She stepped forward and began firmly nudging viewers aside, making room for them to enter the fray.
It was easy enough to identify the major art critics. Better dressed, arms crossed, the only people in the front row not hanging on Kari’s every word. Instead, they glowered in unison at the woman who was upending their authority. And their world.
Ian stood beside Graham as Kari and the interviewers stepped to the next canvas. The guitarist in the tempest of cinders and smoke. She smiled in Ian’s direction, pointed, and said, “It’s a portrait of that man.”
The cameras and the journalists turned together, a movement that would have suited a chorus line. The interviewer to Kari’s right squinted against the television lights and said, “That’s Ian Hart.”
“It is. Yes.” Kari motioned for him to join them. When he didn’t move, Rafi gently shoved him. Or maybe it was Connor.
As Ian stepped forward, Kari said, “The entertainment blogs have been feasting on his recent troubles. There’s no need to go over all that again.” She took a firm hold of his hand. “Is there?”
“No,” Ian replied. “Definitely not.”
Kari continued. “What impressed me so deeply is how Ian managed to hold on to what was most important in his life. Despite the fact that the world was doing its best to tear him apart. Separate the man from his music. That made a huge impact on me.”
One of the journalists asked him something inane. He offered what he could, and after a few moments, their attention and the cameras’ focus shifted away. Kari and the interviewers stepped to the next canvas, and Ian managed to return to where Rafi and Connor and Graham all greeted him with grins.
Ian waited until the audience’s attention returned to Kari, then muttered, “I’d murder somebody if I could figure out who pushed me forward.”
Rafi made a process of inspecting him. “I don’t see any gaping wounds.”
Ian stood between Kari’s two managers and watched her step up to yet another painting, describe the process that had brought her to this point.
Graham said softly, “I’m truly glad you two found each other.”
“As am I. Truly.”
“Kari has discovered things through you I never thought she’d manage.” A pause. Then, “I worry about her, you know. So much.”
Ian glanced over. Saw the man struggled for control. “She is beyond lucky to have you two as friends.”
Graham’s swallow was audible. “She’s the sister I never had. And Rafi’s.”
Kari stepped to the next and final painting. The relief was clear on her face as she launched into yet another quietly spoken description.
Ian said, “When she’s done here, why don’t we see if she’d like to stroll around the place?”
Graham glanced over. “The four of us? Together?”
Ian pointed to where Connor stood whispering with Rafi. “Five.”
“Ian Hart. Connor Larkin. Kariel. Touring the exhibition hall.”
“With her pals.”
Graham chuckled. “Prepare to be mobbed.”
