CHAPTER5
The reading of Amelia’s will took no time, really, for the document covered less than three typed pages. Megan then handed over a slender envelope holding a letter. On the envelope was the one wordIan. She offered to leave and give him time to read, but Ian refused. Amelia’s farewell needed a different setting than a lawyer’s conference room. There followed almost an hour of signing documents, for Ian was accepting ownership of Amelia’s apartment and taking over her mortgage. Which was ludicrous, given his current financial situation. But Amelia wanted him to have it. Her condo and a small sum in her checking account were all she had to give, and she had left everything to him.
* * *
The journey north was pleasant enough, with a crisp, salt-laden wind blowing strong off the unseen Pacific. Ian drove with all the windows down, finding at least temporary comfort in the day. The afternoon sun shone brightly on broad valleys and gently sloping hills. Yet the evidence of drought was everywhere. Verdant lowlands and blooming orchards alternated with parched fields and the white bones of leafless trees. Too many of the slopes held the dark stains of previous fire seasons.
Ian had no idea how he felt about playing music that afternoon. He had not picked up a guitar in almost six weeks, the longest he had gone without playing since forever.
Several of his performances had been adapted into film scores. But he had never helped put one together. He had to assume the work was possible. And that was not the point.
The simple fact was, he needed the money. Megan had assured him anything he made from this point forward could be kept separate from all the pressure the Maryland attorneys were exerting.
And that was not the point, either.
Ian liked how the drive helped him see clearly. Beyond the shame and wounding and loss and stress. By the time he entered the town of Miramar, he felt as if one key element of his day had become clear.
What he had told Megan was the absolute truth. Music was all he knew. But working on the film score represented something far more profound than simply making ends meet. He was entering a new phase. The separation from his former existence was happening. The question he needed to ask now was both direct and perplexing. What form was his life supposed to take?
He followed Megan’s instructions, driving along the town’s northern boundary, up a gentle slope, and into the parking area fronting three apartment buildings. He left one guitar and carried his other two cases into the central structure. Amelia’s one-bedroom apartment was on the top floor, which granted a lovely view over redwoods and magnolias and the rooflines of Miramar’s miniature downtown. He stood in the small living room, smelling his aunt’s fragrance in the still air. Missing her.
An extra set of keys dangled from a hook by the front door. Ian decided to leave hunting for his aunt’s car until later. Danny had stressed the need for punctuality, and he was already late.
Ian took the envelope holding Amelia’s farewell letter from his pocket. He was pretty sure how he wanted to read the letter, and it was not here. Nor would it be on some winding hillside road, or while waiting for the next segment of his day and life to take shape. The woman who had seen him through so much deserved a final moment that was in keeping with the life she had cherished. A good bottle of wine, perhaps listening to one of the show tunes she and her partner had so adored. Ian would toast his best friend amid a nice crowd of happy faces and show no shame over the tears he might need to shed.
For the moment, it was enough to prop the unopened letter on the small dining table. He stared at it for a time, then rummaged through the kitchen for a pen and notepad. He wrote the thought that had crystalized during the journey north.
I am done racing toward the challenges of tomorrow, chased by the mistakes of yesterday.
He left his words there beside the letter. Satisfied with how Amelia would like his first act of defining whatever came next.
The hill holding Amelia’s apartment backed onto a much higher ridge. They were separated by a broad valley containing orchards, horse farms, and a meandering country road. Following Danny’s directions, Ian climbed the steep ridge to the top, then drove north on a narrow lane until it ended at a pair of ornamental gates. Ian rose from the Kia and pressed the buzzer below the camera imbedded in the left post.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Rowe?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Ian Hart. Danny Byrd said I should—”
“Yes, yes, I know all about what Daniel said and what Daniel wants.” The voice was elderly and British and cantankerous. “I have one question I’m going to put to you, lad. Shift over a smidgen so I can see whether you lie with grace. Now then. Answer wrong, and you can bloody well traipse back down that hill. Listen carefully. Are you going to give me trouble?”
Ian liked the man already. “No. No trouble.”
“Because I’ve heard all I care about you and your antics.”
“No antics. Not today.”
But the old man wasn’t done. “I’m in no mood for some star traipsing in here, putting on fancy airs and acting like king on the hill. You’d be asking for trouble, mark my words.”
“I’ve had all the trouble I can bear,” Ian assured him. “All my fancy airs have been stripped away.”
“That bloody well better be the truth, or you and Daniel are both going to catch the sharp end of my tongue.”
“Are you going to let me in, Mr. Rowe?”
The gates buzzed. “I’m making a terrible mistake. I can feel it in my bones.”
