Kari studied the four faces. Saw the intensity of the concern for a child not their own, a shared bond, which somehow left her wanting to cry out loud. Shout to her own past, demand to know why she could not have been gifted with such an upbringing.
She knew what Indrid would say. That her past and her longings had all combined to make her and her own art what they were today. Just the same, she had to swallow hard before she could say, “I would be delighted to meet him.”
They breathed in unison.
Jenna said, “It will mean the world to that child.”
“You need to understand,” Noah said, “Liam is the quietest kid I’ve ever known.”
“He can go for hours without saying a word,” Amos added. “Days, even.”
“The best word to describe Liam issolitary,” Aldana said. “I don’t think he has any idea just how lonely he is.”
“The child needs contact with another artist,” Noah agreed.
“I have no problem with silence,” Kari said. “May I make a request of my own?”
Amos and his brother shared a look, then chorused, “Sister, just say the word.”
“I would like to use you and this moment in a new work.”
“You mean paint us?” Amos grinned. “Like we’re somebody?”
“Exactly like that.” Kari took the phone from her purse and rose. “Could you just take a few moments and talk among yourselves?”
She went into the ladies’ and splashed water on her face. She’d hoped to clarify her thoughts, but it proved futile. Her first evening out in this new hometown, and already she felt the ground shifting.
Kari thought most of the successful people in her family’s film world were manically self-absorbed. Miramar and these new acquaintances were so different, she felt threatened. As if all the assumptions she’d made, the walls she’d built to shield her creative fire, simply did not fit in this place. She stared in the mirror and wondered if here in Miramar, she was the imposter.
She reentered the dining room and stopped. The bar formed a brass-rimmed island to her right. Their table was directly ahead, against the far wall. As hoped, the four of them deep in conversation, her presence momentarily forgotten.
Kari raised her phone, brought the table into focus, and shot each individual several times. She had no idea how she would use these images. Only that they represented a seismic shift, a direct honesty, even when they clearly held secrets. They werehonestsecrets. She couldn’t say it any better than that.
She then widened her focus and photographed the table. She then pivoted in order to shoot the surrounding tables, the entrance, the grand bay window, the bar....
Then she saw him.
Ian Hart. The guitarist whose music had framed a backdrop to so many of her most precious creative hours. Here.
Kari had a sudden certainty that he knew she was there and that he assumed, mistakenly, that she was shooting his photograph. He looked so sad, so resigned....
She walked over and said, “I wasn’t taking your picture.”
He looked over.
“I’m an artist. I wanted . . .” She gestured in the vague direction of her table. “There’s something very special about this place, these people. I wanted to capture it. Not you.”
He nodded slowly. “I know what you mean. About Miramar. I’ve been here only a few hours, and already I feel . . .”
“Disconnected,” she offered. “From out there.”
His gaze cleared. He did not actually offer her a smile. But Kari had the distinct impression he came as close as he could just then. He asked, “You’re an artist?”
She nodded. “Kariel.”
“Are you really?” Ian Hart swung fully around. “Sorry. Of course you are. It’s just . . . I love your work.”
“That makes two of us.” She swatted at the words. “That sounds vaguely nuts. I mean, I love your music. I’ve heard you twice. I mean, in person.” She stopped. “Maybe I should just shut up and run away.”
